Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Santos
I stare at the ceiling for a while after my father leaves, trying to calm the storm in my chest. My phone buzzes on the table beside me. I glance over, seeing Dustin’s name flash across the screen, and my heart skips. This isn’t just a call. It’s a video call.
Not now, Dust. Not. Now.
I can’t deal with him. Not after the conversation I just had with my father.
My thumb hovers over the screen, hesitating.
I know I shouldn’t. Dustin’s the last person I should talk to when I’m feeling this exposed, but my hand moves almost automatically.
I swipe to answer, my reflection fading into his familiar face.
There he is—Dustin Haverbrook. Tousled hair, a thin chain glinting around his neck, those green eyes that always seem to see too much. He’s sitting in what looks like a dimly lit room, a faint smile pulling at his lips like he’s trying to gauge my mood before speaking.
“You don’t look happy,” he says, his voice casual but soft, like he already knows I’m not in the mood for a full conversation. “What happened?”
“Hey,” I mumble, not trusting myself to say more.
The silence hangs between us for a second, Dustin’s eyes searching mine through the screen. “You look like shit and angry.”
A weak laugh escapes me, but it’s hollow. “Yeah, well, it’s been a pretty shitty week. Nothing, and I mean nothing, could make it better.”
He tilts his head lightly as if saying, “I know something that will.” However, he just asks, “You wanna talk about it?”
I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t. But I do. The words bubble up before I can stop them. “My fucking father was just here. He’s got this plan . . . He wants to take me to some rehab center in El Paso. ‘Psychological therapy,’ he said. . .” I trail off, my throat tightening.
Dustin’s expression hardens. “Conversion therapy?” His voice is sharp, cutting through the space between us like a blade.
He doesn’t even need me to confirm it. “I fucking knew he would do that. Did you hear that? I wasn’t lying when I said he had done it, or that he would do it again. We can’t let that happen.”
I narrow my gaze, because it seems like he’s talking to someone else. Maybe I’m still high on morphine or whatever pain medication they gave me in the morning. I asked them not to give me anything else, but maybe they didn’t listen.
“Don’t worry, I already told him to go and fuck himself,” I say, but then add, “We won’t let it happen, but I don’t have a plan right now. I need to call my agent . . . or maybe fire him because he always agrees with what Jean-fucking-Luc wants.”
Dustin leans back, running a hand through his hair, frustration flashing in his eyes. “That man . . . I swear—”
“It’s fine,” I cut him off, though the words taste bitter. “I told him I’m not going. But he doesn’t take no for an answer, so I don’t know how this is going to play out.”
“Of course, he doesn’t.” Dustin’s voice softens, though the anger’s still simmering beneath. “It’s okay, I’m working on a solution.”
“You have a solution?” I ask skeptically.
Other than shoving me onto his farm and hiding me away from the public eye like he does during the off-season, I don’t see how he can come up with anything close to a real plan. Dustin has always been all heart and no logic. That’s the problem.
“I’m working on it,” he says, glaring at someone off-screen. There’s a whisper—faint, indistinct—but I can’t make out who’s with him.
It’s probably Gavin, his manager, telling him he’s finally lost his last marble. That’s the thing with Dustin—he always means well, but his ideas? They’re wild. Too much left to chance, too much faith in the universe aligning perfectly, and half the time they don’t make sense.
Dustin clears his throat, leaning closer to the camera, his carefree expression replaced with a rare seriousness.
His eyes narrow slightly, his voice lower, more deliberate.
“You might not believe me, but I got this, Santos. I’ve got a solution.
A very pretty, very fucking stubborn solution.
I just need to polish the details. And listen, this solution?
It won’t involve your father, conversion therapy, or any of that bullshit. ”
Pretty? My eyebrows knit together. Pretty could mean a thousand different things with him. Knowing Dustin ‘pretty’ could mean he’s gifting me an alpaca for some Zen therapy to teach me patience—or worse, something completely absurd. What the hell is he up to now?
I straighten, trying to rein him in before he takes this impulsive idea any further.
“Dustin, I need a professional to help me get back on my feet,” I say, voice firm, trying to steer him away from whatever half-baked, chaotic scheme is already spinning in his head.
“I don’t need some wild plan that doesn’t deal in reality. ”
His lips twitch, and there it is—that familiar smirk that always spells trouble. “I found the perfect doctor. Someone who can oversee your recovery, get you back on the ice, and handle your physical therapy. No conversion bullshit. Just the real deal.”
Before I can even process what he’s saying, a female voice cuts in, sharp and firm, laced with irritation. “I haven’t agreed to anything,” the woman says, her tone clear, even upset. “In fact, you’re out of my place tomorrow morning, and I’m heading back to work and my life.”
My heart skips a beat. “Fucker, did you kidnap a doctor?” I ask, because this sounds exactly like something Dustin would pull. The guy has no boundaries when it comes to his wild plans. “Please don’t tell me you promised some doctor you’ll date her while she’s treating me.”
Dustin huffs, visibly annoyed, his carefree attitude momentarily slipping.
“No, I haven’t promised to date her. And for the record, we never actually broke up so there’s that,” he mutters the last words, distracted now, like even he’s confused by his current relationship status.
And that’s when it hits me. What the hell is he talking about?
He doesn’t date. Not since . . . I stop myself right there, before my mind drifts to her. To our Halsey.
“But we are figuring out how to sneak you out of the hospital,” he continues, as if this is some casual plan. “She said you can’t just up and leave yet.”
“I’m not figuring out shit,” the woman snaps back, her voice edged with frustration. “You’re on your own. I already told you I’m not going to be part of this circus.”
At least whoever this person is, they seem grounded, serious. Angry, even. She’s feisty, and that’s hard to believe because no one usually says no to Dustin. But who has he dragged into this mess? Who’s standing their ground in the middle of his whirlwind?
Dustin rolls his eyes dramatically, like he can’t even comprehend someone resisting his charm. “Like you can say no to San,” he says, dismissively waving off her protests.
I narrow my eyes, suspicion creeping in. “Who is it, Dustin?” My voice is low, demanding an answer. Because whoever this is, they’re not just another one of Dustin’s half-baked ideas. There’s something different this time. Something real.
Dustin’s smirk grows wider, and he shifts the phone. The screen wobbles for a moment before settling on a new face.
Halsey.
My Halsey.
She’s been mine since . . . maybe since the beginning of time.
My best friend, my confidante, the one who knew me better than I knew myself.
She wasn’t just a part of my life—she was my dream maker, the girl who gave me part of my identity.
She brought Dustin to us, our third piece.
She was the glue that held everything together.
Just thinking about her now hurts like a deep wound that hasn’t healed.
When they took her away, they ripped away more than just a limb.
They took my heart, my soul—everything. And it was our fault.
We weren’t careful, we weren’t discreet enough when we were dating.
We thought we were untouchable, that no one would care or notice.
But they did. They caught us at school—kissing her.
She was between us, breathless, her body arching into mine while Dustin’s hands gripped her waist, his lips trailing down her neck.
I had them pinned against the lockers, her legs wrapped around me as I kissed her like I was starved.
And Dustin . . . he was kissing her too, his fingers tangled in her hair, his body pressed close, so close.
We were filling her up, both of us, and it felt like she was ours.
Until everything fell apart.
No. It can’t be her now.
I blink, trying to shake the haze from my mind, trying to process what I’m seeing in front of me. It’s probably the drugs clouding my judgment. This isn’t real. It can’t be real. But then I look again, my heart thudding painfully in my chest.
She’s right beside him, her face so familiar, just like the photo I have in my room. The one Dustin gave me last Christmas, somehow managing to get his hands on it and I never asked him how.
She looks different—her hair’s shorter, just grazing her shoulders in loose waves instead of the wild curls I remember.
There’s something more polished about her now, more refined.
But those eyes? Those hazel eyes are still the same.
Bright. Alive. Filled with something I could never fully name but always felt.
My breath catches. I wasn’t ready for this. For her. Fuck, I doubt I’ll ever be ready. Just seeing her face makes my pulse race, while the rest of me feels like it’s frozen solid.
“Hals,” I finally manage to get out, my voice strained.
“Hey, Santos,” she says softly, hesitantly. Her voice, after all these years, sends a shock wave through me, like I’ve been struck by lightning. It’s impossible to explain how just hearing her again makes my heart jolt, and memories flood in all at once.
For a moment, I’m frozen, words trapped in my throat. All I can do is stare at her face on the screen, my mind reeling.