Chapter Five #2
The house is quiet except for the hum of the dishwasher, the steady churn of water behind the stainless-steel door.
I should be watching and evaluating game film or reviewing practice schedules, but instead I’m sitting at the kitchen table, staring at a page of notes I haven’t touched in twenty minutes.
Every line swims, my pen stalled halfway through a play I don’t even remember writing.
“Jace.”
Her voice breaks the silence, soft but edged.
Sierra leans against the doorway, arms folded over her chest like she’s been standing there longer than I realized.
Her hair’s pulled into a loose knot, a few strands falling against her cheek.
She looks tired, like the weight of everything is pressing on her the same as it is me.
“You’ve been somewhere else all night,” she says. Not a question, an accusation wrapped in concern. “What’s going on?”
I force my hand to move, dragging the pen across the paper like proof I’ve been working. “Nothing. Just film. Long day.”
Her eyes narrow. She’s not buying it. “It’s more than that, please stop shutting me out.”
I set the pen down, scrub a hand over my face, and lean back in the chair. “It’s work, Sierra. That’s all.”
“Work.” She repeats it flat, like she’s tasting the word and finding it bitter. Her arms tighten across her chest. “You expect me to believe that?”
“It’s the truth.” The lie is practiced, too smooth, and it tastes wrong the second it leaves my mouth.
Her gaze lingers on me, sharp and unblinking. “Funny. Because when you’re distracted like this… it’s never just work.”
I don’t answer. I can’t.
She tilts her head, studying me the way she used to when she was trying to pull a smile out of me. Only now it’s suspicion, resignation. “It’s her, isn’t it?”
The air between us freezes. She doesn’t say Sarah’s name, but she doesn’t have to. My silence tells her everything.
“Sierra—”
“Don’t.” She cuts me off, voice breaking just enough to make me flinch. “I’m not asking you to explain. I just… I know when I don’t have all of you. I’ve always known.”
Her words land like stones in my chest, each one heavier than the last. I want to tell her she’s wrong. That she’s imagining things. But she isn’t, and we both know it.
I push back from the table, the chair legs scraping across the tile. “I need some air.”
She doesn’t try to stop me. She just stands there, arms folded tight, watching me walk past like she already knows I’m halfway gone.
In the doorway, I pause, hand on the frame, but no words come. Nothing that would fix this, but so much that wouldn’t make it worse. Neither of us asked for this life.
So I leave.
And the silence that follows feels louder than anything I could’ve said.
…………
Morning practice comes too fast. The sound of whistles and cleats replaces the silence I left behind at home, but it doesn’t drown it out.
The locker room hums with noise, water pounding in the showers, cleats clattering against tile, voices bouncing off the walls in easy rhythm.
I sit on the bench, towel draped around my shoulders, elbows on my knees, staring at the floor like it might give me something steady to hold onto. It doesn’t.
Across the room, Miller, one of the trainers, lets out a low whistle. “Had myself a hell of a date last weekend.”
Another trainer snorts. “Yeah? With who?”
He grins, smug. “Sarah Evans. From the comms office.”
The words slam through me harder than a blindside hit. I don’t move, don’t blink, but my grip on the towel tightens until my knuckles ache.
“Damn, the woman’s hot,” the second trainer says, laughing. “Didn’t think you had that kind of pull.”
Their voices fade into the background hum again, but my pulse doesn’t.
It’s pounding in my ears, drowning out the showers, the chatter, everything else.
Because I can picture it too easily, Sarah smiling across a table at him, her laugh spilling out, her hair tucked behind her ear, the way it always fell loose when she got nervous.
And the thought of her with someone else guts me.
My jaw clenches so hard it aches. I force my expression blank, dragging the towel across the back of my neck like I’m just cooling down, casual, unbothered. But inside? Inside, everything’s spiraling.
She’s here. She’s close. She’s moving forward, and I’m standing still.
I keep my head down, breathing slow, pretending to listen when a couple of the guys joke about a bad call from practice. One of them claps me on the back, too hard, and I grunt, nodding like I heard whatever was said. I didn’t. The only thing echoing in my skull is her name.
“Coach Prescott.” One of the younger players drops onto the bench across from me, tugging at the tape around his wrists. “You good? You look… I don’t know. Somewhere else.”
“I’m fine.” The words come out sharper than I intend. I clear my throat, force them smoother. “Just thinking through drills for tomorrow.”
He nods, buys it, and shifts the conversation back to the game film. The relief is instant, but it doesn’t last. Because all I can hear, under the hum of the room, is that someone had a date with Sarah Evans. My Sarah.
Like I needed the reminder that she’s not mine. Like I don’t already know every line of her face, the way she bites her lip when she’s trying not to laugh, the exact shade of her eyes when she’s tired.
I drag the towel from my neck, fold it too neat, too deliberately, before tossing it into the bin. My movements are steady, practiced. Inside, I’m unraveling.
Because it’s not just that she’s back. It’s that she’s building a life that doesn’t include me.
She’d been gone for almost a year, some big PR contract downstate, long enough for me to start pretending I was over her.
And now she’s back in town, working in the university’s Communications Office, like the universe wants to remind me she’s close enough to touch but still completely out of reach.
And if I don’t move, if I don’t do something, she’ll slip further away until there’s no catching up.
I stand abruptly, mumbling something about reviewing film, about wanting to get ahead. A couple of guys glance my way, curious, but no one stops me. I head for the door, each step heavier than it should be, each one pounding with the same truth I can’t outrun.
I can’t sit here.
I can’t pretend it doesn’t matter.
I can’t lose her again.
Not without trying.
…………
When I get home the house is too quiet. Sierra’s already in bed, a thin line of light spilling out from under the bedroom door, but I can’t make myself go in.
Not yet. I flick the TV on, more for the noise than anything else, the glow washing over the walls in flickers I don’t even register.
I haven’t heard a word of the commentary or the score. My head’s somewhere else entirely.
Sarah.
It’s ridiculous how one name can drown out everything else.
I’ve built a whole life since her: coaching, marriage, the house with the white shutters Sierra swore she’d always wanted.
I’ve stacked choices like bricks, trying to wall her out.
And still, she slips through the cracks.
Still shows up when I least expect it, at the coffee shop, in the locker room, in the silence between breaths.
I sink onto the couch, elbows braced on my knees, hands laced together so tight they ache.
I told myself a thousand times it was over.
She made her choice, I made mine. But the truth is, I’ve never been able to cut her out.
Not completely. She’s threaded through every win, every loss, every moment I should’ve felt more than I did.
Sometimes she shows up clearest when I’m weakest, when exhaustion drags me under and memory doesn’t bother asking permission.
I’m half under, the weight of the day dragging me down. Last thing I remember, I was stretched out on the couch. But then, there’s a shift of the mattress beneath me. Sheets, not cushions. The brush of fingers against my chest.
“Jace,” she whispers, low and rough, like she’s been holding back all night.
My eyes snap open, and she’s there. Sarah.
Hair spilling over her shoulder, lips parted, crawling up my body like she belongs here.
The sheet slips low around my hips, and her hand follows, slow at first, then bolder when my breath stutters.
Her palm closes around my cock through the thin cotton of my boxers, pressure firm enough to drag a curse out of me.
“Jesus,” I rasp, catching her wrist before she can pull away. “You trying to kill me?”
Her grin is quick, wicked. “Not unless you want me to.”
I flip her beneath me before the laugh can fade, pinning her wrists above her head.
She gasps, arching up, and the sound shoots straight through me.
Her thighs spread, welcoming me in, the thin scrap of her shorts doing nothing to hide the heat of her.
I grind down once, sharp and hungry, and she moans into my mouth like she’s been starving for it.
“You drive me insane,” I mutter against her lips, teeth grazing, tongue chasing the taste of her. “Can’t ever get enough.”
Her hips lift, frantic. “Then take it. Take me.”
I tear her shorts down in one rough yank, dragging her panties with them. She’s wet already, slick against my fingers as I press between her legs. The sound she makes, half whimper, half curse, nearly unravels me on the spot.
“Jace,” she pleads, breath breaking, head tipped back against the pillow.
I sink two fingers into her, slow and deliberate, just to hear her choke out my name again. Her walls clench tight, greedy, and I curl my fingers until her back arches off the bed.
“More,” she gasps. “God, don’t tease—”
Her nails rake down my arms, desperate, and I give in. I shove my boxers down, the fabric tangling before I kick them free. Line the head of my cock up with her entrance. And then I drive into her in one hard thrust that knocks the air from both of us.
“Fuck,” I groan, forehead pressing to hers, the world narrowing to nothing but the slick heat of her clenching around me. “Still so perfect.”
She wraps her legs around me, pulling me deeper, and suddenly it’s all motion and sound, her cries, my curses, the slap of skin, the headboard rattling against the wall. Fast. Hungry. Like we’ll never have another chance, like we’ll burn out if we stop.
Her teeth catch my shoulder as she muffles a scream, body clamping down hard, trembling around me. The rush of it tears through me, white-hot, unstoppable. I follow her over the edge, spilling into her with a growl that feels ripped out of my chest.
When it’s done, I’m shaking, still buried inside her, still holding her tight like I’ll lose her if I let go.
And then I jolt awake. Alone. The room flickers with the light from the TV, the low murmur of voices filling the silence, my body still strung tight, the ghost of her touch fading too fast.
My heart pounds, my breath uneven. It was just a dream. Just my memory playing tricks. A memory I clearly remember all too well.
It felt like it was happening, it felt real. Too real.
And the ache it leaves behind? That’s worse than anything.