Chapter 10 Braiden
Braiden
"Iunderstand, Coach. I'll take full responsibility at the hearing on Friday."
Wes's voice slices through the fog in my head, dragging me from a shallow, restless sleep into a sharp, cold reality. I lie perfectly still, my eyes wide open in the pre-dawn gloom of the bedroom, my ears straining to catch every word. He’s in the living room, his voice low and gravelly, stripped of all its usual confidence. It sounds… broken.
"Yes, sir. I know what's at stake."
My heart starts to pound, a frantic, sick rhythm against my ribs. What's at stake? What’s happening Friday?
"Season-long suspension." The words are quiet, but they hit me like a physical shock, and all the air rushes from my lungs. "I know. The scouts will be—yes, sir. I understand."
Oh god. No. No, please, no.
"Violation of athlete conduct code." He pauses, and I can picture him running a hand through his hair, his shoulders slumped. "Yes, sir. I know it jeopardizes everything."
I curl into a tight ball under the covers, pure, cold panic seizing me. This is my fault. All of it. Because I didn’t listen. Because Wes had to come save me from Nash. Because he protected me.
"I'll be there. Nine a.m. sharp." Another heavy silence. "Thank you, Coach."
The apartment goes quiet. I hold my breath, listening for a footstep, a sigh, anything. But there’s nothing. Just the crushing weight of what I’ve done hanging in the air, thick and suffocating.
Wes is going to lose his scholarship. His NFL prospects. His entire future. Everything he’s spent his life working for, sweating for, bleeding for—it’s all about to go up in smoke. And I’m the one who lit the match.
This is all your fault.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but it’s no use. The tears leak out anyway, hot and shameful, soaking the pillowcase under my head. My chest feels tight, like a band is constricting around my lungs, making it impossible to get a full breath.
The bedroom door creaks open. I quickly scrub at my wet face with the back of my hand, turning my head away, pretending to be asleep.
The bed dips as Wes slides in beside me, his warmth a stark contrast to the ice in my veins.
His arm wraps around my waist, pulling me back against his solid chest. His lips press against the back of my neck, a soft, reverent touch right over his claiming mark.
He's so tender, so protective that I feel fresh tears building up, and I have to bite my lip to keep a sob from escaping.
"I know you're awake," he murmurs, his breath a warm puff against my skin.
I can’t answer. If I try to speak, the dam will break, and I’ll fall apart completely.
"It's going to be okay," he says, and the lie is so painfully obvious I want to scream. It’s not okay. I’ve destroyed him.
"Get some sleep, little mate. Tomorrow's a new day."
But it’s not a new day. It’s just another tick of the clock, one day closer to Friday. One day closer to the end of his world.
I lie awake for hours, long after his breathing deepens into the steady rhythm of sleep. My mind won’t shut up, spinning through every possibility, every way this could go wrong. There has to be a way out. There has to be a way to fix this.
Then, a thought crystallizes in the chaos. A cold, hard, logical solution. I’m the problem. I’m the variable that threw the whole equation off. If I remove myself, the system can reset.
If I’m gone, this all becomes a simple alpha territory contest. Wes can say it was a misunderstanding, that he overreacted. With no omega to fight over, the whole thing loses its meaning. The board might still punish him, but maybe not as badly. Maybe they’ll see it as just a rivalry boiling over.
It’s the only way. It has to be.
***
The apartment is deathly quiet when I finally force myself to move. Wes’s side of the bed is empty, the sheets already cold. I see the note on his pillow.
Early practice. Back by 11. Love you.
I read those last two words and feel like someone’s twisting a knife in my gut.
I glance at the clock. 8:30. I have two and a half hours to erase myself from his life.
My hands shake as I yank my suitcase from under the bed. Not like yesterday when I folded everything perfectly. Now I'm just grabbing whatever I can reach, stuffing clothes into the bag, not caring if they wrinkle or tear. My vision blurs with tears, making the room swim around me.
This is the right thing to do. The only thing. You have to save him.
I catch my reflection in the closet mirror—a pale, hollow-eyed ghost. My gaze snags on the claiming mark, a dark, angry red against my skin.
A permanent brand. I press my fingers to it, feeling the raised edges, the proof that I belonged to someone.
That I was loved. That I'm throwing away the only real thing I've ever had.
Past tense, I tell myself fiercely. It has to be past tense now.
I grab my things from the bathroom, my laptop from the desk. My five-year plan is still taped to the wall, a monument to a life that no longer exists. I leave it. That Braiden is gone.
I find a pen and scribble a note, my handwriting a spidery, uneven mess.
This is the only way to fix it. I'm sorry. Don't let me ruin your future.
It makes sense. It has to work. It's over.
I leave the note on the kitchen counter and shoulder my bag. My hand hesitates on the doorknob. This is it. One turn, and I’m gone. I can go back to my dorm. Go home. Disappear until after the hearing, until it’s too late for Wes to stop me.
Just do it. Turn the knob.
I take a shaky breath, my fingers closing around the cool metal—
The lock clicks from the other side. The door swings inward.
Wes stands there, framed in the doorway, still in his workout gear.
A sheen of sweat covers his forehead, his hair is damp, and his chest is heaving slightly.
His eyes go from my face, to the packed bag on my shoulder, to the pathetic note on the counter.
I watch his expression shift in a horrifying kaleidoscope of emotion—first confusion, then dawning realization, then a raw, physical hurt that makes him stagger back a step.
And then, finally, something colder. Scarier.
Fury.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" His voice is a low, deadly whisper.
I stumble back, my throat tight. "I—I was just—"
"Running away?" He steps inside, kicking the door shut behind him with a deafening slam that makes me flinch. "You were just going to leave? A fucking note?"
"I heard you!" I blurt out, the words tumbling over each other in a frantic rush. "On the phone with your coach. The hearing, the suspension—I know you're going to lose everything, Wes. It’s all my fault."
He just stares at me, his jaw so tight I can see a muscle twitching violently in his cheek. "And your brilliant plan was to pack your shit and vanish?"
"They can't punish you if I'm not here!" I’m sobbing now, fat, hot tears I can’t stop. "I'm trying to save you!"
Something inside him breaks. He crosses the room in two long strides, his alpha scent flooding the air—ozone and rage. He backs me against the wall, not touching me, just caging me in with his body, his arms braced on either side of my head. His eyes are wild, desperate.
"Save me?" he roars, his voice echoing in the small space. I flinch, trying to make myself smaller. "You think running away saves me? That NFL bullshit was the static. YOU'RE THE SONG. There is no future without you in it, you fucking idiot!"
I flinch at the pain in his voice, feeling it like he's actually hit me. I can’t breathe. Can’t think. Everything I thought made sense—my whole plan—it all falls apart when I hear him say that.
"But your career," I whisper, my voice cracking. "Your scholarship. Everything—"
"Fuck my career!" He slams his palm flat against the wall next to my head. The impact shudders through my whole body. "Fuck the scholarship! Fuck all of it! None of it means a goddamn thing without you. Do you get that? None of it."
"But Nash—"
"Nash is a piece of shit who was always going to come for me. This isn't about you. You just gave him a new weapon to use."
I shake my head, dizzy with confusion. "But if I wasn't here—"
"If you weren't here? If you weren't mine?" His voice cracks on the last word, the rage in his eyes suddenly replaced by a devastating, bottomless hurt. "Is that what you want, Braiden? To not be mine anymore?"
"No!" The word rips from my throat, a raw, desperate denial. "God, no! I just want to fix this!"
"Then fix it with me," he says, his voice dropping, pleading. "Not by running away from me."
I break. Just completely break. All the fear and guilt and need to fix everything hits me at once, and I'm sobbing so hard I can barely stand. My knees give out, and Wes catches me before I hit the floor, his arms wrapping around me, pulling me tight against his chest.
"I'm sorry," I choke out, burying my face in his sweaty practice shirt. "So sorry. I just thought—I thought—"
"Shh." His arms tighten around me, his lips pressing into my hair.
"I know what you thought. But you're wrong.
You're so fucking wrong." He doesn't let me go.
Instead, his grip shifts, and he nudges my head to the side.
It's not a demand; it's a desperate plea.
"Let me smell you," he growls, his voice thick. "Need to know you're here."
He buries his face in my neck, inhaling deeply, a shudder running through his big frame.
His nose traces the line of my jaw, my throat, breathing me in like a drowning man finding air.
He licks over his own claiming mark, a gentle, soothing motion that's the complete opposite of the furious claiming after the library.
This isn't about erasing Nash; it's about reaffirming us.
The simple, possessive act settles the frantic terror in my chest, replacing it with a bone-deep certainty. I am his. And I'm not going anywhere.