My chest tightens. I open it with shaking fingers.
WhiskeyAndInk: You’re going to be okay, Luke. You don’t need me anymore. Please find love again someday.
That’s it.
No explanation. No goodbye. NoI’m sorry.Nothis is killing me too.
Just… gone.
My vision blurs so fast I don’t even register the tears falling until they’re dripping off my chin, splattering onto the floor between my feet. My lungs lock up. I try to breathe and nothing works. It feels like someone reached inside my chest and ripped something vital out with their bare hands.
You don’t need me anymore.
I curl forward, phone clutched to my chest as if it might break me less if I hold it tighter. A sound tears out of me—ugly and broken and way too loud for an empty locker room.
Daniel’s at my side instantly.
“Luke—hey, hey?—”
I shake my head, gasping, sobbing now, full-body, can’t-stop-it sobbing. “He—he thinks I don’t need him,” I choke. “He thinks he’s protecting me.”
Daniel swears under his breath and pulls me into his arms, holding me while I come apart against his shoulder.
All hope drains out of me in one brutal rush.
Because ifthisis Silas letting me go?—
If this is him choosing what he thinks is best for me?—
Then I’ve already lost. And there’s nothing I can do to stop it. I really am too much.
Containment.
That’s the word that comes to mind over the next few days. Then weeks.
Like they’ve boxed me in behind some invisible glass—just close enough to see everyone else moving on, but not close enough to touch.
I go to meetings. Compliance. Admin. “Support staff.” They say things likeWe’re just making sure you’re supported,andWe want you to feel safe moving forward,andThis isn’t your fault.
But no one ever asks how Ifeel.
Not really.
And I wouldn't know what to say if they did. That I miss him? That I feel like a part of me’s been amputated, and they’re all acting as though I should be grateful the surgery was clean?
Ty and Will hover at first. Micah brings snacks. Daniel tries to get me to go out. But eventually, even they pull back—as if they’re afraid one wrong word will crack me open again. Like I’m glass. Fragile. A thing to tiptoe around.
The team follows suit. Everyone’s… polite. Careful. No one jokes around me. No one mentions the incident. No one says Coach Gray orSilas.
And so, I go quiet, too.
I nod when I’m supposed to. Show up when I’m expected. Smile enough that no one worries too loud. And when I’m finally cleared to play again, I don’t ease in or go slow. I don’t coast on reputation or potential.
I run like my life depends on it.
I throw myself into every snap, every route, every tackle like it’s the only thing keeping me standing. I block harder. Cut sharper. I take hits just trying to feel something.
Coach Harris praises my hustle. The guys cheer me on. Colton grins and says I’m a machine. And still, none of it touches the hollow space inside my chest.
