I sigh, drop the phone on the table, and lean back with afrustrated groan. My head tips against the wall, muscles tense from a workout that didn’t do shit to calm me down.
I’ve never had this kind of problem before. Letting people in after what happened to Xavier didn’t happen. But Luke is different. And that scares the hell out of me.
I’m about to get up and pour another drink when the buzz of a new message hits my phone.
Prism notification
There is zero hesitation as I swipe into it. I know it’s him. He’s the only one I’ve messaged lately.
BornForTrouble: You know what the worst part of this whole thing is? It’s not you. It’s me. It’s always me. I ruin everything. I joke too much. I want too much. I never let anyone get close. And the single time I have, I panic and run. Like some fucking cliche. And then I sit in my bed pretending I’m fine when I feel like I’m underwater and drowning from my feelings. I act like I don’t want to reach out, that the distance is what I wanted. But I want to message you, I want to reach out. But what would you even say? “It’s okay, Luke, I forgive you for being a fucking coward?” I wouldn’t. So I don’t expect you to either. I’m just drunk enough to say all the things I shouldn’t. But not drunk enough to believe it will change anything in the morning.
I stare at the screen. Re-read it. Again. And again. My throat tightens, something hot prickling behind my eyes.Because this—this mess…this beautiful disaster—is Luke, the man I’m pretty sure I’m in love with.
It’s not that mask he wears or the flirting he does to keep people at arms length. Or the show-off during practice. This is the scared and damaged man beneath all of that.
The phone buzzes again.
A second message slides in before I can even think about typing a response.
BornForTrouble: Shit. I didn’t mean to send that. Please ignore it.
My chest caves in. I stare at those words like they’re a lie I should believe for his sake. Maybe if I pretend I didn’t read the first message and feel it lodge itself under my ribs, we could both go back to the safer version of this.
But I can’t unsee it.
I scrub a hand over my face, fingers digging into my scalp as I lean forward, elbows on my knees.Ignore it.Yeah, not likely.
A thousand replies crowd my head. A million words I could use right this second. But he’s drunk. And the conversation I want to have needs to be done when he’s sober.
Still, my thumb hovers over the keyboard, heart pounding inside my chest, feeling as if I’m standing on a ledge ready to leap off of it. But I hesitate, because once I answer that message honestly, there’s no way I can pretend it didn’t hurt when he walked out of my office on Monday. There will be no pretending I’m just his coach and he’s just my player. And absolutely no way to act like I’m not head over heels in love, and I’ve been that way for a while.
Luke doesn’t scare me because he’s a flirt or he’s slightly reckless. He scares me because he’s real. He makesme imagine a future instead of enduring the present, and maybe that’s too much to put on a twenty something year old.
I type a single word before deleting it. Exhaling slowly, I force my breathing steady. Then I read the first message again. I can see it all, his panic, his attempt to shove himself into a box that never fit him in the first place, his need to be seen.
And I know one thing with absolute clarity, if I don’t answer him now, I’m going to lose him for real. And I don’t think I can live with that either.
My fingers finally move. I take my time with the short reply. It’s not perfect, and it doesn’t solve everything yet, but it’s honest. Just like he was.
NINETEEN
LUKE
Micah practically shovesme into the backseat of the Uber like I’m some drunk asshole who might bolt into traffic if left unsupervised.
Which is honestly fair.
Because Imight.
The door slams, and the car pulls away from the curb, and all I can do is stare out the window, panic crawling up my spine like ivy. My heart won’t stop jackhammering. My mouth tastes like tequila and bad decisions.
I feel sick.
Not hangover sick.
Oh-my-god-I-just-sent-that-messagesick.
“I’m going to die,” I mutter.
