Chapter 8 #2
My eyes then drift, as they tend to do, to that fiery redhead. I don’t intend for it to happen, but it does anyway.
Sam is still across the hall, leaning in close to Bryce. Her head tilted slightly, a gentle, personal look even from this distance. Her eyes hold that warmth again, the kind she never shows me.
Jealousy is a cruel thing. It sinks in deep, scrapes along bones, and refuses to let go. My chest aches in a way that has nothing to do with breathing. My fists tighten again, nails digging into flesh as if that might bleed some of it out.
The decision hits hard, driven by anger, jealousy, and a need to control something. I’m pissed at her. At the way my body reacts when she smiles at someone else. At how my heart refuses to listen when I tell it to shut the fuck up.
I straighten up away from the lockers.
“Okay,” I say. “Where’s Coach?”
Marcus blinks, clearly surprised by that. “Uh, field house.”
“Are you serious?” Jace’s eyebrows lift, surprise flashing across his face.
I don’t answer him, as I’m already moving before I can think better of it, boots scraping against the floor, pulse hard enough to feel it in my throat.
The field house smells the same the second I push through the door. Sweat. Old rubber. Grass that has been ground so deep into the concrete it never really leaves. The air is familiar with years of effort, frustration and boys trying to prove something to themselves and everyone watching.
Memories hit me right in the chest, so hard that I slow down without meaning to.
Pads. Helmets. Coaches screaming until their voices are hoarse. My name called out across the field.
I hate how much of myself still remains here.
My boots echo against the floor as I walk down the narrow hall toward the offices. Every step feels heavy. My shoulders straighten automatically, muscle memory kicking in, posture snapping into place just like it always did before practice.
I stop outside the door with COACH REYNOLDS written on it.
I breathe out before knocking.
“Come in,” says a voice from the other side.
Coach Reynolds looks up from his computer as I enter. His eyebrows lift, surprise lighting up his face before it softens into something warmer.
“Reece,” he says with a smile. It’s genuine, not forced. “I didn’t expect to see you so soon.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Well, here I am.”
He gestures toward the chair across from his desk. “Please, sit.”
I stay rooted where I am, hands relaxed by my sides, weight evenly on the balls of my feet. Standing feels safer. More honest.
Coach’s eyes flick down, quick and assessing, catching my boots, my stance, the way my shoulders are set. I see the recognition there. The quiet approval. He knows this posture. He should, because he taught it.
“You’re here about the team,” he says.
I nod once.
“I’m not promising anything,” I say. “But I’ll play.”
Coach’s smile widens. “I’m glad to have you back.”
Something tight in my chest loosens, only a little, but enough that I notice it.
I nod again and turn before he can say anything else, before I can think about why I agreed to this.
By the time the last bell of the day rings, my head is a fucking mess.
The adrenaline that pushed me through the afternoon has worn off, leaving a dull, steady ache behind my eyes.
Regret gradually sets in.
What the fuck did I just agree to? And worse than that, how is this going to go when my father finds out I rejoined the team?
Later, Noah, Jace, and I end up at the basketball courts. Noah’s idea—something to burn off the leftover edge before heading home.
I play half-focused. My body knows what to do, but my mind is somewhere else entirely.
Noah sinks a shot and jogs back, bouncing the ball easily at his side. He looks relaxed. Focused. The way he always does when everything in his life makes sense. It irritates me more than I want to admit.
Jace, on the other hand, cannot shut the fuck up. He’s riding some high, words spilling out of him fast, energy crackling under his skin. He dribbles once, twice, then grins wide, flashing that smug look.
“So get this,” Jace says, dragging it out, enjoying the moment. “Reece is back on the football team.”
Noah turns his head and looks at me. His eyebrows lift, surprise sharpening his normally calm expression.
“Really,” he says.
“Yeah.” I shrug, keeping it small and casual.
Noah nods. “That’s good.”
“Told you,” Jace says, snatching the ball from Noah.
Noah doesn’t even glance at him. His focus remains on me.
“You were great at football, Reece,” he says. “It’s good that you’re back. Not because of the team. Because it’s yours again. It should’ve always been yours.”
The words hit me square in the chest. Coming from Noah, it matters more than anything. He isn’t one to hype shit. Doesn’t hand out compliments for fun. He says exactly what he means and nothing more.
If Noah believes it, maybe I wasn’t crazy for signing back up.
“We’ll see,” I say, shrugging it off fast, before it can dig in deeper.
The ball thuds against the concrete as Jace fumbles it, muttering a curse under his breath. The noise pulls us back into the moment.
It’s late by the time we get into Noah’s car.
Jace rides shotgun, still buzzing with that restless energy he never seems to lose. I take the back seat, lean my head against the seat, watching the streetlights streak past in blurred lines as the night settles in around us.
Noah drops Jace off first.
Jace twists around in his seat, grinning. “Don’t screw it up,” he says. “I expect front row seats on Fridays.”
“Get the fuck out,” I tell him.
He laughs and swings the door open. It slams shut behind him as he keeps talking shit.
I watch Jace disappear up the driveway until he’s gone, swallowed by the darkness.
Noah pulls away from the curb and looks at me in the rearview mirror. The streetlights briefly flash over his face.
“Are you okay with it all?” he asks. “You know, going back onto the team.”
I hesitate, long enough for the truth to press against my ribs. Then I nod. “I think so.”
He studies my reflection for a beat. “What about your dad?” he asks. “What if he wants it to go back the way it was?”
“Then he can fuck off,” I say.
Noah’s mouth quirks. He nods, accepting the answer for what it is.
When he pulls up in front of my house, it’s dark.
“See you tomorrow,” Noah says as I open the car door.
“Yeah,” I reply.
I step out into the night and gently close the door.
Noah waits until I’m clear, then drives off, taillights fading down the street until there’s nothing left but silence.
I stand on the curb for a moment, staring at the empty street long after he’s gone.
The silence quickly closes in, heavy and relentless.
The weight of the day hits me all at once: football, my father discovering I rejoined the team, Sam laughing with that jerk.
All of it knots together in my chest until it feels too tight to breathe.
I take a deep breath, straighten my shoulders, and head toward the house. Sleep is going to be tough.
But just standing here won’t change a damn thing.
I slip quietly inside, dropping my bag by the door and kicking my shoes off. The TV hums in the living room, some rerun playing. My dad is passed out again on the couch. Bottle on the floor. Mouth open. Still breathing. Barely.
I stand there in the room for a moment and watch him. I wonder if letting him know I’m back on the team would stop the way he’s been slipping farther away each day. If football could still reach him. If it could pull him back the way I once hoped it would.
Then, another thought interrupts.
What if it ends up the same as before?
The tightness in my chest worsens, and I push the thoughts aside before they can creep in any further. I’ve been down that road before, and it always ends the same way.
I turn away and head to my room, shutting the door behind me, choosing distance over hope because hope has fucked me over enough times already.
As soon as I get inside, I cross the room and stop in front of the cupboard on the far wall.
It sticks when I pull it open. I yank harder, and the door gives way with a soft crack, dust puffing into the air. It hangs there, floating and settling on my skin as if the past is trying to remind me it never really left.
The gear is pushed into the back corner.
Helmet. Pads. Cleats.
All of it is just waiting. I haven’t touched any of it in over a year. Not since I decided I was finished chasing approval that only appeared when I was hurting for it.
I crouch down and drag everything out onto the floor.
The weight immediately rests in my palms, a familiarity that tightens my chest.
The smell hits next: sweat, grass, and old effort soaked so deep into the padding that it never washes out. It smells like training sessions, bruises, and wanting something so badly you break yourself for it. It smells like a version of me that used to believe in things.
I sit on the edge of the bed and pick up my boots.
I lace them up slowly, fingers steady, heart anything but. The leather creaks as I pull the laces tight.
They still fit. That shouldn’t matter, but it does because it means a part of me never really grew out of this. It never let go, not even when I told myself I was finished.
I lie back on the mattress, arms folded behind my head, staring up at the ceiling fan that hasn’t worked in years. It hangs there, useless, blades frozen, a perfect match for everything else in this house.
I agreed to this.
For Sam and what I saw in that hallway, the way jealousy lit me up and pushed me forward before I had a chance to think.
Lying here with these boots still on my feet, the room silent except for my breathing, I wonder if that’s the whole truth. If I really did it because of the way she smiled at that asshole.
Or if I said yes to myself, for the version of me that once believed he was good at something.
For the kid who believed effort mattered and still yearns to feel that adrenaline again, even if it’s clothed in pain.
I stare at the fan until my eyes burn, knowing there’s no taking it back now.
Whatever the reason was, I opened that door myself. And tomorrow, I will find out what it costs.