Micah hums from the seat next to me, entirely too calm for someone who witnessed a full social and emotional meltdown thirty seconds ago. “If you puke, aim out the window. Or at least into your shirt.”
“I’m serious,” I groan, burying my face in my hands. “Ijust nuked my entire life. With a thumb. Athumb, Micah. Why didn’t you stop me?!”
He snorts. “Taking your phone away would’ve been like trying to wrestle a pissed-off badger in glitter eyeliner. I enjoy living, thanks.”
I groan louder, slumping sideways so my head hits the window. “He’s gonna think I’m insane. He’s gonna show Coach Harris. I’m going to get benched before the season starts. Or kicked off the team for inappropriate messaging. Or hexed.”
“Okay, first of all,” Micah says, voice way too soothing for the sheer emotional chaos in my chest, “none of those things is remotely possible. Especially not the hexing, he’s not a witch. Also, it wasn’t that bad. It was kind of…” He pauses. “Heartfelt.”
“Kill me.”
“No thanks, you bring me joy.”
I groan again, dragging my phone out to make sure Silas hasn’t replied. Maybe he hasn’t seen it yet. Maybe I’ll get lucky and it’ll glitch. Maybe the servers will crash and erase all memory of me ever typing—My screen lights up.
WhiskeyAndInk: I'm not going to ignore that message. And we will talk about it when you're sober.
I freeze.
Micah glances over. “What? What’d he say?”
I show him the screen.
Micah reads it. Then exhales. “Shit.”
“Exactly.”
My stomach flips, nausea tightening like a fist. I’m notsure if I want to cry or scream or jump out of the car and vanish into the void.
Because he’s not going to pretend I didn’t send it. And now we’re going to talk about it. Sober. With words.
This is my nightmare.
I groan and slide down in the seat until I’m practically folded in half.
Micah pats my leg like I’m a wounded puppy. “Buckle up, princess. You might actually have to use your feelings soon.”
I hate it here.
Who the fuckschedules practice on a Saturday morning?
Apparently Silas Gray does. Which honestly just proves he’s a sadist.
The sun is personal. I’m convinced it has beef with me. It’s not just bright—it’sjudgingme. Like it knows I still smell like tequila, club smoke, and last night’s mistakes. Which would be great if I hadn’t drank so much. I can't remember how I even made it home or if Micah is alive, until I see him and Colton running laps when I get to practice.
I shuffle toward the field, hoodie pulled low, sunglasses shielding me from the worst of the glare. Ty tried to get me up with a slice of cold pizza and a threat, but all I remember is flipping him off and dragging myself into these sweatpants like they were going to carry me through the gates of hell.
Spoiler: They didn’t.
I’m ten minutes late. Which, under normalcircumstances, would be cause for a dramatic entrance. But not today.
Not after the shit I sent last night. Why hasn’t anyone invented a time machine yet? And if they have, why not share it with me, so I can stop myself from doing stupid shit I regret in the morning.
Silas is already standing at midfield, arms crossed, sunglasses on, and staring at me like I just spat on his playbook.
Awesome.
“Nice of you to show up,” he says, voice cool as ice.
