The single room key ends up in my hand every road trip, and Ashton never stops reaching for it. The puck-shaped scar on my collarbone burns under my shirt. I should hand it over and walk away before this rookie becomes the thing that breaks me.

But the road ahead promises nothing but confined spaces and the weight of what we cannot say. Every brush of shoulders in the aisle, every night in these sweat-damp rooms, pulls me closer to claiming him and letting the others have what I claim first. He is the hunger I cannot afford, the proof that I am not obsolete, the one who could make me feel like the man I used to be.

If the secret leaks, our spots on the roster vanish with the championship. Yet I cannot let go of the key.