Zayn Hale stood alone in the empty locker room, the heavy metal door swinging shut behind the last teammate. He'd asked everybody to leave the locker room, he didn't need sympathy or consoling from anybody.
The showers had gone silent. Only the occasional drip from a faulty head broke the quiet, echoing off the concrete walls like a slow heartbeat. The air smelled of sweat, cheap body spray, and the sharp copper tang of blood. His blood.
He walked to the row of sinks, sneakers squeaking on the wet tile. The mirrors above them were cracked in spiderweb patterns from years of slammed fists and slammed egos. Zayn stopped in front of the biggest one, the one with the longest fracture running right down the middle like it had been waiting to split him in two.
