I stared at that for longer than was reasonable.
A friend. Did he mean I was his friend or was I Aspen’s friend? The sentence could parse either way. Probably both. Why did it even bother me?
Because you want it to mean something,supplied the unhelpful part of my brain.Because you’re developing a pathetic crush on your brother’s straight teammate and you’re dissecting his texts like a teenager.
The walk signal changed. I didn’t move. It changed back to red. Aspen looked up at me with judgmental blue eyes.
“I know,” I told him. “Shut up.”
I shook my head and tucked my phone back into my pocket and started walking when the light changed once again. Aspen trotted beside me, unbothered by my crisis, which was probably the correct response.
???
My weekly check-in with Sabrina was overdue and her last text had been a single question mark two days ago—which in Sabrina-speak meant I was in trouble and would be paying interest on this delayed conversation.
She picked up my FaceTime request after two rings. Her fiery red hair filled the screen first, pulled back in the messy bun she always wore between sessions, her green eyes already narrowed in that particular way that meant she had been rehearsing this conversation.
“Mathéo Jin Beaubien. What the fuck? Where have you been? I was about to hop on a fucking airplane.”
“No need to middle name me. I’ve just been busy. And you’re literally coming next week.”
She gave me a pointed look. “I warned you that if you didn’t reply to my texts, I would use my emergency credit card. The one my asshole father gave me for actual emergencies. You know how much I hate using his money.”
“I apologize,” I said, shifting on Derek’s couch. “Don’t go into debt to your father on my account. I’m fine.”
“God, I hate that fucking word.”
Aspen lifted his head from my lap and assessed whether this conversation required his attention. Apparently not. He put his chin back down.
“Would you prefer daddy?” I offered.
“You know which word I meant.”
“When did you become a goddamn linguist, Sabrina? I’m lovely. Grand. Fan-fucking-tastic.”
“You look pale.”
“What else is new?”
“Your dark circles are worse.”
I touched the skin under my eye reflexively and then dropped my hand when I realized what I was doing. “I’m hanging up.”
“Have you called Coach Miller?”
“You know I haven’t.”
She went quiet.
Sabrina’s silences were tactical. She learned them from Coach Renaud—weaponized patience, the kind that made you confess just to fill the silence.
But two could play at that game.
I stared at her through the screen. She stared back, unblinking.
I held on.
She blinked first.
