But Hughie shakes his head immediately. “Nah. Fuck that. I’m not dragging you into it. This isn’t your mess. Plus…it doesn’t matter who tells him. It would affect the team no matter what.”
We sit in silence for a while as we sip on our beers. I can tell he’s really struggling with this situation and I wish, for the millionth time since he walked out of that house, that I hadn’t opened my big fucking mouth to gossip to him.
His voice is rough when he finally speaks. “I don’t know if I can tell him either.”
7
Griffin
Griffin: Babe…I’m sorry.
The message just sits there,glowing on my screen.Read 6:18 PM.That was hours ago and I have no reply. Not a single word. Not even a reaction bubble to let me know she’s thinking about acknowledging me.
I should be used to this by now. Sabrina’s silence is her favorite weapon. It’s the passive-aggressive purge that she consistently uses when we argue. It’s always the same: tension builds until it cracks, we fight, she leaves, I text, she ignores me, and then… eventually, she shows up again like nothing happened.
Sometimes she cries. Sometimes she acts like I’m the one who needs to make it right. Sometimes she just crawls into bed like an apology wrapped in perfume.
But that silence? It still gets under my skin and she fucking knows it. It makes me second guess every part of the argument and figure out where it was all my goddamn fault.
Because I keep trying. I keep showing up for her, over and over, like some dumb golden retriever who thinks if he’s justloyal enough, things will go back to how they were in the beginning. I buy flowers and I take her on dates. I remember the little things, like her brother’s birthday and the way she likes her coffee. I even listen when she rants about shit I don’t care about, like which sorority sister is sleeping with which professor.
And still, somehow, I’m never enough. Or maybe I’m just wrong for her and neither of us want to admit it out loud because the sex is good and being in a relationship makes us feel safe, even when it’s killing us.
Lately, it’s starting to feel more toxic than anything else. And obviously, if Terry and Mack are also saying that then it’s clear as day to everyone around us too.
And what does that say about me? That I keep trying to make this work? That I keep apologizing for shit I’m not even sure I should be sorry for?
I run a hand down my face, let out a slow breath, and stare at the message again.
Still nothing.
“Yo! It’s time to go!” Mack yells from downstairs.
I groan, push the phone face-down on my desk, and drag myself to my feet. I grab my gear with all the enthusiasm of a guy going to war, not practice, and sling it over my shoulder.
I jog down the stairs with my heavy gear bag slung over my shoulder. I don’t always bring it home, preferring to leave it in the locker room, but this shit was starting to smell and needed a deep clean.
At the bottom of the stairs, Mack and Terry are already waiting, both dressed down in team gear, both looking way too awake for guys who’ve been through lift and skate already today. Coach just had to make today a massive fuck you and have us not only on the ice twice but also in the weight room.
Mack’s munching on something that looks suspiciously like leftover garlic bread from last night, and Terry’s leaning against the wall like he’s trying to merge with it.
“Yo,” I say, adjusting my grip on my bag. “Where’s Connelly?”
They both shrug in sync like they rehearsed it. Those two are so weirdly connected.
“He hasn’t come back since morning lift,” Terry says, casually. “Probably shacked up with someone.”
Mack snorts. “Yeah, maybe he found God and they’re cuddling somewhere holy.”
I raise an eyebrow because Connelly? Mr. No-Fun, No-Sex, No-Socializing? The guy practically files his socks and alphabetizes his vitamins. Him disappearing off the radar is… weird. Especially for a guy who usually treats his schedule like gospel.
“Huh,” I mutter, stepping out onto the porch with them and locking the door behind me. “You think he’s good?”
Terry shrugs again, but there’s a flicker in his eyes like he’s wondering the same thing. “He’s a grown man. If he didn’t come home, it’s probably because he didn’t want to.”
“Or maybe he just hates our company,” Mack adds, smirking.
“Understandable,” I deadpan, and they both laugh.
