[𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒] [𝐒𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐍]
Gabriel Sinclair was no saint, and he made no pretenses about it.
Ruthless, cunning, and unhinged -those words only begin to scratch the surface of his true nature.
Like a merciless hurricane, h...
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"We mature with the damage, not the years." — Mateus Williams
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The week rushes by in such a haze that the usual relief of its end is completely lacking. An endless loop of monotony is a good way to describe my existence, each day flowing seamlessly into the next. The pattern is set: wake up at five-thirty, pound the pavement in a desperate bid to quiet my racing thoughts, then return home and don the mask of normality.
It isn't pleasure that propels me through this routine. It's more about control—or the illusion of it, at least. In my twenty-three years, I've clung to this regimented existence like a castaway to a life raft amidst turbulent waters, finding fleeting respite only on the ice, where the familiar rituals and uncompromising demands anchor me to reality.
Yet, these last few days, even the familiar rhythm feels off-kilter. The thought of skipping practice, once unthinkable, now tiptoes through my mind like an unwelcome guest.I drift through the motions like a specter, my body moving mechanically while my mind remains ensnared in a perpetual fog.
As if things couldn't worsen, a few of my teammates began to take notice. Eventually, it reached a breaking point, and Coach Rojas had no option but to bench me during one of our routine drills. Try as I might, I can't shake off the suffocating grip of numbness that envelops me.
And even when I try, it feels like struggling in quicksand, every effort to escape only pulling me deeper into its murky depths, further away from the surface of clarity.
"Wilder, in my office. Right now." Coach Rojas's gruff voice echoes in the locker room, cutting through the conversations and dashing any hope of a quick shower.
Screw me.
I follow him into his cramped office, squeezing into a seat in front of his desk cluttered with so many papers it borders on the criminal. He wastes no time, fixing me with a stern gaze.
"Care to tell me what's going on?"
With a lackluster shrug, I rub my stinging eyes, as if the simple gesture could alleviate the exhaustion stemming from three consecutive nights of insomnia.
"Nothing much," I mutter, my fingers finding a nervous rhythm on the leather armrests of the chair. "Just feeling a bit swamped by the end-of-term exams."
"Come on, don't give me that," he says, reclining back in his chair with a creak. Skepticism is written all over his face. "You've been juggling training and classes at HEU for three years without any problems."
I remain silent, feeling that there's nothing worth saying. The silence between us stretches, broken only by the faint hum of distant chatter in the hallway. Finally, Rojas releases a long exhale, his shoulders slumping under the weight of my unspoken burdens. Or perhaps it's simply exhaustion weighing him down.
