“I want it,” I say quietly, like a confession. “I’ve always wanted it.”
“I know,” Beck replies. “But you also want to stay.”
My throat burns.
Because that’s the part that scares me.
Not the NFL.
Not Chicago.
Not the risk.
The choice.
Because if I choose wrong, I lose something I can’t replace.
I blink hard, eyes on the road. “I can’t leave her right now.”
Beck’s voice softens. “Then don’t. Not if it’ll destroy you.”
I swallow. “What if staying destroys me too?”
Beck is quiet for a second, then he says, simple and true, “Then you survive it anyway.”
My chest aches.
“I’ll see you in two days,” I say, because I can’t sit on this for too long or I’ll drown.
“Yeah,” Beck says. “And Brooks?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re doing good. Even if it doesn’t feel like it.”
My grip tightens. “Thanks.”
“Love you, man.”
“Love you too,” I say, and this time my voice cracks a little, but I don’t care.
The call ends.
The road stretches ahead.
And my brain immediately tries to sprint into the future and ruin me with what-ifs.
Sloane’s face at the funeral.
Sloane’s body curled into mine like she was trying to breathe through my ribs.
Cameron’s jaw working like he’s going to shatter his teeth from holding in everything he can’t say.
I turn onto the Rhodes’ street, and the house appears—single story, neat lawn, the basketball hoop out front like a cruel little reminder that life used to be normal here.
I park and sit for a second.
My knee aches—not sharp. Just worked. Alive.
