30
OLIVER
The city was still quiet when I pulled out of my lot.
I usually liked the early drives—the quiet stretch between home and the stadium, that half hour window where the day hadn’t hit yet. But the silence this morning didn’t settle me. I kept one hand clenched around the steering wheel and the other draped across my thigh, trying to ignore the slight tremble in my wrist.
I didn’t feel bad, not exactly. But I didn’t feel good either.
Sloane said she had to go in early, but that wasn’t all of it. Something about her energy was off. She was too composed. I hated that distance, that wall between us after last night was special. Because it was. What we had was fucking special, and I knew I couldn’t push her. If I did, she’d run.
Plus, I didn’t want to make her stress worse. However, I felt the shift with her this morning, and I hated that I didn’t know what caused it. I kept telling myself she’d talk to me when she was ready. That she needed time. But deep down, I was starting to wonder if time was the problem. It always had been with me. How much time before my heart stopped? How much time before my game was done?
My phone buzzed at the light outside the players’ gate. I glanced at the screen.
Rachel James – 1 new email
My heart kicked up. I pulled into the lot, cut the engine, and stared at the screen. My sister hadn’t emailed me in over a year. If she needed something, she usually texted our dad to pass it along. I didn’t think she’d ever reach out to me directly again.
I opened it, anxious as hell.
Subject: I know you probably won’t answer.
Hey,
I don’t really knowhow to do this. I’ve written this like three times and deleted it, but whatever, I’m hitting send this time. I saw the game last weekend. You were trending all over my feed, so I watched the clips, then the full thing. You looked calm. Like really calm. Like you, before everything went sideways.
And then I saw the pre-game photos. You wore the shoes I designed.
I didn’t even think you still had them. I made those for fun when I was nineteen and thought I was some creative genius. But seeing them on you, under the lights, with that locked-in face... I just lost it. I cried, okay? In my apartment. Alone. Because no matter what happened between us, I still want to believe I matter to you. That maybe you remember when things weren’t so messed up.
I know I hurt you. And I don’t expect you to forgive me or respond. I wanted to say I see you now. I saw something in you during that game—some version of you I thought was gone. You looked okay. I hope you are. Really.
And if you’re not, that’s okay too. I’d rather know that than stay in silence like before.
I still wear the orange necklace. The one I made for your first college game. It’s stupid and faded and barely matches anything, but I wear it on game days. Even though we weren’t talking. Especially now. I was mad and scared and selfish, and I’m sorry for all of it. You’re doing great, and I was wrong to say you were killing yourself.
You’re still my big brother. I miss you more than I’ve admitted out loud in a long time.
If you ever want to talk—I’m here. I’ll pick up.
Love,
Rachel
I stared at the message until the screen dimmed. My throat burned. I didn’t move.
This should’ve meant everything. And it did. But it also made me want to crawl out of my skin. Because she saw something in me that wasn’t real. She thought I was okay, healthy, well. But I was none of those things. Not even fucking close.
I wanted to write back. I wanted to tell her I missed her too. That I was proud of her. That I understood why she walked away and that I forgave her. That I wanted to start over.
But my hands wouldn’t move. My chest tightened again. Because she was still right. All those months ago when she screamed at me for killing myself for a stupid sport… and that she wouldn’t stand by me while everyone else pushed me to keep trying. She didn’t get that I’d played too long to walk away.
I closed the app, shoved the phone into my bag, and sat there with my hands gripping the wheel. I wasn’t ready to walk in. I wasn’t ready to pretend like I had it together when every part of me felt like it was slipping sideways.
My sister thought I was doing well, thought I was in control. I hated how much that gutted me. I wanted to be the version of me she remembered. The one she could look up to. The one who didn’t scare her.
But whatever was waiting for me inside—whatever Sloane and William weren’t saying—it wasn’t good. And I didn’t want to be told to sit out. Not now. Not when everything finally felt like it was starting to work again.
