He steps back. The space between us yawns open.
“I love you,” I say desperately, because if I don’t say it, I feel like I’ll choke on it.
Rafe’s jaw flexes. His eyes flash with something raw, something wounded. “I love you too,” he says, voice tight. “But I can’t keep being the thing you postpone.”
He turns. Vinny follows smoothly. Rafe doesn’t look back.
And I’m left against the concrete pillar, breathing too hard, my hands shaking, my face throbbing.
Reality hits in a cold wave. Tomorrow is our wedding anniversary. Two years. And I just lit a match under everything.
What the fuck have I done?
18
I wakeup like I’ve been dragged out of a pool—heavy, disoriented, my mouth dry, my head thick, my body sluggish with exhaustion that never turned into rest. The room is dim, curtains half drawn, and for a few seconds, I lie still and pretend I don’t remember last night.
Then my eye throbs. A deep, pulsing ache that makes the whole side of my face feel tight. I blink slowly, and the world swims. When I try to rub my eyes, my fingers graze swollen skin, and I hiss under my breath.
Right.
That.
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the hotel air conditioner. The quiet is too loud. Every sound feels amplified because my brain has been awake for hours, even when my body wasn’t.
I didn’t sleep. Not really. I drifted in and out of half-consciousness, trapped between memories and dread, counting minutes like they were possessions I could hoard and spend later.
I called Rafe.
Once. Then again. Then again, because I’m an idiot and thought maybe if I tried one more time, it would undo the last conversation. As if the right number of ringing tones could rewind time to before Kirk’s mouth, before my fist, before Rafe’s eyes went cold.
No answer.
No text.
Nothing.
My phone sits on the nightstand now, face up, accusing. I reach for it with a shaky hand and check it anyway, because apparently I like suffering. There are no new messages and no missed calls.
The time glows at the top of the screen: 8:14 a.m.
This morning, I was meant to be meeting his parents. My stomach twists so hard I have to breathe through it. Rafe said he’d tell them in person yesterday after the game before returning to the city this morning to collect me.
What if he’s standing in his childhood home right now, still trying to explain his secret marriage to parents who love him, and I’m here in a hotel bed with a bruised eye and shame soaking through me like sweat?
What if he regrets me?
The thought lands so hard it steals my breath. I sit up slowly, pushing myself upright with stiff arms. The room tilts slightly, my head pounding. I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and plant my feet on the carpet.
My duffel bag is half packed from last night, because I tried to do something useful with my hands while my brain tore itself apart. My hoodie is tossed over the chair. My cap is on the dresser.
I catch sight of myself in the mirror and flinch. My eye’s a mess. It’s not swollen shut, but puffy and bruised, purple blooming under the lower lid and spreading outward. The cutat the edge is clean now, but the skin around it is angry and swollen. I look like someone who belongs on a highlight reel for the wrong reasons.
I look like a problem.
My ribs feel tight. I’m supposed to represent a franchise. I’m supposed to be controlled, composed, marketable. I’m supposed to be the guy who absorbs pressure and turns it into performance.
Instead, I’m the guy who punched a teammate. I’m also the guy who pushed his husband away and then blamed him for the weight of my own fear.
