And worse?
He’s right.
I blow out a heavy breath and look him straight in the eye. “Hugh… I’m sorry.”
Instead of answering or I don’t know, yelling at me, he just sits there. When he finally looks at me, I see a flicker surprise, maybe even disbelief.
“That’s not what I expected,” he says quietly.
“Well,” I shift on the bench and try not to grimace at the feel of sweat soaking my clothes, “you’re not wrong.”
His brow creases but he doesn’t say anything.
“I didn’t know I was doing it,” I keep going with a small shrug that feels lacking. “Or maybe I did and just didn’t think it mattered. I didn’t realize I was losing you by not showing up. That’s on me.”
The silence that follows is thick and tense.
“Didn’t think you’d actually say that,” he mutters.
I swallow. “I mean it. I was a shitty friend. I’m sorry.”
He sits there for another second, then lets out a short, dry laugh. “Yeah,” he says, smirk tugging at his mouth. “I was kinda a dick too. So… whatever.”
I let it breathe for a second, then circle back, because I can’t leave shit unfinished.
“So. Connelly,” I say carefully. “What the fuck was that about?”
His posture shuts down immediately. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay,” I say, and this time I mean it. I hesitate, then add, “Maybe we could hang out sometime. Like actually hang out. No team shit.”
There’s a pause. A long one.
Then he nods. “Yeah. Sure.”
9
Jacob
I hearabout the fight before Hughie even walks through the training room doors. By the time he shows up in a sweat-soaked t-shirt and those sagging old grey sweatpants he refuses to throw away, I’ve already seen three texts and a Chatter video that’s blurry but definitely shows fists flying.
He looks like hell, his jaw is already swelling up like a grapefruit and there’s a nasty-looking bruise forming on the bridge of his nose. It’s not broken but it sure as hell isn’t going to feel good tomorrow.
I don’t say anything at first because honestly, I don’t trust myself to open my mouth without turning into a lecture-happy mother hen. And I know my best friend well enough to know he wouldn’t appreciate it.
Instead, I grab an ice pack from the freezer, doing my best not to slam the door too hard, because if I start slamming shit then we’re both going to spiral. When I walk it over to him and hold it out, he takes it without a word, pressing it to his face with a wince that makes me clench my jaw. I level him with a look that I hope communicates just how done I am with this whole situation.
“Dude, you need to just tell Griffin,” I say, attempting to keep my tone flat and calm.
“I can’t,” he mutters, and his voice is low and tired.
I shake my head slowly, the disbelief thick in my chest because I can’t wrap my brain around the fact that my best friend, the guy who never half-asses anything, who plays by the goddamn rules like his life depends on it, is letting this shit fester like a wound he refuses to treat. “It’s already affecting the team, Hugh. That fight wasn’t nothing. People are talking.”
He doesn’t look at me. He just stares off at the wall like maybe if he zones out hard enough, I’ll stop being here and stop asking him to do the one thing he doesn’t want to do. He clenches his jaw so I know he fucking heard me but the stubborn bastard isn’t going to talk.
I want to let it go, I really do, because I know him, and I know pushing him too hard only makes him shut down more. But how the fuck am I supposed to sit here and pretend this isn’t slowly unraveling every part of him?
“You seriously can’t keep going like this,” I say, my voice softer this time. “You’re literally throwing punches now. That’s not you, Hughie.”
