Too late. The ball flew past me. A turnover. Coach’s whistle screamed from the sideline. I didn’t care. I couldn’t stop staring.
What the fuck was happening?
That rage, that boiling undercurrent of something I didn’t want to name, curled hot inside me. Because for a second, I’d let myself believe the lie. That maybe he’d come for me. That maybe, I wasn’t the only one still haunted.
But I was.
And he’d moved on. Withhim, of all people. I wouldn’t trust him with a fucking goldfish, let alone Tru.
I forced myself to look away, focus on the scrimmage, on the ball, but it was like trying to ignore a migraine. You could pretend all you wanted, but it still pulsed behind your eyes, waiting to knock you flat the second you dropped your guard.
Vargas was still talking to him, leaning in too close, hands moving too much. Showboating, like he always did. Tru wassmiling, nodding, tucking his hair behind one ear as Vargas leaned in close. Their body language told a story I didn’t want to read.
And that was it. I fucking lost it.
No. Hell no.
I sprinted after the next pass like the ball was Vargas’s head. Slammed into one of my teammates mid-play. We both went down, but I bounced back up like nothing happened.
“You good?” he asked, rubbing his shoulder.
“Fine.” I wasn’t.
I played like I had something to prove, as if I could sweat it out, run it off, crush the storm building in my chest with each sprint down the field. But it didn’t work. Every time I glanced up, they were still there.
Still talking. Still smiling.
Vargas leaned a shoulder against the fence, casual as shit, owning the space beside him—owning Tru. And Tru didn’t flinch. Didn’t step away. Didn’t even glance at the field to pretend he might be here for someone else.
He didn’t look at me. Not once.
A whistle blew. I barely registered Coach yelling for us to reset. My skin felt too tight. My jaw throbbed from grinding my teeth. Vargas jogged across the field to rejoin the team.
“Yo,” someone shouted. “You good, Carter?”
“Yeah. Shut up.”
Another drill started. I kept running. Kept struggling to breathe right. My cleats tore into the field, trying to dig a hole deep enough to bury this feeling in.
A cleat scraped my ankle from behind, and I turned, snarling. “Watch it.”
Vargas jogged past, smug, loose-shouldered, and full of that easy charm that made people forget how fake he was. He gave me a little smirk as he passed. Then—he winked.
Motherfucker. My chest splintered open, and rage poured in.
He knew. The bastardknewwhat he was doing. That wink wasn’t friendly. It wasn’t a taunt. It was a claim.
And Tru hadlet him.
I slammed into the next player who came near me, barely missing a yellow. Coach screamed something across the field, but it didn’t land. Not with the blood roaring in my ears and the image of Vargas brushing Tru’s arm, Tru tipping his head, laughing.
There was a point—right there, in that moment—where I could feel something breaking. Some thin thread I’d been using to hold myself together. It snapped with an almost audible crack, a bone giving way beneath pressure. And I knew if Vargas came near me again, winked at me again, touchedhimagain—I’d bury him six feet under this damn soccer field.
By the time Coach called it, I was soaked in sweat, and my vision was narrowed to a single, red-tinged point of fury. My teammates clapped each other on the back. Someone tossed me a water bottle. I let it hit the ground.
I wiped my face with my jersey and turned toward the fence again. But he was gone.
The locker room smelled like wet turf and perspiration, the familiar cocktail of post-practice testosterone and cheap deodorant. Someone was blasting music from their phone, and it grated on my already-fried nerves.
