MISS BROWN I'M SORRY THAT-

MELISSA'S POV

I stepped out of the cab and pulled my hoodie tighter. The cold bit at my cheeks as I walked up the stairs to my place. Third floor. Quiet street. A corner unit with big windows and soft yellow curtains.

 Not huge. Not fancy.

 But it was mine.

 I unlocked the door and stepped inside.

 Warm air greeted me. Wooden floors. A bookshelf filled with old hockey medals, pageant crowns, and folded workout towels. One side of the living room was all weights and resistance bands. Gotta stay fit.

 The other? A full-length mirror and a lighted vanity table.

It didn’t look like it should work. 

But somehow, it did.

 I kicked off my sneakers and tossed my duffel down.

 Finally.

 Peace.

 I threw my hoodie onto the couch and stretched. My legs ached from travel. My shoulders still felt the pain of the game. But I didn’t complain. Pain was part of the win.

 I had just gotten out of the shower, wrapped in a warm hoodie and shorts, when my phone rang.

 Liam.

 I answered on speaker and kept folding clothes.

“Brown!” he shouted over loud music.

 “Why is it that loud?” I asked.

 “Because we’re in the club, baby!”

 I blinked. “Didn’t Coach literally say—”

 “Yeah, yeah, no scandals, blah blah,” Jay’s voice cut in from the background. “But rules are meant to be broken!”

 “I’m not part of that quote,” I said, grabbing a clean pair of socks.

 “You have to come!” Liam said. “Everyone’s here. Even Lucien’s dancing.”

 “He doesn’t dance.”

 “He does now.”

 I sat on the bed. “I’m not in the mood.”

“You never are.” 

“Exactly.”

 “Come on, Melissa,” Jay said. “One drink. One dance. Then we’ll carry you home like a princess.” 

“I’m not a princess.”

 “You were literally crowned one.”

 “That’s different.”

 “No, it’s not!”

 Someone shouted “MELISSA!” in the background. A bunch of them joined in, chanting my name like it was a sports match.

 “Peer pressure,” I muttered.

 “It works,” Liam said confidently.

 I laughed once under my breath. “I’m sorry. Not tonight.”

 “Nooo!”

“I’ll come to the next one,” I added.

 “You always say that.”

 “ I mean it this time.”

 Jay said, “Okay, what if we just showed up at your place? What then?”

 “You wouldn’t.”

 “We would.”

 “I won’t open the door.”

 “What if we knock really hard?”

 “I’ll call security.”

 They all groaned dramatically.

 “You guys are children,” I said.

 

“You love us,” Liam teased.

 “I tolerate you.” 

“That’s good enough!”

 I shook my head, still smiling a little. “Be safe.”

 “Yes, Mom.”

 I hung up.

 The silence came back fast. I dropped the phone onto my nightstand and went to the kitchen to microwave dinner. It was leftover jollof rice. I didn’t care what it tasted like.

 I leaned against the counter and stared at the fridge. On it, I’d pinned one photo — me in a pageant gown, crown slightly crooked, holding a hockey stick. 

That night, someone online said I looked confused.

 “Are you a princess or an athlete?”

 Both, idiot.

 I ate in silence, scrolling through my modeling agency group chat.

 New castings in London. Photoshoot options. “Your face is in this week’s feature,” someone texted, attaching a fashion mag.

 I zoomed in.

 Yep. That was me.

 Dark lipstick. Hair slicked. Eyes cold.

 I didn't recognize myself — in a good way.

 

The lights dimmed as I walked to the bedroom.

 I pulled open my closet and ran my hand along the fabric. Dresses. Jerseys. Heels. Cleats. All lined up.

 Two lives. One body.

 My fingers paused over a red pageant dress I hadn’t worn yet.

 I stepped into the mirror and stared at myself. 

“Too much,” I whispered.

 People said that a lot. I was too much for one box. Too cold to be a pageant queen. Too pretty to be taken seriously in sports.

 I used to care.

 Not anymore.

 My phone buzzed again.

 Unknown number.

 I stared at it, debating.

 Let it ring.

 But it rang again.

 And again.

 My thumb hovered over the screen.

 Then I swiped.

 “Hello?”

 Silence.

 I frowned. “Hello?” 

A man’s voice crackled through. Calm. Professional.

 “Miss Brown?”

 I straightened. “Speaking.” 

“We received your portfolio… and I’m sorry that—”