Ethan: Pierce, I say this with love, but that was a douchey move, man. Brunner’s right. You should have been there for her.
Elias: E, thank you for affirming my insight.
Ethan: Don’t even. I’m still pissed at you, man.
Elias: Why? Wade’s the one who spilled the tea.
Ethan: Spilled the tea? Bro, you really need to stop reading those gossip columns.
Elias: Is Mia mad at me, too?
Ethan: I’ve officially banned you from talking to Mia EVER AGAIN.
While the E-team hashes it out in our thread—and I’ll take that I like the name “Big Guns” to my grave—I rehash my discussion with Bree in my head. Even before I screwed up by implying Bree wasn’t mature enough to make a solid choice about who she dated, I did nothing to make her feel heard or seen. Instead, I made her feel worse.
Deep down, I think I am a little mad at Bree, too. And hurt.
But only because she didn’t choose me.
Wade: Like I said, I blew it. I have to fix this.
Luke: Tomorrow’s another day.
Elias: See? So insightful.
Luke: I need a grunting emoji.
Zayne: I’ll get right on that, Cap.
Luke: And brown-nosing will get you booted out, Zanie.
Zayne: …
Too exhausted to read any more of the fellas’ antics, I plug my phone into my charger and turn it face down on the coffee table. I toss the room-temperature ice pack to the floor with an unsatisfying thump, wishing I could go for a run instead of sitting alone on my couch.
I’m not sure yet how I’m going to fix things with Bree. But one thing I do know?
It’s going to be a long night.
What is that sound?
I crack open an eyelid enough to note my living room is filled with light. Normally, I wake up on my own long before now, but after the night I had, I set an alarm, just in case I overslept.
That’s what I’m hearing—my stupid alarm. I reach out to smack my screen, but the blaring sound continues. Then Iremember I turned it face down last night because I didn’t want to read any more texts in the Big Guns chat.
Guess the name stuck with me.
As I sit up, I grab my phone and stop the torture device. That’s when I notice an unread message from Bree.
Bree: Hey, I didn’t want to wake you this morning. So I’m sending a text. I’ll either be at the Sandpiper Inn or, if they’re still full, I’ll find a cheap hotel for a few nights. I think it’s better this way. Really. You need your bed back, especially now that you’re recovering.
I know she’s using my recovery as an excuse for the real reason. And I don’t blame her. I acted like a jerk last night when she needed her best friend. I’m such an idiot—how could I do that to her?
Despite the slight protest in my thigh, I launch off the couch toward my bedroom. The door stands ajar, and the light’s off. When I flick it on, I note the pile of sheets sitting on the floor, yet the bed is neatly made. I open one of her drawers, but it’s filled with my socks and underwear again.
The empty side of the closet and the lack of her toiletries in the bathroom confirm the unsettling reality that she’s gone. And that I’m the biggest tool on the planet. Ethan’s right. I’m a douchebag.
But I’m not a big enough one to let Bree wind up at some fleabag motel. We need to talk. I take the quickest shower of my life, dress, and shoot out the door to go to the arena.
