Me:We won tonight.
My thumb hesitates for half a second. Then I add:
It’s your fault.
It’s the closest I can get to flirting right now. A half-joke, half-truth. She steadied me. She shouldn’t have to, but she did.
I stare at the line. My pulse ticks in my throat.
It’s not enough.
My thumb moves again.
Me:I’m sorry I stood still.
I hit send before I can revise it into something weaker.
I lean my head against the window again, phone resting in my palm.
Sorry for the gala. Sorry for not moving. Sorry for letting her see me as tame in a cage I built for myself.
If she doesn’t answer, I deserve it. If she does, I’ll owe her more than an apology typed on a bus in the dark.
Either way, this is the first real thing I’ve chosen over him.
She doesn’t belong to my father’s world. Neither do I.
And if there are consequences for that…
I’ll take them.
Chapter 20
Declan
Iwakeupwiththe kind of ache that’s half soreness, half… something else.
It’s the morning after a shutout, but that isn’t what’s humming under my skin. It’s quieter than adrenaline. Warmer. It slides under my ribs when I breathe.
Talia.
I lie there for a minute, letting the feeling settle—muscles stiff from the game, knuckles throbbing from the tape I ripped off last night, back cracked from the shitty mattress. But none of it lands the way it usually does.
My phone is still in my hand. The screen shows her last message from late last night.
In.
She didn’t reply to my apology. She didn’t absolve me. But she didn’t block me, either. She didn’t shut the door I fully deserved shut. She kept the tether tied.
I’d take silence over absence any day.
I drag myself upright, scrub a hand down my face, and head for the shower. Hot water loosens every bruise from yesterday, steams the small bathroom, fogs the mirror, softens the sound of my own breathing.
Every few minutes, my mind loops back to her. Her voice at the library, tired but edged. Her shoulders dropping for half a second beside me in class. Her flinch on the path—not from me, but near me.
I get dressed slowly. Hoodie over a plain black shirt, jeans, jacket. I don’t consciously choose the hoodie she once held onto in the players' box, but I also don’t stop myself.
I’m grabbing my keys when my phone buzzes.
