He stops but doesn’t turn around.
“I need you to understand something.” I make sure my voice is steady, clear. “I’m not going to be the person who makes this easier for you. I’m not going to let you deflect or minimize or pretend everything’s fine when it’s not. That’s not what this is.”
He turns then, vulnerability cracking through his careful control. “Then what is this?”
“This is me refusing to be your safe space anymore.” I hold his gaze, let him see that I mean every word. “I’ve been patient, letting you come to me when you were ready. That’s over. Now I come to you. Now I push. Now you don’t get to hide behind our friendship because it’s comfortable.”
The silence stretches between us, electric and dangerous.
“And what happens when you push too hard?” His voice is barely above a whisper. “What happens when I can’t do what you’re asking?”
I close the distance between us, stopping close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. Close enough that I can see the fear underneath the anger underneath the control.
“Then we figure it out together,” I say softly. “But you don’t get to run. Not anymore. Not from this.”
Bennett doesn’t respond. Just stares at me like I’ve rearranged his entire understanding of how we work, and maybe I have. Maybe that’s the point.
I step back first—one step, then another—putting safe distance between us before I do something stupid like touch him.
“Nine o’clock,” I say. “Don’t be late.”
I turn and walk toward my car before he can respond, before he can see the way my hands are shaking again, before he can clock the fear underneath my own certainty.
Behind me, I hear nothing. No footsteps. No protest. Just silence.
I don’t look back.
I have no idea if this is going to work.
But I know I’m done watching him destroy himself from the inside out.
New Rules, No Escape
Bennett
I’ve seen routines like his. Built brick by brick. Timed to the minute. Strong enough to hold a man together when everything else wants to fall apart. The trouble with routinesis, they don’t bend. And when life finally pushes back? They don’t flex. They crack.
Playlist: “Fix You” by Coldplay
My alarm goes off at 5:47 AM. I’ve been awake since 4:30 running scenarios, but the alarm gives me permission to move.
Coffee. Four scoops, exactly 200 degrees, four-minute steep. Stretching. Game tape from our most recent loss while I eat the same breakfast I’ve had for six years.
This is how I function. Structure creates control. Control creates results. It’s the only thing that’s ever worked.
Except two days ago I sat in the middle of Main Street like a broken toy while the whole town watched. No routine is going to erase that.
I push the thought away. Focus on the tape. Second period, power play sequence—we had the positioning right but the timing was off by half a beat. Heath needs to trust his instincts instead of waiting for the play to develop. Holden is still overcommitting on the—
My doorbell rings.
I freeze, fork halfway to my mouth. Nobody comes to my door. Nobody except my family, and they know better than to show up before seven without texting first.
The doorbell rings again.
I set down the fork. Check the time: 6:23 AM. Cross to the door with the controlled stride I use when I’m approaching a situation I can’t read.
Gisele LaRue is standing on my porch. And in one moment, my entire morning goes off script.
