“I won’t.”
He storms off.
The others disperse slowly, murmuring, eyes darting between me and the dented lockers. Devon’s the last to leave. He pauses, hand on my shoulder. “Whatever that was, man… fix it before it gets worse.”
When I finally sink onto the bench, the adrenaline fades, and the ache sets in.
I stare at the floor.
Kyle’s words replay in my head.Your dad called me.
He really did it. He manipulated everything—me, the team, the story—just to protect his image. And I let him.
The locker room goes quiet except for the hum of the lights and the faint sound of my heartbeat pounding in my ears. I bend forward, elbows on my knees, and let the weight of it crush me.
For once, I don’t try to fight it.
I just let it break me.
? ? ?
By the time I reach Molly’s front porch, I’m shaking. My knuckles sting where they split against Kyle’s stupid, smug jaw, and my throat feels like I swallowed gravel. I don’t even remember the drive over, just flashes of streetlights through wet eyes and the sound of my own heartbeat pounding against the steering wheel.
Butter barks before I can even knock. Then there’s Molly’s voice, a half-laughing, half-exasperated call from inside. “All right, Butter, calm down, it’s just?—”
She opens the door, and whatever she was about to say dies in her throat.
Her expression softens instantly. “Oh, Alaric…”
I try for a smile but my lips won’t cooperate. It’s more of a grimace. “Hey.”
“Get in here.”
The warmth of her house hits me like a wall. It smells like cinnamon tea and dog shampoo—the kind of comforting domestic chaos Molly’s always been good at keeping. Butter immediately trots over, tail wagging, pressing his wet nose into my knee. I crouch automatically, fingers finding the soft fur between his ears.
“Hey, buddy,” I whisper. My voice cracks.
Molly’s watching me, arms folded, worry written across her face. “What happened?”
I can’t answer yet. I just stand there, shoes still on, eyes unfocused. The adrenaline is wearing off, and what’s left underneath it feels hollow.
She steps forward, takes my coat, and guides me toward the couch like I’m a kid again. “Sit. I’ll make tea.”
When she disappears into the kitchen, I finally let myself fall apart. My hands cover my face, and the tears come too fast to stop. I hate crying. I hate the sound of it, the way it makes me feel small, but right now there’s no holding back.
Butter hops up beside me, pressing his head against my shoulder like he knows. I clutch the dog like a life preserver and let myself shake.
Molly comes back with two mugs. She sets them down, sits across from me, and waits. That’s her way. Patient, quiet, never pushing until she knows I’m ready.
Finally, I manage a breath that doesn’t hitch. “It’s all gone to hell, Mol.”
“I gathered,” she says softly. “Tell me everything.”
I stare down at the tea, watching the steam curl. “Magnus. Kyle. Dad. It’s all tangled, and I don’t even know where to start.”
“The beginning is typically a good place to start.”
So I do.
