Then the door clicks shut, and the house sags around the silence. Zoe exhales a curse under her breath, and Betty presses the last of my tea back into my palm.
“Tomorrow,” she says softly. “You shine first, then you sort the rest.”
I nod. My hands are still shaking, but somewhere under the adrenaline and the ache, a small and stubborn thread holds.
Even wildflowers split concrete.
And tomorrow, I’ll prove it.
Chapter thirty-seven
A lifeline. A knife. Both at once.
Logan
My skull feels like it’s been split with an axe.
The trainers called it “a mild concussion,” but there’s nothing mild about the way light stabs behind my eyes or how every sound feels like a goddamn cymbal crash. I’ve been ordered to rest. No screens, no gym, no anything, which basically translates to: sit here and stew in my own head while ice packs sweat down my temple.
Chase was here overnight, per team protocol. He crashed in the guest room, snored like a bear, and made me promise not to move unless I had to pee. Sometime around dawn he ducked out to grab coffee and check on Zoe, muttering that he’d be back before noon.
Now it’s just me and Dusty.
The dog sprawls across the foot of the bed, chin on his paws, watching me like he knows I’m broken. Every so often, he whines, a low, restless sound, and I scratch behind his ears just to keep him calm. Or maybe to keep myself calm.
Last night is a blur. I remember the hit, the noise, the med room lights. Eli shouting. Lulu crying. My own voice, hoarse and unsteady. Some words I said echoing in the middle, but I can’t piece together what the hell I was saying. Everything after that is flashes: pain, the smell of antiseptic, Chase driving me home.
Now all I know for sure is that Eli knows, and Lulu isn’t here.
My phone buzzes again on the nightstand. I’ve already scrolled through half a dozen check-ins from the guys, all circling the same message:You good? Need anything?
Eli, of course, is silent.
The rest of the nightstand looks like a battlefield—half-crushed Gatorade bottles, a rattling painkiller bottle, and the stack of birthday playing cards from Lulu. I reread every single one this morning, right after listening to the voicemail I should’ve deleted.
My dad's voice still echoes in my head:“You looked like a goddamn rookie out there. Losing your temper, throwing punches like some undisciplined goon—what the hell were you thinking? If you’re trying to prove you're not captain material, you’re doing a damn good job. Call me when you grow the fuck up."
I nearly threw the phone through the wall.
Instead, I sat there in the early light, every part of me throbbing—from the hit, from the shame—and read every card Lulu gave me. One by one. Her words, her ink, her softness. The only proof I’m not the failure he’s always believed I’d turn out to be.
Now they’re stacked neatly beside me, her handwriting a quiet calm against the glare of my screen holding the only text she's sent me.
Lu:Showcase tonight. Need to keep my head on straight. We’ll talk tomorrow, okay?
A lifeline. A knife. Both at once.
Proof she hasn’t disappeared completely, proof she still wants to talk. But also the longest twenty-four hours of my goddamn life. My thumb hovers over the keyboard, aching to send something back.
I love you. I’m sorry Eli found out like this. Please don’t shut me out.
But I don’t, because what she needs right now isn’t me crowding her messages, not when her brother’s furious and the showcase is staring her down. If she’s asking for space, then space is what I’ll give her.
And if there’s one thing Lulu Parnell deserves, it’s me respecting her wishes.
The doorbell jolts me before I can spiral deeper. Dusty barks once and bounds off the bed. I ger down the hall in my gray sweats, head pounding, and swing the front door open.
“Special delivery!”
