We pile into Terry’s truck. Mack calls shotgun because of course he does and I climb into the back, dumping my gear beside me and stretching my legs out across the seat.
I lean my head back against the seat, watching the sun streak through the dusty windows, and just breathe for a second.
Then Mack ruins the peace. As expected.
“So,” he says, twisting around in his seat to look at me with that shit-eating grin of his. “Did you and Sabrina kiss and make up or what?”
I let out a breath that’s somewhere between a sigh and a scoff. “She hasn’t replied.”
Terry winces in sympathy, eyes on the road but clearly listening. “Damn, man. That sucks.”
“Or,” Mack cuts in, his grin somehow growing wider, “maybe it’s a blessing in disguise. Shit, maybe she’s finally realized she’s too dramatic for you and did us all a favor.”
I shoot him a look, and for half a second, I want to be annoyed. Really, I do. I want to get all defensive and noble about my girlfriend and how we’re just going through a rough patch.
But I can’t because he’s not wrong. There’s a chance she really is done with me and I’m not all that worked up about it. I just need to know so that I can stop being so fucking worked up about the silent treatment.
The silence has been kind of nice. The lack of a fight brewing in the background, the absence of a dozen texts in all caps, the breathing room? It feels… good.
And that makes me feel like an asshole, but also like maybe I’m not as blind to the truth as I used to be.
I don’t say any of that, of course. I just shrug and look out the window.
Mack snorts and turns back around. “See? You didn’t even deny it. Told you, it’s better if she never comes back.”
I roll my eyes but don’t argue. For once, letting Mack win feels easier than trying to defend something I’m not even sure I believe in anymore.
Terry turns up the volume a little and gives me an understanding smile through the rear view mirror.
Practice is brutal.
Not that I expected anything less from Coach when we’re less than three weeks out from our first real game and trying to convince scouts we’re not just another pack of hotshot undergrads with attitude problems and decent stats.
We run through drills until my legs are jelly, then scrimmage until I’m sweating like a sinner in church and seeing spots every time I blink.
By the time we’re dismissed, my muscles are singing in protest, and there’s a stabbing ache in my right shoulder that I know better than to ignore. It’s nothing serious but I’ve done this dance long enough to know that if I don’t ice it down, I’ll regret it tomorrow.
So I haul my sore ass toward the training room, mentally preparing for a twenty-minute ice nap on the table and maybe, if the gods are kind, a Gatorade.
What I don’t expect is him.
The pretty-boy trainer with golden boy hair and long lashes and the kind of face that looks like it belongs on a fucking billboard for skincare. He’s sitting behind the counter, typing something into the system with laser focus like he’s performing open heart surgery via laptop.
I clear my throat as I walk in, giving him the most neutral expression I’ve got left in me.
He looks up.
And Jesus, his eyes flick up to mine for barely a second before darting away. I’m not…into guys. I’m not against the idea, because I think love it for everyone but I haven’t ever found myself looking at a man and thinkingwow, hes beautiful.
But I do that a lot around Hughies brother.
“Hey,” I say, nodding toward the treatment tables. “Need ice on my shoulder.”
He doesn’t say anything right away. He keeps looking down at the laptop before he lets out a breath and stands. “Yeah. Sure. Table three.”
I head over and climb up, the vinyl cold against my sweat-damp back. Jacob grabs a pack from the freezer and starts wrapping it without a word.
He’s good at it, ensuring the ice is packed tight and smooth against my shoulder but he doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t joke or smile, doesn’t even do the usual trainer thing of pretending to give a shit about how practice went.
