Chapter 9

Maya

Marcus reaches me as I walk towards the tunnel.

“The photographers are waiting outside,” he says quietly. “They’ve been there since before training started.”

My grip tightens around the tablet tucked beneath my arm.

“Every outlet wants photos of you leaving with Ethan,” Marcus continues. “If you walk out separately after yesterday’s apartment story, they’ll tear the relationship apart.”

I close my eyes for the briefest moment before letting out a slow breath.

“So we play our part,” I say flatly.

Marcus nods. “Exactly.”

Neither of us says another word.

Minutes later, the hum of the luxury car’s engine fills the silence as we leave Westbridge United’s training ground behind. Ethan doesn't look at me once.

After dismantling Julian on the pitch, he has retreated behind that familiar wall again, his arms folded tightly across his chest as the rain streaks the window beside him. Whatever passed between us during training is gone. By the time we reach the penthouse, he steps out without a word.

"I have work to finish," I say as the elevator doors slide open. "Do whatever you want, Doctor," he replies without looking at me. "Just stay out of my wing." His bedroom door closes a moment later with a final, decisive click.

I let out a ragged breath. The man is a fortress.

I retreat to the guest room, spending the evening reviewing player profile folders and coordinating with Dr. Sterling via my digital tablet. By the time I close the files, the entire city of London has gone dark under a blanket of heavy winter fog.

The digital clock on the guest room nightstand glows a faint, cold green: 03:14 AM.

I twist restlessly beneath the high-thread-count sheets. Even with the door shut, Ethan’s penthouse feels entirely too quiet. It is less of a home and more of a hollow, frozen museum.

Suddenly, a strange, metallic thud echoes from down the hallway.

I freeze, my ears straining through the darkness. It isn't the sound of an intruder. It is a rhythmic, frantic scraping sound, followed by a heavy, choked gasp that makes my clinical instincts instantly flare to life.

I throw off the duvet, slip into my silk robe, and quietly pad down the dark marble corridor. The sound is drawing me toward the glass-walled home gym.

I stop at the open doorway, my breath catching in my throat.

The gym is pitch black, illuminated only by the distant city lights leaking through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Ethan is sitting on the floor, his back slammed against a vinyl weight bench. He is still wearing his gray sweatpants, his bare torso glistening with cold sweat.

He isn't working out. He is suffocating.

His large hands are clawing frantically at his own chest. His chest heaves in rapid, violent, shallow gasps. His jaw is locked, his head thrown back against the padding as he struggles to drag oxygen into his lungs. "Ethan?" I whisper, stepping onto the rubber mats.

He doesn't hear me. He is entirely trapped inside his own mind, drowning in a phantom wave of pressure.

"Ethan, look at me," I say louder, dropping to my knees right in front of him.

The clinical detachment I pride myself on, the professional barrier I’ve maintained through years of treating volatile athletes, instantly dissolves. Looking at him like this, shattered on the floor of his own multi-million-pound cage, he isn't a global brand. He is just a human being breaking under a weight no one was ever meant to carry alone.

I reach out, intending to touch his shoulder to ground him.

The moment my hand moves, Ethan’s survival instincts explode. Before I can blink, his large, powerful hand shoots out through the darkness. His fingers lock around my wrist with a terrifying, vice-like grip.

I let out a soft gasp. His hold is ironclad, his knuckles white. He pushes my hand back, his chest heaving as he glares at me. But his eyes are completely unfocused. He isn't looking at Dr. Maya Bennett. He is looking at a ghost from his past.

"I can do it," Ethan chokes out, his voice a broken, desperate whisper that splits the silence of the room. "Dad... look, I scored… I did it. Don't go."

A sharp ache blooms behind my ribs. “If you’re useful, people stay,” his profile echoed. “If you’re not, they leave.” Everything in his face tells me he isn’t seeing this room. Whatever memory has him, it reaches back years.

"Ethan," I say softly, my voice dripping with an uncharacteristic tenderness. I don't try to pull my wrist out of his grip. Instead, I use my free hand to gently slide my fingers over the top of his trembling, sweaty fist. "Your dad isn't here. You're not fifteen. You're in London. You're safe."

He blinks violently, a tear cutting a clear path through the sweat on his cheek. The mention of his actual location seems to crack the hallucination. His hazel eyes slowly shift, locking onto my face.

"Maya?" he breathes, his voice completely wrecked.

"I'm here," I murmur, leaning closer until the scent of my vanilla perfume overrides the cold metallic sweat of the gym. "You're having a panic attack. You need to mirror my breathing. Copy me. Four seconds in."

I take a deep, exaggerated breath.

Ethan stares at me, his fingers still locked around my wrist like a drowning man gripping a lifeline. He tries to draw air, his throat clicking.

"Hold it," I guide gently, my thumb softly rubbing the back of his hand. "Now, let it out. Slow."

We sit on the cold floor for several agonizing minutes, our breaths rising and falling in the darkness. Slowly, the violent tremors in his chest begin to subside. The frantic rhythm of his heart beneath his ribs calms.

As reality fully returns to the room, Ethan looks down. He looks at his own hand, still fiercely crushing my wrist, anchoring his entire weight to my small frame.

The realization of his own vulnerability hits him like a physical blow.

He instantly releases me, ripping his hand away as if touching me had burned him to the bone. He slides back against the weight bench, his jaw clenching tightly as the arrogant, defensive wall slams back up in a matter of seconds.

"Get out," he rasps, turning his head away so I can't see the leftover moisture in his eyes. He pulls his knees to his chest, his fingers instinctively reaching for the silver ring on the chain around his neck, spinning it with a frantic, aggressive speed. "Go back to your room, Maya."

I look at my wrist, where the red print of his fingers is already fading. I should be angry. I should remind him of his "strictly professional" rule.

But I don't. I stand up slowly, smoothing down my silk robe.

"The guest room door is unlocked, Ethan," I say softly, keeping my voice entirely devoid of judgment as I look down at him one last time. "If you need a lifeline again, you don't have to drown in the dark."

I turn and walk out of the gym, leaving him alone with his ghosts. My wrist still bears the faint imprint of his fingers. Somehow, it isn't the pressure I can't forget. It's the fear in his eyes.