“Especially then,” he says firmly. “We’ll figure it out. Together. Maybe you come with me. Maybe we do long distance for a season while you finish up school. I don’t know. But I know that you’re worth figuring it out for.”
“Together,” I echo, and the word feels like a vow.
“Together,” he agrees.
We lie there in comfortable silence, and I trace patterns on his chest—over his heart, across the planes of muscle, following old scars.
And as I drift off to sleep, safe and loved and whole, I finally believe it.
We survived the worst weeks of our lives.
He loved me in my grief.Throughmy grief.
And now? Now we get to build something beautiful.
Together.
53
LOGAN
Beck’s room at the football house looks like a tornado hit it.
Duffel bags are sprawled open on the bed, a pile of black compression shirts slumps off the chair, and there are socks everywhere—like the floor is actively breeding them. The air smells like laundry detergent and pre-workout and that sharp, electric kind of excitement that makes you feel like your heart has too many places to be at once.
Beck is sitting cross-legged on the carpet, packing like he’s trying to beat a timer.
“Tell me again why the NFL needs eight pairs of cleats,” I say, leaning against his doorframe with my arms crossed.
Beck doesn’t look up. “Because some of us like to be prepared.”
“Just remember that you’re not rich,” I deadpan.
He finally lifts his head, grinning. “Not yet. But I’m about to be.”
The grin is real, but there’s something else underneath it—something raw and grateful and still a little stunned that his lifeactually turned out like this. Training camp. A locker with his name on it. A chance.
In December, I thought we’d be walking into this chapter together.
Now, I’m standing here watching him pack while my knee aches, a not-too-subtle reminder that my future sits in a gray area.
I step into the room anyway. Because showing up is what I do.
“What’s left?” I ask.
Beck waves a hand at the chaos. “My entire life. I have no idea what I’m doing.”
“Shocking,” I mutter, but I drop down onto the floor beside him and start sorting through the pile like I’ve done this a hundred times—like he isn’t leaving, like my mind is warring between being happy for my friend and jealous at the same time.
We work in silence for a minute, folding, stacking, shoving things into the duffel with the kind of aggression you only use when you don’t want to think too hard.
Then Beck says, quietly, “How’s the leg?”
I pause with a hoodie in my hands.
“It’s getting there,” I say, choosing honesty without giving it teeth. “I’m running again, but not as fast or for as long as I was.”
Beck’s brows lift. “Yeah?”
