Chapter 9
Blake
I’m trying to study.
Or at least pretend I am. There’s a textbook open in front of me, highlighter cap clenched between my teeth, and half a page of barely legible notes scribbled in my worst handwriting. The living room is quiet except for the soft whirr of the fridge and the occasional creak from the hallway heater.
Walking back from the game, this part of Washington has already dropped into that early chill that bites at your face.
I don’t mind. I love fall here. The gray skies, the damp air, the way the cold feels clean in my lungs.
Through the cracked window, the smell of rain and wet leaves sneaks in, earthy, wrapping the whole apartment in the reminder that the season’s settled in for good.
Mads isn’t back from the game yet, which means I’m blissfully free from background grunting, mansplaining from the couch, or him dramatically reading his own texts out loud like I’m supposed to care what his ex wrote at 2 a.m.
I don’t know how long the freedom will last. For all I know, he’s out celebrating with the rest of the team—or he’s the type to head straight home after a win. I want to assume the former, but honestly? No clue.
He’s been weirdly overbearing for the last few days.
Hovering. Micromanaging. I’m shocked he didn’t skip showering in favor of walking me home.
He’s barely let me microwave my own oatmeal.
Yesterday, he followed me to the laundry room.
The day before that, he tried to convince me to skip class because “the lighting in the hallway looked weird.”
I get that he’s freaked out. I am too. But if he’d had his way, I’d be in bubble wrap with a walkie-talkie clipped to my hoodie.
Still, it’s quiet, and I should take advantage of that before he barges back in.
My biomechanics notes are spread across the coffee table, highlighters scattered, textbook open to a chapter I’ve already read twice.
If I can just get through a few more pages, maybe I’ll feel like I’ve done something useful today.
Not that it matters. I can’t focus anyway. My vision keeps swimming.
I blink hard. Try to refocus. Go back to the paragraph I’ve read three times now. Something about comparative gait mechanics under variable load conditions. Or maybe it’s the nutritional habits of freshwater mollusks. I honestly couldn’t say.
There’s a weird pressure behind my eyes. My temples throb in slow pulses. I sit up straighter, dragging in a long, steadying breath through my nose. It’s fine. I’m fine. Probably just tired. We had a brutal conditioning session today. I barely ate, and this week’s been... a lot.
I’m already dreading cleaning the bleachers in the morning. All I want is to sleep until noon and pretend this punishment isn’t a thing.
I briefly wonder what I could bribe Mads with to get him to do it without me, but I shake that thought loose fast. Mostly because it immediately veers into wildly inappropriate territory involving me on my knees and him not saying no. And, unfortunately, I don’t hate the idea.
I rub my wrists absently under the sleeves of my hoodie.
The air in the apartment is stuffy. That’s probably why I’m feeling off. I shift on the couch and toss the blanket off my lap. The pages of my notes blur together again.
I think I’m just stressed. Or coming down with something.
But then the front door opens.
Mads walks in, looking annoyingly refreshed.
His hair is wet, curling a little at the ends, clinging to his forehead.
His Northgate crop top—because apparently he’s single-handedly bringing back 2010s slutty jock fashion—is damp from locker room steam and riding up enough to expose all eighteen of his abs.
The waistband of his shorts is slung low, and the thigh tattoo on his left leg is peeking out, half-hidden beneath the hem in a way that makes me want to… okay, no. No.
My stomach is unsettled. My eyes are literally watering. But instead of spinning any more theories about what mysterious illness I may have, all I can think is God, he’s pretty.
He stops dead in his tracks when he sees me, chest still rising as he catches his breath from the jog home.
His mouth parts, brow creasing, and I wonder if he can hear my heartbeat thudding like it’s trying to fight its way out of my chest. Or if he knows I’ve just spent the last minute alternating between trying not to pass out and mentally composing a thesis on his thighs.
I sit up straighter on the couch, swallowing back the nausea and trying to focus on anything that isn’t his biceps. Or his jaw. Or the way he smells, which, unfairly, is usually not disgusting.
He looks at me, puzzled. Concerned. I think. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I wave a hand at my notebook. “Studying.”
He frowns. “You look pale.”
“Thanks.”
“No, I mean—” He drops his bag. Walks closer. Eyes scanning me with a frown. “Seriously. You look off.”
“I said I’m fine.”
But the second I try to stand up and brush him off, the room tilts.
My stomach lurches. My head feels packed with cotton.
Mads steps around the couch and wraps his big hand around my arm. “Okay, seriously. What’s going on?”
“I told you—” I start, but I can’t finish. My words slur a little. Just enough to make me pause.
“You feel sick?”
I nod. “Headache. Maybe low blood sugar.”
He glances toward the kitchen. “Do you smell that?”
I sniff. Nothing.
Then again, I lit one of those eucalyptus wax melts before I settled in, and the whole place still smells like menthol. If there’s something else, it’s probably getting steamrolled by my attempt at stress relief.
“I think we need to get out,” he says, urgent.
“What?”
“Come on.” He’s already tugging me up. “We need to go. Now.”
“Wait, Mads—”
“We’ll argue later. Right now you’re not okay, and I’m not waiting around for you to get worse and me to start feeling it too.”
He pulls my arm around his shoulders. I’m too dizzy to argue. My knees are too wobbly. He catches me, one arm locked around my waist, the other reaching for the front door.
“Is this—” I start to ask.
“Smells like gas,” he mutters. “Might be the cooker. Fuck knows. Come on.”
The blast of cold air outside hits like a slap to the face, but it helps. I blink hard as we step onto the porch, leaning heavily into him.
He doesn’t let go.
He pulls out his phone and calls 9-1-1. Explains everything. Stays calm. Keeps one hand still on my back, making sure I don’t keel over on the sidewalk.
The fire department shows up within minutes.
Mads walks them through what happened, stands off to the side while they go in with gear and detectors and serious voices.
One of them comes out ten minutes later and tells us it was a low-grade leak.
The stove. Enough to make someone sick with exposure.
And the carbon monoxide and methane detector?
“Dead,” he says. “There’s not even a battery in it.”
Awesome.
When Doc finds out about this, I sincerely hope she rethinks shoving us into this deathtrap of an apartment together and lets us go back to our respective dorms. Even if the thought of that gives me a weird feeling.
One I don’t want to acknowledge. Something about preferring to be here with Mads rather than being alone again.
I sign the forms after the EMTs check me out—blood pressure, oxygen, and a few questions about dizziness and disorientation. Get told not to go back in for a few hours. Maybe overnight, just to be safe.
I should be shaken.
But all I can think about is the weight of Mads’ arm still draped across my shoulders. His body heat seeping into my side. His voice when he barked at me to move, get up, go.
He took charge. Didn’t even hesitate.
I exhale. Quiet. Shaky.
“You okay now?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “Better.”
“You sure?”
I nod. Then add, because it’s suddenly too loud in my head not to say it, “Thanks.”
He shrugs. Doesn’t say anything.
But something shifts in the way we’re standing. Something tightens in the silence between us.
I haven’t let myself admit how scary it is to trust him until now. Because when he’s not pissing me off or driving me insane? He makes me feel cared for.
That’s exactly what makes it harder to keep the truth from him—that I’m starting to suspect the drive isn’t just about hazing, that whatever’s on it is bigger, darker, riskier than I imagined.
The gas leak could’ve been an accident, sure, but it feels too coincidental stacked on top of everything else.
And right now, keeping that from him feels more dangerous than finally spilling my guts.