He finally glances up, meeting my gaze for a second before looking away again. His throat works as he swallows. “I’m just… I don’t know if you’d want to hear it. I don’t know if I should.”
My nerves jolt at that. “If it’s about me, I’d rather know. If it’s about you, you don’t have to say anything, but… I promise I’m not gonna freak out on you.”
He lets out a shaky breath and rubs a hand over his face, then stares hard at the window like he might find an answer out there. “It’s just—this is my fault. All of this. You, what happened… I’m sorry, Noah. I’m so fucking sorry.”
A chill slips down my spine. I study his face, trying to read what’s going unsaid there. “What? Adrian, none of this is your fault. You didn’t—”
“No, you don’t get it! You don’t know—” His voice breaks, and he looks so wrecked that it scares me. “I should have told you sooner, but I couldn’t. I didn’t know what would happen.”
Now I’m really confused. I reach out, grabbing his wrist. “Told me what? What the hell are you talking about? You’re scaring me.”
He pulls away, nearly jumping to his feet. “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I never wanted to hurt you, Noah. I never wanted—fuck!”
“Adrian, wait—” I call, but he’s already out the door, the sound of his hurried footsteps fading down the hall.
I sit there in the sudden quiet, my heart thudding hard against my ribs. I press the heels of my hands to my eyes once more,fighting the urge to cry again, too exhausted to chase him, too strung out to do anything but sit with the emptiness.
Whatever Adrian was about to say wasn’t small. I can still feel the weight of it, hanging in the air between us, dragging me back under the waves.
I stare at the open door, a hundred questions tumbling through my head, none of them making any sense. All I can do is wrap Damien’s blanket tighter around me, curling into the lingering warmth, and wait for someone to come back and explain what the hell is going on.
Damien
Theclock’swindingdown,and for the first time in weeks, the crowd noise blurs into the background. Sweat stings my eyes, my legs feel like cinderblocks, but I keep moving, hands high, barking orders that cut through the haze.
“Box out! Stay on your man! Watch the drive!”
The other team’s point guard tries to run a desperate play, but Ryan cuts him off, and I snatch the rebound, driving it down the court in three long strides. I push harder than I have all game, launching myself past two defenders, the world shrinking down to the sound of the ball, the drag of my breath, the familiar ache in my chest.
I lay it up. Two more points. The buzzer splits the gym open, and suddenly the crowd’s on their feet, our bench clearing as teammates swarm the court, hollering and whooping, hands slapping my back, my chest, my shoulders.
Coach is grinning, shouting something about “that’s how you fucking finish!” and the whole team feels electrified, alive,hungry for more. If this were any other night, I’d let myself soak in it, but all I can think about is how fast I can get out and how soon I can be home.
Ryan’s first to my side, shoving a Gatorade into my hand and grinning like a maniac. “You were on fire, bro,” he says, and I give him a tired smile, swigging down half the bottle before setting it aside.
My mind’s already slipping away from the win, from the stats and the coach’s praise, drifting back toward the Sin Bin and the boy I left tangled in my sheets, skin pale and voice fragile, telling me he’d be fine.
I know he’s got Sage and Nate. I know everyone’s keeping an eye out, but I’ve been on edge the entire game, waiting for the moment I can finally see him again. My hands ache to touch him, my mouth dry for the sound of his voice. He promised me with that steady look that always guts me, but he’s never been a good liar.
I shake off another round of congratulations and push through the press of bodies toward the stands, scanning faces out of habit—old swim team jackets, Thunderhawks hoodies, hats pulled low. The noise is a blur, all drums and stomping, a throb in my chest that only gets sharper the longer I go without seeing him.
Then, through the chaos, my eyes catch on a familiar flash of blue.
My chest punches tight. For a moment, I think I’m imagining it. He’s wearing my Blackthorne Thunderhawks T-shirt underneath an open hoodie—the number 33 across his chest—and over his ears, the black noise-cancelling headphones I gave him a few months ago. He looks so fucking good, hair tousled and face scrubbed clean, mouth turned up in a nervous, private smile.
I break away from the knot of players, Ryan’s voice trailing off behind me, and start moving faster, my sneakers squeakingagainst the hardwood. Everything else blurs—Coach yelling for the team to circle up, fans snapping photos, the smell of sweat and cheap popcorn—none of it matters.
I don’t stop until I reach him and gently tug the headphones off, sliding them down around his neck. His gaze flicks up, unsure, and then I’m hauling him into my arms. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away—he melts into me, arms coming up around my waist, holding on tight.
I duck my head and kiss him, not caring who’s watching, not caring if the whole team sees. He tastes like relief, like home, like every fucking thing I thought I’d lost last week when I found him on that bathroom floor.
He grins against my mouth. “Surprise, superstar.”
I let out a shaky breath, squeezing him tighter. “You’ve made my fucking night, Blue.”
He smiles, leaning his forehead into my chest, breath stuttering. “I wanted to see you play. Wanted to show you I’m okay. Or… better, anyway.”
My throat closes up. I rub my thumb over his cheek, feeling the warmth there, the life. “You’re more than okay. You’re fucking perfect.”
