Chapter Nine #2
Outside, the rain’s finally stopped, leaving the walkway slick and glinting under the security lights.
The night air’s cool against my neck, quiet except for the faint hum of jazz still bleeding through the glass doors.
I take a long breath, trying to reset, to shake off the weight of everything unsaid.
That’s when I hear Miller’s voice, low and careless, from just around the corner near the side entrance. He’s talking to one of the trainers.
“…yeah, we went out a couple times. Didn’t take much. She’s got that whole polished, good-girl thing down, but don’t let it fool you. Once she decides she wants something, that act drops fast. Guess that kind of… initiative works in more than one room. Might explain how she moved up so fast.”
The sound that comes out of me isn’t a thought. It’s instinct.
Before I even register moving, I’m in front of him, my fist in his collar, shoving him hard against the wall. The dull thud echoes off the brick.
“Say that again,” I bite out, voice low and lethal. “I dare you.”
He chokes out a laugh, breath hot with whiskey. “What’s your problem, man?” His grin sharpens, eyes narrowing like something just clicked.
My grip tightens. “You don’t talk about her like that. Not ever.”
“Why? Wait—don’t tell me you’re actually jealous?” He sneers, pushing back just enough to make me see red. “If you want a crack at her, I’m sure she’d be open to it. You just have to know how to ask.”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. My fist is already cocked, ready to fly, when Ethan’s there—his hand clamps around my arm, yanking me back before I do something I can’t take back.
“Jace,” he warns, low but firm. “Not here.” He steps between us.
I try to shove him off of me, my mind set on reaching for Miller again.
“Don’t do this, man,” Ethan snaps, low and dangerous. “You could lose your job.” Pointing at Miller he continues. “That asshole isn’t worth it.”
He swivels, eyes hard on Miller. “Don’t think I didn’t hear you, asshole. If I were you, I’d shut my mouth. Sarah’s a good friend of mine. Keep talking and you’ll wish you hadn’t. I know a lot of people who could make life very difficult for you.”
Miller straightens his jacket, still smirking. “Whatever. Guess I hit a nerve.”
Ethan’s glare is sharp. “Walk away. Now.”
For once, Miller listens. He mutters something under his breath and disappears back inside.
I drag a hand down my face, jaw tight, every muscle still wired.
Ethan waits a beat before asking, “You wanna tell me what the hell that was?”
I shake my head and exhale hard. “Nothing that matters.”
“That’s bullshit,” Ethan says, “but we don’t have time to hash it out. We need to get back inside.”
Through the glass doors, I catch a glimpse of Sarah standing near the stage again, poised and untouchable under the soft light. She doesn’t see me, and maybe that’s for the best.
Because I’m not sure which part of me she’d recognize right now—the man trying to be better, or the one who still wants to break something for her.
By the time Ethan and I make it back inside, the lights have dimmed for the program. The head coach is already at the mic, thanking donors and talking about growth, unity, and second chances. The irony’s not lost on me.
I take my seat again, jaw still tight, hands shoved beneath the table to hide the tremor running through them. No one seems to notice we were gone. Good. Let them think I needed air.
“…we’re not just building a program,” the coach says, voice booming across the hall, “we’re building a community. One that believes in redemption and resilience.”
Redemption. The word lands hard, heavier than it should.
Ethan’s sitting beside me again, his posture easy but his eyes sharp, still watching me like he’s waiting for me to detonate. I keep mine fixed on the stage. Pretend I’m listening. Pretend I’m fine.
Applause ripples through the crowd as the coach finishes. I join in, a beat late. The clapping feels mechanical and hollow, the sound echoing in my chest instead of my ears.
When the lights lift again, I spot Sarah across the room near the event staff tables. She’s talking with Ellie, head tipped slightly, expression calm. Professional. Composed. The picture of everything I’m not.
Her hair catches in the light when she turns. She laughs at something Ellie says, and for a second, it’s like nothing’s changed. The sound hits me somewhere low and familiar, in a place I’ve spent years trying to forget existed.
She doesn’t see me watching. Or maybe she does and just doesn’t care.
The jazz band starts up again, soft and low, smoothing over the applause as people return to their conversations. The notes blend into the hum of silverware and voices, and all I can think about is how I nearly threw away my job and my composure over something some idiot made up.
Over her.
I drain the rest of my water, forcing down the taste of whiskey that’s still sitting heavy in my throat. The speech keeps running through my head—community, resilience, redemption. Words that used to mean something. Words I don’t feel like I’ve earned anymore.
Across the room, Sarah leans in toward a table of donors, all easy charm and quiet confidence. She looks like she belongs in this world, the smooth one, the polished one. The world that kept moving while I stayed stuck in the wreckage.
And me? I’m the guy in the corner pretending he can breathe just fine in a suit that doesn’t fit.
Ethan nudges me with his elbow. “You good?” he murmurs.
I manage a nod. “Yeah. Just thinking.”
He snorts softly. “Don’t hurt yourself.”
I almost smile. Almost.
The band transitions into something slower, piano and brushed drums. The music seeps into the empty spaces, softening the noise but not the distance between us. And somehow, it makes everything louder.
I should leave. Go home. Forget this night ever happened.
But I don’t move. I just sit there, watching her like an idiot.
The coach steps offstage to polite applause, and the crowd rises to mingle again. Sarah’s voice floats across the distance, bright, professional, untouchable.
And for a split second, I wonder what she’d think if she knew what almost happened outside.
If she knew how close I came to breaking my word, my control, myself.
The answer’s simple.
She’d look at me exactly how she is now.
Like she already knew.
By the time the speeches end, the night’s started to thin.
The crowd shifts toward the exits in slow waves, half-hearted laughter, polite goodbyes, the shuffle of chairs against tile.
The band’s still playing, but softer now, a slow fade into something that feels more like background noise than music.
I’m still at the table, a half-finished drink in front of me, condensation pooling in a ring on the white linen. Ethan’s somewhere behind me, talking with one of the boosters about next season’s schedule. Emma’s helping a volunteer gather up donation cards.
Across the room, Sarah’s collecting her things from the department table.
Clipboard, name tags, the little stack of leftover programs. She’s moving with purpose, precise and unhurried, the way she always has.
Ellie’s beside her, saying something that makes her laugh.
The sound barely reaches me, but my body recognizes it and I feel it anyway.
That only reminds me she’s just out of reach.
She thanks a few people on her way toward the door, shakes hands, smiles, does the whole polished routine. By the time she reaches Emma and Ethan, her expression softens, genuine for the first time all night.
“Thanks for coming,” she says, her voice quiet but steady.
Emma smiles back. “You pulled off another miracle, Sarah. It was perfect.”
Sarah laughs lightly. “I’ll take ‘perfect’ while it lasts.”
Emma steps forward and pulls her into a hug, the kind that’s warm and genuine, not just for show. “You did good, hon,” she murmurs.
Sarah’s smile softens against her shoulder. “Thanks, Em. Really.”
Then her eyes find me.
It’s quick, a flicker of recognition, a pause that hangs there, quiet but loaded. There’s no anger in it, no warmth either. Just distance. The kind of distance that says we’ve already said everything worth saying.
She nods once, polite and professional. “Goodnight, Jace.”
It’s been years since she said my name out loud. It lands somewhere I can’t quite reach.
I clear my throat, managing a quiet, “Night,” that doesn’t sound like me at all.
She holds my gaze for a heartbeat longer, then turns away.
Her hair shifts as she walks, that same dark green dress brushing against her legs. Her heels click softly against the floor, fading into the hum of the room, into the kind of silence that feels deliberate.
Ethan doesn’t say anything at first. He just watches her go, glass in hand, expression unreadable. When the door finally closes behind her, he lets out a slow breath.
“You really think pretending’s gonna make it easier?”
I stare at the empty doorway. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He gives a small, humorless laugh. “Yeah, you do.”
I don’t look at him. “Drop it, Ethan.”
“Not my business,” he says, raising both hands in mock surrender. “But maybe figure out why you still care so much.”
I don’t have a response to that, well, not one that doesn’t sound pathetic anyway.
The band finishes their last song, a low, mournful stretch of piano and sax that fades into applause. The sound barely reaches me. My chest feels tight again, same as it did outside. Same as it always does when she’s near.
Emma joins us, slipping her arm through Ethan’s. “You ready?”
“Yeah,” he says, though his eyes flick toward me one last time. “Try to get some sleep, man and don’t overthink it.”
I nod, because that’s what I do. I nod, I say I’m fine, and everyone lets me lie because it’s easier.
When they head out, I stay. The event staff starts breaking down tables, laughter echoing softly across the emptying room. Someone calls goodnight to me, and I lift a hand without turning around.
Through the tall windows, the streetlit parking lot glows. For a second, I spot Sarah standing by her car, arms crossed, talking to Miller.
He’s leaning in too close, that smug grin still plastered on his face. She says something short, sharp enough that even from here, I can tell it’s a warning. Then she gets in her car and shuts the door without looking back.
Her taillights disappear into the rain.
I drag a hand over my face, the ache behind my eyes settling deep.
She looked composed. Whole. Untouched by the night, by me, by whatever the hell this still is.
And I want to believe it, really, I do.
But the truth sits heavy in my chest, steady as a heartbeat I can’t shut off.
She looks like she’s moved on.
Maybe she has.
But God, I haven’t.