Chapter 7 Griffin
Griffin
Griffin: Babe…I’m sorry.
I should be used to this by now. Sabrina’s silence is her favorite weapon.
It’s the passive-aggressive purge that she consistently uses when we argue.
It’s always the same: tension builds until it cracks, we fight, she leaves, I text, she ignores me, and then…
eventually, she shows up again like nothing happened.
Sometimes she cries. Sometimes she acts like I’m the one who needs to make it right. Sometimes she just crawls into bed like an apology wrapped in perfume.
But that silence? It still gets under my skin and she fucking knows it. It makes me second guess every part of the argument and figure out where it was all my goddamn fault.
Because I keep trying. I keep showing up for her, over and over, like some dumb golden retriever who thinks if he’s just loyal enough, things will go back to how they were in the beginning.
I buy flowers and I take her on dates. I remember the little things, like her brother’s birthday and the way she likes her coffee.
I even listen when she rants about shit I don’t care about, like which sorority sister is sleeping with which professor.
And still, somehow, I’m never enough. Or maybe I’m just wrong for her and neither of us want to admit it out loud because the sex is good and being in a relationship makes us feel safe, even when it’s killing us.
Lately, it’s starting to feel more toxic than anything else. And obviously, if Terry and Mack are also saying that then it’s clear as day to everyone around us too.
And what does that say about me? That I keep trying to make this work? That I keep apologizing for shit I’m not even sure I should be sorry for?
I run a hand down my face, let out a slow breath, and stare at the message again.
Still nothing.
“Yo! It’s time to go!” Mack yells from downstairs.
I groan, push the phone face-down on my desk, and drag myself to my feet. I grab my gear with all the enthusiasm of a guy going to war, not practice, and sling it over my shoulder.
I jog down the stairs with my heavy gear bag slung over my shoulder. I don’t always bring it home, preferring to leave it in the locker room, but this shit was starting to smell and needed a deep clean.
At the bottom of the stairs, Mack and Terry are already waiting, both dressed down in team gear, both looking way too awake for guys who’ve been through lift and skate already today. Coach just had to make today a massive fuck you and have us not only on the ice twice but also in the weight room.
Mack’s munching on something that looks suspiciously like leftover garlic bread from last night, and Terry’s leaning against the wall like he’s trying to merge with it.
“Yo,” I say, adjusting my grip on my bag. “Where’s Connelly?”
They both shrug in sync like they rehearsed it. Those two are so weirdly connected.
“He hasn’t come back since morning lift,” Terry says, casually. “Probably shacked up with someone.”
Mack snorts. “Yeah, maybe he found God and they’re cuddling somewhere holy.”
I raise an eyebrow because Connelly? Mr. No-Fun, No-Sex, No-Socializing? The guy practically files his socks and alphabetizes his vitamins. Him disappearing off the radar is… weird. Especially for a guy who usually treats his schedule like gospel.
“Huh,” I mutter, stepping out onto the porch with them and locking the door behind me. “You think he’s good?”
Terry shrugs again, but there’s a flicker in his eyes like he’s wondering the same thing. “He’s a grown man. If he didn’t come home, it’s probably because he didn’t want to.”
“Or maybe he just hates our company,” Mack adds, smirking.
“Understandable,” I deadpan, and they both laugh.
We pile into Terry’s truck. Mack calls shotgun because of course he does and I climb into the back, dumping my gear beside me and stretching my legs out across the seat.
I lean my head back against the seat, watching the sun streak through the dusty windows, and just breathe for a second.
Then Mack ruins the peace. As expected.
“So,” he says, twisting around in his seat to look at me with that shit-eating grin of his. “Did you and Sabrina kiss and make up or what?”
I let out a breath that’s somewhere between a sigh and a scoff. “She hasn’t replied.”
Terry winces in sympathy, eyes on the road but clearly listening. “Damn, man. That sucks.”
“Or,” Mack cuts in, his grin somehow growing wider, “maybe it’s a blessing in disguise. Shit, maybe she’s finally realized she’s too dramatic for you and did us all a favor.”
I shoot him a look, and for half a second, I want to be annoyed. Really, I do. I want to get all defensive and noble about my girlfriend and how we’re just going through a rough patch.
But I can’t because he’s not wrong. There’s a chance she really is done with me and I’m not all that worked up about it. I just need to know so that I can stop being so fucking worked up about the silent treatment.
The silence has been kind of nice. The lack of a fight brewing in the background, the absence of a dozen texts in all caps, the breathing room? It feels… good.
And that makes me feel like an asshole, but also like maybe I’m not as blind to the truth as I used to be.
I don’t say any of that, of course. I just shrug and look out the window.
Mack snorts and turns back around. “See? You didn’t even deny it. Told you, it’s better if she never comes back.”
I roll my eyes but don’t argue. For once, letting Mack win feels easier than trying to defend something I’m not even sure I believe in anymore.
Terry turns up the volume a little and gives me an understanding smile through the rear view mirror.
Practice is brutal.
Not that I expected anything less from Coach when we’re less than three weeks out from our first real game and trying to convince scouts we’re not just another pack of hotshot undergrads with attitude problems and decent stats.
We run through drills until my legs are jelly, then scrimmage until I’m sweating like a sinner in church and seeing spots every time I blink.
By the time we’re dismissed, my muscles are singing in protest, and there’s a stabbing ache in my right shoulder that I know better than to ignore. It’s nothing serious but I’ve done this dance long enough to know that if I don’t ice it down, I’ll regret it tomorrow.
So I haul my sore ass toward the training room, mentally preparing for a twenty-minute ice nap on the table and maybe, if the gods are kind, a Gatorade.
What I don’t expect is him.
The pretty-boy trainer with golden boy hair and long lashes and the kind of face that looks like it belongs on a fucking billboard for skincare. He’s sitting behind the counter, typing something into the system with laser focus like he’s performing open heart surgery via laptop.
I clear my throat as I walk in, giving him the most neutral expression I’ve got left in me.
He looks up.
And Jesus, his eyes flick up to mine for barely a second before darting away. I’m not…into guys. I’m not against the idea, because I think love it for everyone but I haven’t ever found myself looking at a man and thinking wow, hes beautiful.
But I do that a lot around Hughies brother.
“Hey,” I say, nodding toward the treatment tables. “Need ice on my shoulder.”
He doesn’t say anything right away. He keeps looking down at the laptop before he lets out a breath and stands. “Yeah. Sure. Table three.”
I head over and climb up, the vinyl cold against my sweat-damp back. Jacob grabs a pack from the freezer and starts wrapping it without a word.
He’s good at it, ensuring the ice is packed tight and smooth against my shoulder but he doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t joke or smile, doesn’t even do the usual trainer thing of pretending to give a shit about how practice went.
And I have no idea why. Which is lame because I have never really spent time with him.
When Hughie and I used to game together back in freshman year, he lived with Jake but we didn’t interact.
I was…aware of his presence but I didn’t put any stock into it.
So I couldn’t tell you why it bothers me so much that he isn’t making small talk or smiling at me or… anything.
I watch him work, brows furrowed. “Did I piss you off or something?”
That makes him glance up, and for half a second there’s this flicker behind those pretty eyes. But it’s gone just as fast, replaced with that annoyingly neutral expression again.
“No,” he says shortly.
Right.
Sure.
“Okay…” I draw the word out slowly, watching him like I might be able to make the puzzle pieces click together with sheer mental effort.
I sit there on the table, awkwardly cradling my shoulder like a wounded puppy, while Jacob heads back to his laptop and resumes whatever god-level spreadsheet he was surgically inputting before I came in. The ice pack's already starting to numb the ache, but the room itself feels way too tense.
I clear my throat hoping he will look up at me. I couldn’t tell you why but I have this intense need to have those intense baby blue eyes on me.
So, naturally, I double down on being annoying because I desperately want his attention.
“You’re in my physiology class, right?” I ask, letting my voice go casual like I’m just making conversation.
Jacob’s fingers pause on the keyboard for a millisecond. He doesn’t look up.
“Yeah,” he says after a beat, like he has to think about it. “Mondays and Wednesdays. Nine a.m.”
I snort quietly, shaking my head. “I fucking knew it. I swear I’ve seen you in there a few times. You always sit in the third row, right side.”
That finally gets his attention. He looks at me then and it’s not the usual polite glance or bored acknowledgment. It’s surprise like I just caught him off guard. And then, somehow, impossibly, there’s this blush. Just this subtle wash of color creeping up his cheekbones.