Three days after the game, I still hadn't left my room. Max had tried to get me out, Maddox had attempted intervention through humor, which was scary on its own, and even Coach had stopped by.
But I couldn't face them. Couldn't face their pity or their disappointment or their well-meaning advice.
On the fourth day, someone knocked. Different from all the other knocks. Firm, insistent, familiar.
"Derek, it's me. Open the door."
Aaron.
I froze, my hand hovering over the doorknob. Part of me wanted to let him in, to finally have the confrontation we'd been avoiding. Part of me wanted to hide forever.
"I know you're in there. And I'm not leaving until we talk."
I opened the door.
Aaron looked like hell as well, probably similar to how I felt. Dark circles under his eyes, his usual put-together appearance disheveled. We stared at each other for a long moment.
"You look like shit," he finally said, confirming what I already thought.
"Thanks. You too."
He pushed past me into the room, taking in the evidence ofmy isolation, including empty food containers, clothes everywhere, and blinds drawn against the daylight.
"Jesus, Dex. This isn't healthy."
"I know." I sat on the edge of my bed, suddenly exhausted. "What are you doing here?"
"I came to talk. About a lot of things." Aaron pulled out my desk chair and sat backward on it, like he always did. "First, about Westpoint."
I tensed. "I don't want to..."
"Too bad. We're talking about it anyway." His voice was firm but not unkind. "That panic attack you had after the game? That wasn't about Rosie. That was PTSD. Trauma. Fear of re-injury. All things you've been dealing with since the initial tackle."
"I froze," I said flatly. "I had the shot, and I couldn't take it."
"You made the smart play. You passed to Maddox, who was in a better position." Aaron leaned forward. "Derek, you've been so focused on proving you're back to your old self that you're not seeing what's actually happening. Youareback. You're just different now. And different doesn't mean worse."
"It feels worse."
"Because you're comparing yourself to who you were before. But Derek didn't have the experience you have now. Didn't have the understanding of how fragile it all is." Aaron's voice softened. "You're more cautious now. More aware. That's not a weakness. That's wisdom."
I wanted to believe him. But the disappointment in my own performance felt too heavy to shake.
"And about Rosie," Aaron continued, and I braced myself. "I was wrong. About a lot of things."
I looked up sharply. "What?"
"I said some things after the game. About her being a distraction. About her being part of why you struggled." Aaron met my eyes. "I was angry and scared and looking for someone to blame. But Rosie isn't the problem. She never was."
"Aaron..."
"Let me finish." He took a breath. "I've been watching you two. Really watching. And you know what I see? I see my best friend actually dealing with his shit instead of pretending everything's fine. I see my sister happier than she's been since her injury. I see two people who genuinely love each other."
My throat closed up. "I do love her."
"I know. And she loves you. Which is why I'm here." Aaron stood, pacing the small room. "I'm still pissed that you lied to me. I'm still hurt that you didn't trust me enough to be honest from the start. But Derek... I don't want to lose both of you over this."
"I never wanted you to have to choose."
