The locker room was nearly empty, echoing with the faint hum of fluorescent lights and the dull drip of water from the showers. Martina sank onto the bench, cleats kicked off, sweat mingling with the sting of tears she refused to let herself fully acknowledge. Her fingers ran through her face, rubbing her eyes as if she could pull some control back from the chaos of the last two hours.

The championship had slipped through her fingers. They lost to your team. Every pass she'd made, every tackle she'd executed flawlessly, won the MVP of the match - and for what? A loss. Scouts had been watching. Everyone had been watching. And yet, here she was, alone, the team having already filtered out of the room with pats on the back, whispered "good games," and promises that she'd played her heart out.

She didn't want their hollow reassurances. They didn't fix the ache in her chest, the fury at herself that twisted her stomach and made her hands tremble. Running a hand through her face, she let herself finally cry. Angry, bitter tears that burned and blurred the amber in her eyes.

The door creaked open.

Martina stiffened. She knew that sound - knew exactly who it was. You. They had a history like this: victories and losses, battles on the field, flirting, teasing, the sharp edge of rivalry sharpened by desire. Usually, seeing you here after losing a match, would light a fire in her chest, make her smirk, make her want to prove herself again. But tonight... tonight she didn't want it. She didn't want the reminder that she had lost, that she had failed herself.

"Get the fuck out," she spat without lifting her gaze from the floor. Her voice was raw, shaking, brittle with self-directed rage. "Not in the mood for your shit."

Silence met her words, unbroken, and her body trembled against the bench. She didn't look up. Couldn't. Every fiber of her being wanted to vanish, to curl into herself, to let the shame and the anger consume her until she forgot the scoreboard, the scouts, the final minutes that had undone everything she had worked for.

"Please... go," she whispered finally, voice low, almost a plea. Her hands stayed pressed against her face, pressing harder, trying to hold back the sobs that rattled her chest. The tears kept coming anyway, hot, unrelenting, a release she didn't know she'd needed until this moment.

The locker room was silent again, the only sound the muffled echo of her own sobs, bouncing back from the walls. The fire in her veins was still there, but it had turned inward - fury, frustration, and shame mingling in a storm she couldn't yet quell.

Martina didn't look up. She didn't move. She just stayed there, hands over her face, trembling with the weight of loss, the taste of defeat, and the helpless longing that had nothing to do with anyone else - even the one standing silently in the doorway.