Chapter 35
Dominic
The bus ride home is hell.
It should feel good. We won. Coach is in one of his rare good moods, still barking at guys, but smiling—the kind of rough affection he saves for nights like this.
People are loud, music’s going on someone’s portable speaker, and a couple of the guys are already half-asleep with their hoodies pulled over their faces.
This is the part where I usually lean back, close my eyes, let the post-game buzz roll through me, and think about how I’m going to celebrate when I get back to Lakehaven. But tonight, there’s just a crater in my chest and a knot under my sternum that’s been there since this afternoon.
Coach took our phones before we headed into the locker room. ‘Distraction,’ he said. ‘I don’t want you looking at social media bullshit or girlfriends or whatever. Heads in the game.’
I handed mine over with everyone else, because that’s the rule, and I can’t afford to pick a fight about minor things when he already has his eye on me. But, as he came around, Brendon texted me.
Brendon: Are you awake?
Me: Yeah, baby. Coach is about to take our phones, though. What’s wrong?
The typing dots popped up, disappeared, and popped up again. The last thing I saw on my screen before it went into the lockbox was Brendon’s name, and two words.
Brendon: They know.
My stomach dropped out. But before I could reply, Coach was in front of me.
“Volkov,” he barked. “Phone. Now.”
I could’ve told him no. Instead, I locked my jaw, dropped the phone into the box, and told myself I’d get it back in a few hours, when we were on the road—and then I’d deal with whatever “they know” meant.
I lie to myself for four quarters straight, and it works well enough to keep me from throwing the ball into the stands and hitchhiking home. As soon as Keller hands our phones back on the bus hours later, the lie cracks.
I grab mine out of the box like I’m reaching for a weapon. The screen lights up. Notifications flood in—group chats, social media, a couple of thirst texts from numbers I don’t recognize. I swipe them all away, until it’s just messages that matter.
But there was no response from him.
I try calling him, but it only rings twice, then goes to voicemail. I hang up before his recorded voice finishes saying his name. Then I text.
Me: Baby, answer your fucking phone. Keller took mine, so I couldn’t text back.
Nothing.
Colton drops into the seat across the aisle from me, still high on adrenaline. “Dude,” he says, grinning. “You see that last drive? You were fucking possessed! I swear, if scouts weren’t already drooling, they’re going to be eating each other alive after this.”
“Yeah,” I say absently, because my heart is lodged in my throat and I can’t think about anything but the sound of Brendon’s voicemail.
He gives me a long look, and I know he’s thinking about pushing. He’s not stupid; he knows I’ve been weird for weeks. He also knows I don’t talk when I don’t want to. He nods once and drops into his seat across the aisle, leaving me with my thoughts and my phone.
When I’m stressed, I get murderous. It’s not poetic; it’s just how my wiring got soldered. Anxiety hits other people in their throat or their stomach; it hits me in my hands. I start wanting to cut throats instead of use words.
I swallow hard, throat dry, and force myself to stare out the window as the bus eats up miles of interstate.
The world slides by in streaks of dark and highway lights.
My teammates shout, sing, and replay clips on their phones.
Keller gives me a once-over from the front, seems satisfied I’m not about to have a meltdown, and goes back to muttering into his headset to whoever he’s debriefing with.
It’s nearly midnight when we roll back onto campus, and my jaw hurts from clenching.
We pull into the lot behind the stadium; the second the brakes hiss, I’m on my feet.
Keller starts his little post-game speech, but I’m not listening.
The moment he says “dismissed,” I’m gone, boots pounding asphalt, sprinting for my Ducati.
“Dom,” Colton calls. “You coming to O’Malley’s later?”
“Got shit to do,” I throw over my shoulder, already halfway across the lot.
The road between campus and Brendon’s place is muscle memory by now. I take it faster than I should, wind clawing at my hoodie, eyes locked on the dark ahead. Every streetlight I pass feels like it takes a year.
My mind keeps looping through possibilities. Maybe his phone died. Maybe he dropped it in the bathroom. Maybe he’s asleep. Maybe ‘they know’ was just about a pop quiz or some shit, and I’m overreacting.
My stomach doesn’t buy any of that.
Brendon’s apartment is dark when I pull up. I rev the engine once, hoping he’ll look out the window like he usually does when he hears me. Nothing.
Unease ratchets tighter.
I take the stairs two at a time, heart in my throat, every worst-case scenario playing on loop. Door unlocked, lights on, strangers inside, blood, cops, my mother smiling in the corner. Without thinking, I wrench the handle and shove the door open—what the fuck? Why is it unlocked?
“Brendon,” I call, already crossing the threshold.
He’s not on the couch. Not in the tiny kitchen. I shoulder the bedroom door open, chest tight, and find rumpled sheets, no Brendon. Bathroom’s empty. The whole place smells like him, but he’s gone.
“Brendon!” I call again, stepping inside the room. “You better not be fucking with me right now.”
Jericho launches itself at my shins with a furious little chirp—tail puffed, ears flat, eyes wide and pissed off. He swipes at my laces and lets out a sharp, almost scolding meow.
“Hey, menace,” I say, crouching to scratch behind his ears. “Where’s your idiot human?”
He flicks his tail hard and trots a few steps toward the hallway, then stops, looks back at me, and does that annoying cat thing where he stares as if I should already know.
Everything looks normal, which is the worst part, because normal is what you see right before you find out something isn’t.
I call again as I stand in the kitchen. Still nothing.
I text one last time, fingers moving too hard on the screen.
Jericho hops up onto the counter and rubs against my arm, then butts his head into my shoulder.
He’s agitated. He’s not doing his usual aloof “I tolerate you” act.
He keeps moving toward the door, looking back, then moving again.
“Okay,” I mutter. “Okay, I hear you.”
He blinks up at me, pupils huge, ears tilted slightly back. It’s as close to worried as a cat can look.
If he’s not here, and he’s not answering his phone, there’s only one other place he’d go that makes sense—even if it’s the last place on earth I want him to be right now.
My cottage.
It’s the only other “home” we have together. We’ve been avoiding it because of my mother, because I can feel her shadow everywhere in that house, even when she’s not physically there. Brendon knows it’s risky, but it’s the only thing I can think of right now.
Fuck. I should have put that tracker on his phone.
I shove my phone in my pocket and leave, locking the door behind me without thinking.
I’m back on the Ducati, and I go straight to my cottage.
The ride out is worse than the ride from campus.
Every tree I pass looks like it’s hiding someone.
Every shadow looks like it’s about to solidify into my mother’s shape.
When I turn onto the lane that leads to the cottage, my stomach flips.
Brendon’s car is here.
Relief hits so hard it almost makes me dizzy; my chest loosens just enough that I can breathe. He’s here. He came here. He’s not gone. He’s not…
I kill the engine and sprint inside, not even bothering to take my helmet off until I hit the doorway. “Brendon!” I call, voice echoing too loud in the quiet house.
My boots thud on the floor as I cross into the living room. The lights are off, curtains drawn. The place smells like coffee and fabric softener—and the faint ghost of my cologne Brendon drags around like it’s a comfort blanket.
“Little Sin,” I say, stepping into the dark. “You better not be hiding to jump me, I swear to—”
He’s on the couch, curled on his side, hoodie half pushed up, hair a mess on the throw pillow, one arm tucked under his head like he fell asleep. My whole body goes loose with relief, because he looks peaceful. He looks like he finally let himself rest.
I breathe out hard and step closer, already forming the words in my head, ready to act annoyed but affectionate at the same time.
“Jesus fuck,” I exhale, shoulders sagging. “You scared the shit out of me, Little Sin.”
He still doesn’t move. I frown and pick up the pace, crossing the room in a few strides, irritation rearing up over the frayed nerves.
“Brendon,” I say, louder. “Come on, stop fucking around. I know you’re tired but—”
Then my brain catches up to the details. There’s a little line of red at the corner of Brendon’s mouth. It glistens in the dim light, catching my eye because it’s out of place. My brain tries to file it under anything else—drool, chocolate, a smear of food. Then the metallic tang hits my nose.
Blood.
It’s wrong on him.
I drop to my knees beside the couch and grab his shoulder, shaking him gently at first. “Brendon, wake up.”
His skin is too pale, even for him. There’s a sheen of sweat on his forehead, hair damp at the temples. His lips part slightly, that thin trickle of red drying at the corner, trailing down toward his chin.
“Brendon,” I say, voice cracking. “Baby. Hey. Open your eyes.”
His head lolls, and he groans, lashes fluttering but not fully lifting. His chest moves, shallow but there. He’s still breathing; that’s something. Relief and terror crash together so hard I feel nauseous.
“Come on,” I mutter, patting his cheek. “Hey, look at me. Open your fucking eyes, Brendon, come on. Please open your eyes.”