Chapter 77 Landon
Landon
The derby track is alive as Willow and her team complete warm-ups.
Music pulses through the stadium, skates squeak against polished concrete, and the sound of laughter and shouting bounces off the rafters. But I only hear her.
Willow.
Pink hair piled on her head in a messy twist, her skates cutting smooth, deliberate curves into the track. She’s in the zone, eyes narrowed, body fluid with focus and strength—and even surrounded by her teammates, she somehow looks completely alone.
I’ve done everything I can to help her and her team be amazing today. And after today, it’s over…I no longer have an excuse to see her daily. My stomach twists. Sure, they will still practice, maybe not as often in the off-season, but they won’t need me.
She comes around the curve, her eyes meeting mine briefly, and I feel it everywhere. I am so in love with her it hurts. It’s just a second.
Barely enough time to breathe. Her expression is unreadable—maybe a flicker of surprise, maybe something softer—but she doesn’t smile. And then she’s gone again, pulled back into movement and motion and the chaos of the start of Nationals.
I exhale slowly, fingers curling tighter around the lanyard at my neck. I’ve got my staff pass. My VIP access. I’ve got the seat my sister demanded I accept so I could "finally stop sulking and go support the girl I’m in love with."
But I don’t have her.
And after this morning, I’m not sure I ever will.
The image flashes again behind my eyes—Willow stepping out of that hotel room, Graham leading her, with Hunter on her other side and Carson and her stalker bringing up the rear.
The beta stalker, the same one who threatened me with that smug little smile.
Standing close enough to her that there was no mistaking it.
She let him in. It was obvious by how relaxed they all were.
She might have washed off their scents in the shower that left her hair damp, but I could still smell everything from where I was standing.
I don’t know what happened after I left her at the hot tub. I don’t need details to know it was everything I used to have with her—and more.
And still, I can’t shake the hope. Pathetic, but there. Because last night, when we almost kissed, she looked at me as if I wasn’t a mistake. Like she still felt something real. Like I mattered.
That has to count for something. Doesn’t it?
My chest tightens as she rounds the curve again, laughing now as Twinkle shoves her playfully. Her body is fluid, gorgeous, effortless. And even though it’s not my place anymore, I can’t help wondering what kind of night she had. How she ended up in that bed. What it meant.
If she regrets it.
If she regrets me.
The announcer’s voice booms over the intercom, calling the teams into position.
I sink into my seat just behind their bench, close enough to hear their chatter, to catch the edge of Daisy’s encouragement and Knox’s trash talk.
I’m not coaching tonight—that job’s not mine today—but I’m still with them.
My spot might be unofficial, but it’s with them. Not apart. Not on the sidelines.
Because I said I’d see this through.
Even if every second near Willow feels exactly like a slow bleed I can’t stop.
She’s got work to do.
And I’ve got answers to find. Not right this second, but soon. Because some part of me still believes there’s a version of the story where I don’t lose her twice.
Daisy glances back, catching my eye. Her expression is unreadable for half a beat, and then she gives a small nod. It’s enough.
Because she’s Willow’s best friend. If she’s not icing me out, then maybe there’s still a thread worth holding onto.
The whistle blows. The teams roll forward, the crowd roaring around us, and Nationals begin.
It’s brutal from the start. Fast, aggressive.
Their opponents are relentless, blocking hard, skating dirty.
Willow takes a hit early that sends her staggering, and I half-rise from my seat before I catch myself.
She’s up again in a blink, shaking it off as though it didn’t even register—but I saw her wince. It felt like a sucker punch to my gut.
She weaves, ducks, pushes harder.
Another round. Another hit.
She goes down again.
And this time, she stays down just a second too long.
My body moves on instinct, standing fully now, fists clenched at my sides. I hear Daisy shout her name, Knox closing in, offering a hand. Willow waves them off, getting to her feet, jaw set, shoulders squared.
She’s not quitting.
My heart’s a mess, pounding with every pivot of her skates, every breath she sucks in between gritted teeth. I might not be on the bench. Might not be calling shots. But I’m still with them.
Still with her.
The first half is brutal.
The other team came to win, and they’re skating like it—fast, ruthless, tactical. They’ve got the height, the strength, the strategy. Our girls are fast, scrappy, and skilled, but even the best get knocked around when the rules blur.
Twinkle takes a hard shoulder to the boards.
Daisy goes down on a whip and limps off the track.
And Willow—fuck, Willow gets hit straight in the ribs by a blocker twice her size. She doesn’t stay down, but the way she hunches forward, just for a second, has my gut twisting.
When the halftime whistle blows, we’re behind by double digits. The crowd’s loud, but the bench is quiet. Winded. Bruised.
I don’t wait for permission.
I step through the staff gate and follow them into the locker room.
Coach Crusher is already rallying. “We’re not out. You hear me? They came out strong, but they’re getting cocky, leaving gaps. You’re not here because of luck. You’re here because you earned it.”
Daisy mutters something under her breath about needing oxygen and a new hip.
Twinkle throws her a bottle of water.
Coach keeps going. “We know how to fight. And that’s what we’re going to do in the second half. Grind. Every point. Every block. Play smart, not just fast. They don’t know how much heart this team has.”
The girls murmur, shifting, nodding. I can see it building again, that thread of belief.
When Crusher pauses to take a drink, I move.
Straight to Willow.
She’s leaned against the wall, stretching her thigh as though it’s no big deal that she’s probably hiding a cracked rib.
“You took a nasty hit out there,” I say, voice low so it doesn’t carry.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re holding your side.”
“It’s just sore.”
“Let me check, Will.”
She straightens up, clearly ready to brush me off, but I take a step closer. “Please. Just let me make sure it’s not fractured. Skating through pain like that isn’t tough—it’s dangerous. Especially with how dirty they’re playing.”
She hesitates.
I soften my voice. “You don’t have to prove anything to me. You’re the strongest person I know. But I’ve seen careers end on a second half like this.”
Her eyes flash with frustration. But not at me. At the idea of slowing down. Of being told no.
She finally lifts her shirt just a little, turning slightly.
My breath catches.
Angry bruising is already forming. A deep purple spreading across her left side.
I press my fingers gently against the edge of the bruise. “Does that hurt?”
She flinches but shakes her head. Liar.
“Willow.”
She meets my gaze. “I’m not sitting this out, Landon. Not when we’re this close. I can rest tomorrow. I can ache tomorrow. But tonight, I skate.”
I swallow the knot in my throat and nod slowly.
Because I know that look in her eyes. She’s not backing down. But I’m not backing off either.
“Then promise me something.”
“What?”
“You’ll play smart. If it gets worse, you come off the track. You don’t push past the pain until it becomes permanent. Don’t make me watch you fall and not be able to catch you.”
Her expression softens just enough to steal my breath.
“I promise,” she says. “Now go sit down before Coach yells at you.”
I give her a long look, memorizing the stubborn set of her jaw, the spark behind her pain, the way she always looks ready to burn the world down if it stands in her way.
She’s not mine.
But I still love her.
And if this is the only way I get to stand beside her—off the track, on the sidelines, watching her rise—I’ll take it.
“Go get ’em, Jinx,” I say, voice just loud enough for her and maybe Daisy to hear.
Her mouth curves into the smallest smile.
Then she turns, grabs her helmet, and skates toward the team, toward whatever comes next.
I don’t move right away. Just watch her go. And Coach Crusher continues to rally them.