Chapter 35 – Alise
Chapter Thirty-Five
Alise
The deeper I get into the tunnel, the worse this feels. It’s like I’m not walking, but being pulled forward by something I’m not strong enough to fight, even though every part of me is screaming to turn around and head back the way I came.
My shoes squeak against the polished concrete, the sound echoing back at me like footsteps that don’t belong. Too loud. Too sharp. The echoes bounce off the walls, and the air is thick with the smell of sweat and adrenaline.
God, I shouldn’t be here. What the hell am I doing?
My lungs refuse to expand all the way, my ribs caging them in and shrinking by the second.
Each step feels like walking through cement, making my legs feel more like jelly as I get closer to the locker room.
I should’ve waited or just sent a text. I should’ve done anything except let Cole convince me to head down the tunnel.
In what universe did I think this would be a good idea?
Forget the fact that I have no idea where our relationship stands or if we even have a relationship anymore, but tonight is potentially one of the most emotionally charged nights of Beau Hendrix’s career.
This is his brother’s last game. Everyone is here to see Cooper one last time, but they are also here to see how Beau is going to react.
Each person is waiting to see if he is going to fall apart because his big brother will no longer be with him.
And I’m strolling down the tunnel with no plan.
No invitation. No backup or hype person.
Just a tight chest, shaky hands, and a head full of questions.
Fucking Cole.
My heart pounds like it’s trying to outrun me.
Each thud rattles my ribcage, echoing in my ears like thunder I can’t get away from.
The fluorescent lights above buzz faintly, flickering just enough to raise every hair on my arms. They cast long, distorted shadows on the walls, and suddenly, the tunnel feels too narrow.
The air presses down on my shoulders, thick and heavy, as every step feels heavier than the last. My thighs are stiff, knees locking, and my body resists what my heart won’t stop chasing.
I shouldn’t have come.
I shouldn’t be thinking the things I’m thinking.
Hope is a dangerous emotion. It’s wild and stupid and claws its way up my throat like it still belongs.
I want to shut it out of my mind, but I can’t.
I know I should, but I won’t because I haven’t learned from mistakes.
I’m strong enough to take it, but I know it will crush me if I even see one ounce of regret in his eyes.
I shouldn’t hope for something that could already be broken.
I close my eyes, but that’s worse because all I see is him. The look on his face that night, the quiet between us since, and the soul-deep ache that won’t go away.
My breath catches somewhere between my chest and throat, shallow and jagged as glass.
I wring my clammy hands in front of me, palms slick and fingers trembling, trying to rub the nerves away, but it only spreads deeper.
The closer I get to the locker room door, the more I feel like I’m walking toward something I won’t come back from.
Like I’m about to open a door that won’t close again. .
What if he doesn’t want to see me? What if I already ruined everything just by showing up?
My feet slow and then stop, the hallway stretching ahead of me, but I can’t move. I dig my fingers into the hem of my borrowed jersey, twisting the fabric so tightly my knuckles go white. It’s too big on me, and the material hangs loose, familiar, and wrong.
This is a terrible idea.
I stop just a few feet from the entrance to the locker room, close enough to hear muffled voices behind the door. My pulse drums in my ears, loud and relentless, nearly drowning out my thoughts, until one voice breaks through the chaos.
Beau said he wanted to be with me.
Beau said he was going to prove to me we belonged together, that he wanted me just as much on the good days as the bad.
He did that for a little while. Just long enough to allow myself to open up to him, and then he ghosted me like I was a problem he didn’t know how to solve.
He had a good reason, at least in his mind.
He was afraid. But of what? Afraid that his feelings are changing?
Afraid that if this doesn’t work out, he’ll lose more than just a girl?
Or worse, afraid to tell me he wants to go back to the way things were before I made the mistake of believing I could matter to someone like him.
Why didn’t I just ask him?
I didn’t use one of the thousand chances I had to ask because I couldn’t.
I’m scared, too. Instead, I let the silence stretch.
I let the weight of everything unsaid bury me.
And then I mauled him like some emotional teenager starved for attention.
I let my physical need to be close to him erase my unease.
Touching him was easy, but asking him if he still wanted me would’ve required courage I don’t have.
But what if he didn’t mean it?
I can’t get that thought out of my mind. Did any of that even happen a few days ago? Am I walking into the fire, thinking everything is going to be all sunshine and roses, but he has been thinking of a quick exit? What if I read this entire thing all wrong?
The ache at the base of my skull sharpens, blooming behind my eyes, and I press a trembling hand to my temple, trying to steady the quake inside me. My breath is ragged and uneven, scratching its way through my throat like it’s catching on every splinter of doubt I’ve tried to shove down.
I can’t do this. Not now. And sure as fuck not like this.
My knees threaten to buckle, and for a split second, I wonder what would happen if I just sank to the floor right here.
If I gave in and let the concrete swallow me whole.
The tunnel seems to pulse around me, too bright and too quiet all at once.
The sting in my chest presses higher, pressing into the fragile place where my voice lives.
It comes out cracked and hoarse, barely more than air:
“Not knowing is better than knowing any day,” I whisper to myself, bitter and breathless. “At least if I turn around now, I still get to pretend.”
Pretend he still wants me. Pretend I haven’t already lost him. Either way, pretending is always my go-to, anything I have to do to not face reality. I pivot, halfway backpedaling toward the exit, when I collide with something solid and hard.
I stumble back with a gasp, a sharp noise tearing from my throat as my shoulder clips theirs.
My heart slams so hard it blanks my brain for half a second.
The entire world tilts, my balance gone, and I reach out instinctively—grabbing at air, at nothing—because my body is already bracing for the fall.
But I don’t fall. A hand reaches out and grips me around the shoulders.
“Shit, sorry—” I start, voice high and shaky, but the words die in my mouth as I look up and realize I’m not alone anymore.
The panic doesn’t stop immediately, but it lingers.
It echoes through my body in waves. My pulse pounds in my ears like a drumbeat out of time, my vision still blurry at the edges, like I’ve been holding my breath underwater.
I blink, trying to make sense of the face in front of me, the broad shape of the chest I just slammed into, the familiar logo on the hoodie stretched across it.
The man stares back at me with wide, startled eyes, his brows drawn in the soft confusion that means he wasn’t expecting me either.
He’s tall with shoulders like a truck and that same lingering pre-game energy that clings to all of them before a big game, the visible buzzing that sits just below the skin.
But the concerned expression on his face makes my blood freeze.
“Hey, ” he says, voice low and a little tentative. “You okay?”
Am I? I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. I’m not sure if I’m mortified or if the heat rushing to my cheeks is embarrassment or leftover panic. My body remains unconvinced of my safety, but something in his voice cuts through the noise in my head enough to stop the freefall.
“Yeah, I—sorry. I wasn’t looking,” I respond quickly, not sounding the least bit convincing.
His gaze drops to the jersey and the hem still twisted in my fists, and I swear his mouth tugs into a knowing smirk.
“You must be looking for Hendrix,” he says, and there’s something light in his tone now. “I’d guess Beau, but considering you’re wearing Cooper’s number…” He trails off with a low whistle and a raised brow.
I freeze, the blood draining from my face as I remember what jersey I’m wearing.
Shit.