“Get the fuck out,” I tell him.
He laughs and swings the door open.It slams shut behind him as he keeps talking shit.
I watch Jace disappear up the driveway until he’s gone, swallowed by the darkness.
Noah pulls away from the curb and looks at me in the rearview mirror.The streetlights briefly flash over his face.
“Are you okay with it all?”he asks.“You know, going back onto the team.”
I hesitate, long enough for the truth to press against my ribs.Then I nod.“I think so.”
He studies my reflection for a beat.“What about your dad?”he asks.“What if he wants it to go back the way it was?”
“Then he can fuck off,” I say.
Noah’s mouth quirks.He nods, accepting the answer for what it is.
When he pulls up in front of my house, it’s dark.
“See you tomorrow,” Noah says as I open the car door.
“Yeah,” I reply.
I step out into the night and gently close the door.
Noah waits until I’m clear, then drives off, taillights fading down the street until there’s nothing left but silence.
I stand on the curb for a moment, staring at the empty street long after he’s gone.The silence quickly closes in, heavy and relentless.The weight of the day hits me all at once: football, my father discovering I rejoined the team, Sam laughing with that jerk.All of it knots together in my chest until it feels too tight to breathe.
I take a deep breath, straighten my shoulders, and head toward the house.Sleep is going to be tough.
But just standing here won’t change a damn thing.
I slip quietly inside, dropping my bag by the door and kicking my shoes off.The TV hums in the living room, some rerun playing.My dad is passed out again on the couch.Bottle on the floor.Mouth open.Still breathing.Barely.
I stand there in the room for a moment and watch him.I wonder if letting him know I’m back on the team would stop the way he’s been slipping farther away each day.If football could still reach him.If it could pull him back the way I once hoped it would.
Then, another thought interrupts.
What if it ends up the same as before?
The tightness in my chest worsens, and I push the thoughts aside before they can creep in any further.I’ve been down that road before, and it always ends the same way.
I turn away and head to my room, shutting the door behind me, choosing distance over hope because hope has fucked me over enough times already.
As soon as I get inside, I cross the room and stop in front of the cupboard on the far wall.
It sticks when I pull it open.I yank harder, and the door gives way with a soft crack, dust puffing into the air.It hangs there, floating and settling on my skin as if the past is trying to remind me it never really left.
The gear is pushed into the back corner.
Helmet.Pads.Cleats.
All of it is just waiting.I haven’t touched any of it in over a year.Not since I decided I was finished chasing approval that only appeared when I was hurting for it.
I crouch down and drag everything out onto the floor.
The weight immediately rests in my palms, a familiarity that tightens my chest.
