Ximena's POV
The house felt eerily still when I stepped inside, like the air itself was holding its breath.
No sounds from the television, no music drifting from upstairs, no familiar thuds from Anton's room.
Complete silence stretched through every corner.
I found Anton in the kitchen, slumped at our old wooden table in his grass-stained practice gear. His sports bag lay abandoned near the doorway, a damp towel draped around his shoulders, wet hair suggesting he'd rushed through a shower. He glared at his water bottle like it had committed some unforgivable crime.
"You look defeated," I said carefully, dropping my backpack onto the counter.
He barely glanced my way. "We won. Coach still ripped us apart."
I pulled out the chair opposite him, settling into the familiar spot. "Because of Kane?"
"Because of all of it," Anton grumbled. "The party disaster, the online garbage, the whole mess. Apparently we made the entire team look like idiots."
