Chapter 28
Sam
The email arrives in my inbox before I choose what to wear.
Reece Wilson has shared a file with you.
I freeze, towel wrapped tight around me, hair dripping cold trails down my back. For a full minute, I stare. Part of me wants to delete it. To pretend I never saw it. Pretend he doesn’t still live in the part of my brain that won’t shut the fuck up.
But curiosity is a bitch, and I’ve never been good at walking away from things that hurt.
I click it open.
And there it is. The assessment. The entire damn thing.
Every heading and section are perfectly aligned. The tone is professional. He didn’t just finish it; he poured himself into it. It reads like both of us—his voice, my notes, our ideas—woven together as if we were still working side by side instead of not being on speaking terms at all.
I scroll down slowly. My heart races with each paragraph.
He recalled everything.
Every conversation we had in the library and in his room before things got messy and we forgot how to be anything other than broken and bleeding.
He used the structure we argued over for half an hour.
The quotes I highlighted. The dumb shit I said about emotional language and contrasting perspectives that I was sure he wasn’t listening to.
He listened.
He took everything we created and made it meaningful.
Honestly, I’d been drowning in panic over failing this assessment, and I still didn’t reach out. I couldn’t. Because if I messaged him about the project, then I’d be messaging him.
But he did it regardless.
Not for credit.
For me.
I bite the inside of my cheek and scroll all the way to the bottom. There’s no note. No message. No “I’m sorry” tagged on the end. Just the work.
My heart aches because this is the most genuine thing he’s ever given me. And it guts me.
I slam my laptop shut before the tears start falling.
I’ve spent all this time telling myself he never once cared about me. That I was nothing to him but a punchline, a two-hundred-dollar joke passed between guys who think feelings are for games, not girls.
But this, I don’t know what the hell this is.
He didn’t have to do it. He could’ve let the whole project fail, let me drown in it and struggle alone, or ask him for help that I wasn’t ready to beg for. But he didn’t.
He took everything and carried it alone, quietly.
Maybe that’s who Reece truly is.
Not the cocky bastard with the fuck-you smile and the hands that know exactly how to ruin a girl’s good sense. Because this isn’t some fuckboy move. This isn’t him trying to win points or slide back into my good graces with a wink and an apology. This is something else.
I don’t know how to handle that version of him.
I sit still for a minute before I get up and go through the motions: get dressed, pull my hair into a high ponytail, hands trembling slightly.
The idea keeps looping in my mind. Should I thank him for it?
But the other voice kicks in. The one that reminds me of what he did—how the bet was real and how he let me fall without stopping it when it mattered most.
I grab my keys from the counter and slide into my car, the engine coughing to life. The drive to school feels longer than usual, even though I hit every green light. My mind’s too busy. Every turn of the wheel brings another thought I can’t quiet.
I keep thinking about how he did the entire thing without asking for anything in return.
By the time I pull into the parking lot, my hands ache from gripping the wheel too hard. I sit there for a minute, engine ticking, watching students stream into the building like it’s just another normal day.
The day is endless.
In first period, I don’t absorb a single word the teacher says. I keep running through fake conversations in my head—all the different ways I might say it.
“Thanks for the project.”
Or, “You didn’t have to do that.”
Or even, “I saw what you sent.”
But nothing seems right. Every version of me seems too fragile to risk breaking in front of him.
By second period, I am exhausted from overthinking.
And between second and third period, I see him.
He’s standing by his locker, laughing at something one of the guys says. A few team members are gathered around him, exchanging their usual bullshit. He’s leaning against the door, relaxed and effortless.
I pause for a second.
As if sensing me standing there, his eyes flick to me. They hold for a moment before moving away.
I swallow hard, fingers gripping the strap of my bag as I step forward.
I should say thank you. It’s two simple words. But I don’t.
I walk past without stopping, and whatever I was going to say slips away.
Nicole catches me between classes, stepping into my path. There’s a bruise blooming high on her cheekbone from her fight with Tia, but she wears it like a trophy. Her hair is freshly straightened, lips glossed to the max, and that crocodile smile is plastered on her face.
“So…” she drawls, voice syrupy sweet with a bite beneath it. “How’s it feel to be someone’s prize, Sam?”
“Get fucked, Nicole.”
She smirks, flicking her hair over one shoulder. “Already have. But thanks for the advice.”
I walk past her before I do something I’ll regret because if I open my mouth right now, I might scream until the walls crack. I might claw at the ache in my chest until it finally lets me breathe again.
She’s not worth it. None of them are.
The rest of the day drifts by in fragments.
I’m in class, but I am disconnected. Floating.
Hollow. Moving through rooms filled with noise I can’t grasp.
Every hallway echoes with pieces of him.
Every corner I turn seems like he might be there, until he’s not—and it’s the same lockers and the same reminders that I’m still carrying all of this alone.
Even Lola’s usual chaos doesn’t break through the fog. She tries. God, she tries. Pulls ridiculous faces in math, writes dirty things in the corner of my notebook to see if I’ll crack a smile. Whispers that Nicole’s hair looks more fried than her personality today.
But I can’t laugh.
Not today.
The final bell rings, but I don’t head to the gate. My feet seem to have a mind of their own, dragging me somewhere I know he’ll be.
I sneak around the back of the gym, hugging the brick wall and keeping my head down. The metal of the bleachers is hot against my hand as I climb, each step ringing louder than the last. I reach the top and settle down, tucking my knees in and curling my arms around them.
I see Reece already on the field, helmet tucked under one arm, sweat darkening the collar of his practice jersey.
Coach paces in front of them, barking orders, before they move.
Drills begin, feet hit the turf, whistles pierce the air.
Reece is faster. Meaner. Controlled in a way that feels almost dangerous.
His body is a weapon. Every move is precise and brutal.
I stay tucked away here in the shadows, watching.
There was a time I thought his smirk was arrogance.
That cocky tilt of his mouth, the kind that screamed I-own-this-place and knew exactly how handsome he was while doing it.
But now? I believe it’s the only armor he has.
A lifeline. That smirk is the only thing holding him together and preventing him from falling apart.
They run another drill. Then another. Finally, Coach calls it a day. The team begins to scatter, helmets off, towels over their shoulders, slapping each other on the back. But Reece doesn’t move. He stays put. Drops his helmet at his feet and starts running.
One lap.
Two.
Three.
His sweat clings to him. He drags the hem of his shirt up and wipes his face—and Jesus. My breath stutters.
Those abs. That body. All tan skin, sharp lines, and muscles so tight it makes my mouth go dry. Every inch of him reminds me of what I had, what I walked away from, and yet I still can’t stop staring.
I know every inch of that body. Every scar, every freckle.
I know how his hands feel pressed against my thighs and on the front of my neck when he fucked me, how his mouth sounds when he’s groaning against my skin.
I know the way he kisses—hard, hungry, as if he’s starving for something he doesn’t think he deserves.
I know how he fucks, and how he destroys what he claims to care about.
I shouldn’t be here watching.
My heart shouldn’t be fluttering and swelling for a boy who used me for a bet and made my world collapse without blinking.
But I don’t move because deep down, beneath all the anger and shame, I am still that girl who wants him.
He bends at the waist, hands resting on his knees, each breath coming out rough and uneven, chest rising and falling. He rolls his shoulders back and tilts his face toward the sky, mouth parted, breathing heavily.
Then he jogs.
A few more steps.
Slower now as if his body is slowly winding down.
And then he looks up.
Right at me.
Fuck.
The shift happens instantly. The moment his eyes meet mine, the entire damn world shrinks to just us. That stupid invisible wire between us tightens until I can’t breathe.
My pulse races, my stomach tightens, and every part of me screams to turn around and run.
But I don’t.
My legs tremble as I get up. I walk down the bleachers, step by step, eyes fixed on his, hating that part of me that still craves that stupid smirk and the way he used to call me Red.
He stands there. His hair’s a mess, damp at the edges, sticking to his forehead. His lips are parted, breath still rough. He looks beautiful in that fucked-up, raw, Reece Wilson way. Like a sin I’ve already committed and would do again just to feel something that real.
I stop a few feet away. Close enough to feel the heat rolling off his skin.
My fingers twitch at my sides, muscle memory firing off as it recalls his mouth on my neck.
He doesn’t speak.
He just stands there, chest rising and falling, dark eyes locked on mine. His gaze then slips to my mouth, quick but obvious. My pulse stammers and my knees start to wobble.
Fuck.
I swallow, my throat tight.
“Hey,” I say, barely more than a breath.
He nods. “Hey.”
Silence hangs heavy in the air, filled with all the unspoken words we refuse to say. I glance at the grass, at my shoes, anywhere but at him for a moment. Then I force myself to meet his gaze again. “I got the assessment.”
His jaw twitches. “Yeah.”
“I read it.” I take a shaky breath. “Thank you. You didn’t have to do that.”
He shrugs as if it’s no big deal, but the way his eyes flicker says otherwise. “You weren’t gonna ask me for help. Figured it was the only way to make sure you didn’t fail.”
“Still,” I murmur. “What you wrote... it was good. Really good.”
His mouth curves, not quite a smile. Not even close. But there’s something there. Something soft. Something vulnerable.
“I did it for you, Red.” he says, voice low and steady.
That name.
God, that fucking name.
It hits me harder than it should. That nickname is the only one he’s ever used.
My lips twitch before I can stop them. A flicker of a smile appears, and he catches it.
His whole expression changes. His eyes soften, shoulders easing just a little.
“I heard about Mayfair,” I say softly. “Aubrey told me.”
He nods, wiping his hand over his jaw. “Yeah. I’ve got a meeting tomorrow. Coach thinks I’ve got a shot at a four-year scholarship. But I don’t know. I want to see what they’re actually offering first. No point in getting my hopes up.”
“That’s huge.” My voice is stronger now. “You deserve it, Reece.”
“I want it,” he says. “For a chance to be more than where I came from. More than who I was.”
“You’ll do great,” I say. And I mean it. Every damn word. I’ve got a thousand more words on the tip of my tongue, but none of them are safe. “Reece…” I start, but I don’t finish. The words catch in my throat.
He moves forward. “I miss you, Red.”
It hits me in the chest. No warning. No mercy.
I close my eyes for just a second, trying to hold it together and not let those four stupid words undo everything I’ve built since he wrecked me.
When I open them, he’s still watching me.
His gaze is soft
“I should go,” I whisper, even though my body is screaming to stay right here.
“Right.” His jaw tics hard.
I turn.
One step, then another, before I stop.
My entire body is trembling, just one breath from turning around, running straight into his arms, and pretending none of this ever happened. I almost say fuck it.
But I don’t. I summon the courage to keep walking.