Chapter Twenty
The Unspoken Truth
Sarah
Ispend the entire day pretending I’m fine.
I answer emails. I sit through a meeting where someone says brand alignment six times like it’s a normal phrase. I smile at a student who recognizes me from the last fundraiser and asks if we’re doing another one soon.
My phone stays face-down on my desk like it might bite me.
Because if I turn it over, I’ll see his name.
Or worse, I won’t.
By four thirty, I’ve rewritten the same press release intro three times and none of it sounds real. It’s all polished noise. Safe words. Clean edges. Nothing that could ever be used against me if someone screenshots it, repeats it, or twists it into something ugly.
That’s what I’m good at.
Control the narrative.
Spin the story.
Smile while your insides shake.
My office door is closed, but I can still hear voices outside. Staff heading out. A few stragglers complaining about parking. Someone laughing too loud at something that wasn’t probably funny.
Life is moving.
The problem is, mine feels like it paused last night.
Not when he showed up or when he looked at me like I was still the only thing in the room.
It paused at the moment I pulled back.
The moment I said no without saying no.
The moment I chose ‘not yet’ and trusted him to be the kind of man who could handle it.
I hate that I did that.
I need the boundary, yes. I do. I’m not stupid. I know exactly how this could feel less about what I want and turn into something that makes me feel like the villain.
But it still makes my skin itch.
Because it’s him.
Because it’s always been him.
My phone buzzes on the desk like it knows I’m thinking about him.
I flip it over before I can talk myself out of it.
Jace: Can I see you tonight?
My breath catches. Simple. Direct. No pressure. No guilt.
My fingers hover over the screen.
I type, delete, type again.
Me: Yes. But… like a normal night.
I stare at it, then add:
Me: Dinner. Somewhere public.
A second later, the reply comes through.
Jace: Okay. Tell me where.
I swallow hard, because ‘somewhere public’ sounds safe until I remember we don’t have anonymity here. We have streetlights and familiar faces and people who think they’re entitled to your personal life because they love the University and the team.
Still, I type the name of a small Italian place on the edge of town. Not a hotspot or a place that screams date night. Just food and booths and dim lighting and the kind of low music that makes it easier to pretend you’re not the main event.
Me: Seven?
Jace: I’ll be there.
No heart emoji, no teasing, nothing that tries to pull me closer than I’m ready for.
Which is considerate.
And somehow, that makes me want to scream.
…………
At six thirty, I stand in front of my bathroom mirror and stare at myself like I’m trying to identify the problem.
I don’t look different. Same hair. Same face. Same steady look in my eyes I use when I’m putting out fires for other people.
But everything under my skin feels too awake.
I choose a black dress that hits mid-thigh and a jacket that makes it look less like I’m trying. I put on boots instead of heels. Not because I don’t like heels.
Because heels feel like effort.
And effort feels like hope and I don’t want to hope just yet.
I keep my makeup soft. Nothing bold and nothing that says I planned for this. Because the second I look like I planned for this, my brain will start building a future out of it.
And that’s where I get reckless.
I grab my keys, hesitate, then grab my phone.
I pause in the hallway with my hand on the doorknob, staring into the quiet of my own living room.
Last night, he stood right there. I let him close enough to remind my body of things I’ve spent years locking down.
I exhale, open the door, and step outside.
The air is cold in that early-evening way, the kind that makes you feel like you’re waking up. My porch light flickers once before steadying.
‘Normal night,’ I remind myself.
Dinner. Talk. Boundaries.
No spiraling.
No turning this into something bigger than it can be.
I make it to the restaurant ten minutes early and sit in my car for seven of them, gripping the steering wheel like I need the pressure to keep me grounded.
At exactly seven, I walk in.
He’s already there. Of course he is.
Jace sits in a booth near the back, jacket off, sleeves rolled to his forearms like he’s trying to look casual. Like he hasn’t spent his whole life being the kind of man people watch.
He looks up the second I step inside and his expression shifts.
Nothing exaggerated or dramatic. Just… like he’s relieved.
And that alone makes my throat tighten.
I force my feet to keep moving. Force my smile to stay in place. “Hey,” I say, sliding into the booth across from him.
“Hey,” he answers back, and his voice is quiet in a way that feels careful. “You made it.”
“I live ten minutes away,” I say dryly. “It’d be concerning if I didn’t.”
His mouth tugs like he wants to smile fully, but he holds back.
That should be annoying. Instead, it feels like a kindness.
He studies me for a second. “You look nice.”
“I look like a person going to dinner,” I correct.
His eyes hold mine. “That’s what I meant.”
Heat creeps up my neck, and I reach for the menu like it’s a shield. We do the normal parts. We order wine. We talk about safe things first.
Work. The weather. A player who made an incredible catch last Friday. A student who tried to sneak into an event with a fake badge.
I keep it light and controlled.
But every time his gaze drops to my mouth, my whole body tightens like it’s bracing for impact. And when he laughs, low and brief, I feel it in my ribs.
I hate that.
I hate how easy it would be to lean into this if I let myself.
He takes a sip of water, sets the glass down, and then he says, “Thank you for doing this.”
I freeze. “Dinner?”
He nods. “Yeah. For saying yes.”
“It’s dinner, Jace.”
“I know.” His voice drops slightly. “Still. You could’ve said no.”
I swallow, because the truth is… I almost did. Not because I didn’t want to see him.
Because I did.
Because that want has never been the problem but at the same time always the problem.
“I didn’t say no,” I answer, keeping my tone even.
His eyes don’t move. “I noticed.”
My fingers tighten on the edge of the menu. ‘Don’t spiral,’ I remind myself.
But my brain is already reaching for the hidden blade inside that sentence.
He noticed.
Meaning he noticed everything.
The pause the other night. The way I pulled back. The way I looked at him like I was afraid of my own body.
I set the menu down and force myself to breathe.
“Can we not make this too deep?” I ask.
His brow furrows, like I’ve surprised him. “I’m not trying to.”
“I know.” I lift a shoulder. “I just… I want one normal night.”
His gaze softens in a way that makes it worse. “Okay.”
The food comes. The conversation finds its rhythm again.
For a while, it almost works.
Almost.
Until someone walks past our booth and says, a little too brightly, “Coach Prescott! Wow. Didn’t expect to see you here.”
My spine locks.
Jace turns his head, polite expression already in place. “Hey.”
It’s one of the boosters. A woman I’ve spoken to at least a dozen times. She looks between us, smile still fixed.
“Oh!” she says, like she just found a piece of gossip wrapped in a bow. “Sarah! Hi, honey. I didn’t realize you two…”
The sentence trails off, and it’s the pause that makes my stomach twist.
The implication.
The thing she doesn’t have to say out loud because her eyes already did.
Jace’s voice stays calm. “We’re having dinner.”
“I can see that,” she says with a laugh that’s too sharp to be real. “Well. Lovely. Just lovely.”
She leaves, still smiling.
The moment she’s gone, the air in the booth changes.
My appetite disappears.
I stare at my plate and feel my chest tighten like I’m about to cough up something ugly.
Jace watches me. “Sarah…”
“I’m fine,” I say too fast.
His jaw flexes. “You’re not.”
I reach for the glass of water in front of me, sliding it forward a little before gripping the stem. “It’s nothing.”
“It wasn’t nothing,” he answers, low.
I meet his eyes, and there’s something in me that wants to lash out just to stop feeling exposed.
“You wanted public,” I say, the edge in my voice sharp enough to surprise me. “This is public.”
His jaw tightens, but not in irritation. In restraint. “That’s not what I wanted, it's what I suggested.” he says.
I exhale through my nose. “Intent doesn’t change how this feels.”
He leans back slightly, and for the first time tonight, I see the cost of his control. The patience. The way he’s choosing his words instead of saying the easy thing.
“You said normal,” he says quietly. “I’m trying to meet you there.”
“And I’m trying,” I snap before I can stop myself.
I adjust the silverware next to my plate and the fork clinks against it. The sound feels loud in the booth.
Jace goes still. “Okay.”
The word is even, controlled. It doesn’t escalate, and it doesn’t retreat.
I swallow, because I recognize the impulse behind my tone. I’m testing the space between us, pressing on it to see if it shifts.
He holds steady.
And the part of me that expected resistance doesn’t know what to do with that.
He reaches for his wallet, tosses cash down, and says, “Let’s go.”
I blink. “What?”
“You’re wound so tight you haven’t taken a breath,” he says. “You’re not okay and I’m not gonna sit here and watch you pretend this is fine.”
I should argue.
Instead, I nod once and slide out of the booth, my pulse racing like I just did something reckless.
Because I did. I let him take control.
And my body likes it.
Outside, the air hits my face and wakes me up a little.
The parking lot is damp, the yellow lights making everything look softer than it is. Jace walks beside me, not touching me, but close enough that I can feel his heat.
I hate that I can feel it.
I hate that I want it.
He stops near my car, turning to face me. “Talk to me.”
I lift my chin. “About what?”