Page 45 of Beloved Beauty

“You want me to go with you?” I ask, not knowing if it’s the right thing to offer or not.

She shakes her head. “I’ve got it. He’ll be fine. I just need to see it for myself.”

She walks out, leaving a quiet ripple of her absence.

I stay seated, half staring at the door she just walked through, half lost in the whirl of thoughts spinning behind my eyes.

Bradley’s hit plays on a loop in my mind, along with Megan’s controlled exit—her soft-spoken strength and the quiet, desperate edge beneath it.

That’s going to be me someday.

Not maybe. Not if. Not probably.

It’s part of the package—this game he loves. The bruises and breaks. The danger stitched into every kickoff. I knew that going in. Alex never sugarcoated it. He’s told me about the days he couldn’t get out of bed, the nights his ribs ached so badly he couldn’t sleep.

But it’s different watching it happen. Different when the sound of impact echoes through a suite and your stomach drops with someone else’s gasp.

Alex is strong. Built strong as steel and stitched together by pure grit—but he’s not invincible. And every time he takes the field, he’s choosing this.

Choosing the pain. Choosing the risk. Choosing the thing that took him out once before.

Because he loves it… and I love him. Which means someday, I’ll be the one leaving the suite, heart in my throat, pretending I’m not afraid of what I might find on the other side of a locker-room door.

But not tonight.

I make my way to the back of the suite where the drinks and food are. I reach for a wine glass and grab a plate. Something cold. Salty. A skewer of charred lamb. A handful of olives. Something to do with my hands while I try to steady the thoughts spinning in my chest.

A figure steps up beside me. Too close. I feel the shift in air before his voice reaches my ears.

“The chant is cute. Shame it’s wasted on someone who’s just warming the bench, Mrs. Wall.”

I freeze at the sound of his voice.

He grabs a toothpick and stabs an olive. He chews with deliberate calm as if this is just another cocktail hour, and he didn’t just twist a knife.

Tyson chuckles. “He actually thinks he’s coming out of retirement after all this time?”

He glances sideways at me, his blue eyes cold and gleaming.

My jaw clenches so tight it aches. I want to scream. I want to dump my wine down his smug face and throw my plate at the wall behind him. But I don’t move.

Not yet.

He’s doing what he always does—antagonize in a public place where he’s certain you won’t cause a scene. I can’t yell or fight or kick him in the dick here. Because there are eyes. People. Teammates’ wives. Coaches’ partners. Friends. David.

He knows that. He counts on it.

I’m forced to swallow the terror because God forbid, I cause a commotion.

I glance around, and no one is looking at us. They’re sipping, laughing, cheering at the latest replay on the screen. And I know what he thinks—that I’ll keep shrinking.

But he doesn’t see it yet. I’ve had it with him and I’m done living in fear.

My heart thunders, but I lift my chin and speak out anyway—clear, loud, and sharp enough to slice through the chatter.

“Why don’t you tell everyone here what you’re doing, Tyson?”

His chewing slows. Stops. A flash of something—not fear, not quite—but surprise flickers across his face.

---