I look at him, really look at him, and see the terrified kid beneath the guilt. Not a villain. Not a mastermind. Just someone else my father used as a pawn.
“I can’t forgive you right now,” I say honestly. “I don’t know if I ever will. But I believe you when you say you didn’t want to hurt me. You need to tell Killian everything, but not just for me. You need to do it for yourself, because my dad isn’t done yet, and he won’t stop using people unless he’s forced to.”
Adrian’s shoulders slump, and he nods, the resignation in his face telling me he expected nothing else. “I’ll tell both Killian and Damien everything. I’m fucking tired of hiding this.”
I nod, but there’s no relief in it—not for either of us. I don’t want to carry the weight of anyone else’s secrets anymore or bearthe burden of forgiving someone just because it would make things easier for them.
“You should go,” I murmur. “I need time and space. But… thank you for telling me and not making it worse.”
Adrian hesitates, then steps back. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “For whatever it’s worth, I really am.”
I nod once. “I know.”
He offers me a watery smile and wipes at his eyes before turning away. His footsteps crunch through the grass, fading as he disappears down the path toward the house.
I sit there for a while, the camera cool in my lap. My head is buzzing with too many thoughts, but beneath it all, there’s a stubborn, bruised core of certainty. My father tried to use Adrian as another weapon, and it almost worked. I can’t let myself get pulled back into the cycle of forgiving too quickly, of letting people get close just because they’re sorry.
I deserve better than that. I deserve the chance to heal without the constant threat of being hurt again. So, I just sit, breathing, steadying, letting the last of the day settle around me. There’s no going back to what Adrian and I were, not now, maybe not ever. But there’s a strange comfort in drawing that line, in choosing myself this time, in not shrinking to make room for someone else’s regret.
When the shadows get long, and the sound of laughter drifts faintly from the house, I finally get up, brushing the grass from my jeans, and head back alone.
Damien
Idrivehomeonpure muscle memory, headlights cutting through the dark, mind miles away from the empty stretch of highway between the Blackthorne U parking lot and the house. This is the kind of night that should have me riding high—press, scouts in the stands, a stat line that’ll make the blogs tomorrow. But there’s news in my chest, twisting and writhing, and none of it feels real yet.
Ryan is riding shotgun, slouched low, one leg bouncing, earbuds in but not really listening to music. He glances at me every so often, probably trying to read my mood.
“You good?” he asks when we pull into the long driveway.
“Yeah,” I manage when I cut off the engine. “Just tired. It was a long trip.”
Ryan just shakes his head and heads inside, leaving me standing in the chilly night air, key fob clutched tightly in my palm. The grass is frosted, shoes crunching as I make my wayaround the house, counting every step while I’m stuck inside my own head. I’m not ready. I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready.
Inside, the place is too quiet for a Saturday night, even by Sin Bin standards. The boys must have decided to stay out after the game or left for parties. I hear the faint clatter of dishes in the kitchen, a burst of laughter that dies down when someone notices me, and then footsteps sounding from the living room.
“Hey,” Luca says when he sees me, catching the tightness in my jaw. “Great win, D.”
“Yeah,” I answer, and my voice sounds rough, almost unfamiliar. “Team played hard.”
He lets a small smile slip, and for a second, I want to tell him everything, but the words lodge in my throat. “Congrats, man,” he says quietly, and then leaves me to it.
I take the stairs two at a time, muscle memory carrying me straight to my room. The door’s slightly open, the hall dim except for the thin line of gold spilling out from inside. I pause, just for a second, catching my breath, steadying myself on the threshold between the world as I knew it and the one that’s about to change. The world where I have everything I ever wanted—and I might have to choose.
I push the door open, quieter than I need to, and see him curled up on my bed. He’s wrapped in my oldest, softest shirt, blue hair half covering his face, one pale ankle sticking out from beneath the blanket.
My heart aches just looking at him, at the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the peace that sleep brings him—peace he rarely finds awake. There’s color in his cheeks tonight, a little more than last week. He’s healing. He’s still here.
I peel off my shirt and jeans, dropping them wherever they land. I want him—want skin and heat and the steady, grounding weight of him. I slide under the covers and wrap an arm around his waist, pulling him into the curve of my body. He’s warm andsolid, and for a second, I let myself just exist here, breathing in the lavender and citrus, and the quiet, sweet smell of Noah.
All I want is this—quiet, safe, holding him through the night, the news I’m carrying tucked away for tomorrow. I should be celebrating, or panicking, or maybe both. Because after the game, my phone lit up with missed calls from my agent.
Top draft pick.
It’s the kind of call you wait your whole life for, the kind of call that should have you screaming in a parking lot with your friends, jumping on tables, cracking open champagne in the locker room. But all I did was dial my dad, hands shaking, voice thin, the words spilling out before I even knew I was saying them.
He’d gone quiet on the other end, a different kind of quiet than I’ve ever heard from him, and then—finally—pride, relief, the grounding comfort of someone who gets it. He told me to sleep on it, to let it be real in the morning. To tell Noah when it feels right.
Now, with Noah pressed into me, the weight of that news settles deeper in my chest. I stroke his hair, careful not to wake him, and think about what this means—what it could mean for us.
