She's back ~ L. Hamilton

119.| Unfinished Buisness

The noise follows me off the court.

It clings to my skin, hums in my ears, sits somewhere deep in my chest. Applause, cheers, my name, over and over and over again.

I don't look back. I keep walking. One step. Then another.

Like if I stop, it all might catch up to me at once.

I feel my knee stinging under my weight with every step I take, but I keep my head up.

The tunnel swallows the sound slowly, the roar fading into something muffled, distant. My shoes squeak faintly against the floor, each step too loud in the quiet.

I can still feel it.

The match. The final point. The moment.

It's sitting just under my skin, buzzing.

I made the final.

The thought lands, heavy and unreal.

I made the final.

Alone.

My throat tightens before I can stop it.

I press my lips together, swallowing hard, eyes fixed straight ahead. There are people waiting, officials, media, Lewis and Tasha are probably already sitting in my players room, talking excitedly about the game.

"Delaney—unbelievable performance—how are you feeling going into—"

I don't stop.

I can't.

Not yet.

If I open my mouth right now, I don't know what will come out. And I don't do messy. Not out here. Not where they can see it, pick it apart, turn it into headlines.

The corridor eventually empties.

It always does.

The noise fades, the footsteps disappear, I keep walking until there's no one left to see me, until the bright lights and cameras are replaced with concrete walls and low, humming silence.

Then I stop.

Just... stop.

My back hits the wall harder than I mean it to, the impact rattling up my spine. The concrete is cool through the thin fabric of my shirt.

For a second, I just stand there.

Breathing.

In. Out. Slow. Controlled.

Except it's not.

My chest rises too fast, too sharp, like I've just finished a five-set match instead of two clean sets. My hand comes up to my face, dragging down over my mouth, my jaw, like I can physically hold everything in place.

I made the final.

I glance up and down the hallway and I feel my heart squeeze. I remember so clearly, walking down this hallways thousands of times with my uncle. He would be rapping off his last minute tips, I would roll my eyes at him, or he would be rapping off his tips for the next game, and I would roll my eyes at him.

My eyes squeeze shut, my head tipping back against the wall.

For a second, I'm not here.

I'm somewhere else. Somewhere quieter. Somewhere that doesn't smell like sweat and hard court and expectation. Somewhere that sounds like his voice, low, steady, impossible to ignore.

My throat tightens.

The air feels too thick.

I swallow it down. Force it back. Push everything back into the neat, controlled box I've built for it.