“Fuck,” I breathe, slamming the beer down too hard. Foam spills over the edge. I brace my hands on my knees, squeezing my eyes shut.
This isn’t good, this isn’t smart, this isn’t me.
I hear my stepmother’s voice in my head—stern, disappointed.
No attachment. No weakness. No omegas. Not for you.
I hear my father, Todd—cold, clipped.
You’re a Brooks. You don’t break over someone you can’t have.
I hear myself?—
I don’t care.
But then, I smell mint and green tea like it’s still clinging to my clothes. And I know. I care. I care way too fucking much.
My phone buzzes again. I ignore it. My pulse is too loud in my ears.
I stretch my legs out and try to get comfortable—but every inch of me is wired. My muscles feel too tight, my chest too full, and just my whole body too aware of something it shouldn’t be aware of. Something that doesn’t belong to me.
I think of Lincoln’s grin when he texted me that she said yes. I should be happy for him. I am… mostly.
But a part of me, some dark, stubborn, instinctive part, hates the idea of her choosing him without even considering…
I shut that thought down so fast it hurts.
She’s not for you. She’s not yours. She’ll never be yours.
I grab the remote, turn the volume up louder than necessary, and close my eyes. The noise helps. It drowns out the parts of me I don’t want to hear. But eventually even that fades. And when sleep drags me under, it’s not the scoreboard I see, the rink, or the asshole I put on the ground.
It’s her standing on the street, shaking but unbroken, looking brave and beautiful.
And the worst part? Even in sleep, the part of me that’s supposed to hate her…
doesn’t.
Not even a little.
I jerk awake to the sound of my phone buzzing against the table. I blink, throat dry, sleep sticking to my skin like sweat. And she’s the first thing in my head.
Again.
I scrub a hand over my face, groaning. “Fucking pathetic.”
The phone buzzes again. I reach for it before I can stop myself, half hoping, half dreading, that somehow she got my number and called to tell me to fuck off, put me out of my misery.
Lincoln: Milton told me what happened in the locker room. You good?
Milton: Yeah. You alive, or did you punch a hole in the drywall again?
I stare at the messages in our group thread, jaw clenching. I should ignore them, toss the phone across the room, and shake off whatever this feeling is inside of me.
Instead, I type.
Me: I’m fine.
Three seconds later.
