The kitchen was quiet, the kind of quiet that comes after you lose something big—like a final, or a best friend, or a piece of your pride. It was a silence that pressed in on you from all sides, soft and heavy, as if the whole house was holding its breath. The table was set with breakfast—toast, eggs, some overpriced organic fruit from Whole Foods—but no one was eating. Everything was just sitting there, going cold, like the aftermath of a party you hadn’t even wanted to throw.

Ryan was curled up at the far end of the table, a human burrito in an ancient fleece blanket, hoodie pulled so tight you could barely see her face. She didn’t usually sleep in, not even on weekends, so her dad paused in the doorway, surprise flickering across his face. She looked up at him, just for a second, before dropping her eyes back to her phone. She was scrolling through the digital carnage—tweets, memes, endless commentary about the Stampede match and how she’d blown it. The internet consensus: overrated. The gif of her getting pinned had gone viral. Even her old Facebook, which she hadn’t touched since high school, had opinions.

Her dad coughed, opening the fridge and pretending to look for something. “So, what’s with the long face?” he asked, which was classic Dad—acting casual, but really he was scanning for signs of emotional collapse.

Ryan took a sip of orange juice, her hands shaking just enough to spill a drop on the table. “Just checking out the wreckage. Circe went nuclear. Didn’t think it’d hurt this much, honestly.”

Her dad’s face went from concern to that calculating look he got whenever he was about to offer ‘life advice’ go figure. “Losing?” he questioned, blunt as ever.

Ryan shrugged, tried to act like she didn’t care. “Yeah. I had her. Until I didn’t.”

He reached across the table, took her phone, and set it down like it was evidence in a trial. “If you weren’t glued to that thing, maybe you would’ve won,” he acknowledged. There was a little bite to it, but only a little.

Ryan blinked, caught off guard. “You spend half your time worrying about your image—what to wear, which Instagram reel will get the most likes, what quote will trend. That’s not from me. I taught you to work hard, not to obsess over going viral.”

He grinned, a sharp little twist of his mouth. “And you’re not going to sit here wrapped in a blanket forever.”

Ryan pulled the fleece tighter, determined not to give him the satisfaction. He raised an eyebrow, eyes dancing. “So, if I didn’t give you the vanity gene, who did?”

Ryan rolled her eyes, but there was a slight smile. “Gee, let me think.”

He kissed her forehead and sat down across from her, flipping open the actual print newspaper, as if it was still 1999 and people read the news on paper. “Take a break from social media. It’ll rot your brain,” he stated, like this was a fact everyone just accepted.

He didn’t look up from the paper. “So, you lost. What’s next?”

Ryan traced the rim of her glass, thinking. “First, I’m not going to pretend it was some kind of fluke. She beat me. Penny Deadful beat me. That’s the story. No spin. No PR.”

Her dad’s eyes stayed on the page, but she could tell he was listening. “She didn’t cheat. I slipped. That’s on me. But I’m not going to let one loss erase everything I’ve worked for.”

She picked up her phone, didn’t turn it on. “Stampede’s next week. I’ll be there. This doesn’t shake me. It just... changes the route. I’ll adjust. I’ll come back. And next time, it won’t even be close.”

There was a pause, and then she added quietly, “She got her win. Good for her. But I’m still the better wrestler. I know it. She knows it.”

Her dad nodded, that small, proud smile. “And if you have to bend the rules to prove it?” he asked, leaving the idea out there.

Hours later after heeding her father’s advice, she took a break. Ryan sat with the phone in her lap for a long moment before turning it back on. No scroll this time. No digging. She already knew the matchup—management had texted her a few hours earlier: a singles bout next week on Stampede. Not Circe. Not yet. But a singles match, meant to measure how well she could rebound. An assessment. Fine. She could work with that.

She flipped to the front camera. Adjusted the framing. No filter. No music. Just her, hair still messy from sleep, blanket pulled tight across her shoulders like armor she hadn’t decided to take off yet. Her thumb hovered over the record button. Then—click. The red light blinked. Her mouth opened slightly, about to speak—then nothing. Just silence. Just her face on the screen, mid-thought, mid-breath.