Chapter 11 Jacob
Jacob
I’ve changed my shirt four fucking times.
Four.
Like I’m heading out to a goddamn date and not to a study session that’s supposed to be purely academic and entirely platonic and absolutely not me mentally spiraling over my partner’s smile like a lovesick fucking idiot.
Which, yeah, I’m fully aware is so goddamn lame I don’t even know what to say about it. I’m cringing at myself in real time.
But the fact of the matter is that I came to the deeply unfortunate conclusion that this crush isn’t going away. It’s not just a one-off oh-he’s-hot realization. It’s a full-blown, stomach-flipping, shirt-obsessing, I-wonder-if-he-likes-coffee-or-tea kind of crush.
And I hate it.
Because let’s take inventory, shall we?
One: I’m the team’s primary trainer.
Two: He’s Hughie’s very close friend. The one that he just recently started hanging out with again.
Three: I’m Hughie’s brother. I need to be firmly on Hughie’s side with everything that is going on.
And four (the cherry on top): Griffin has a girlfriend. A long-term, cheerleader-bodied, manipulative-as-hell girlfriend that I know is cheating on him with one of his roommates, and he has no fucking idea.
So yeah, the guilt? It’s there. Sitting in my chest like a goddamn cinder block.
I’m not even doing anything wrong, technically.
Like sure, I’m just harboring a crush. But it still feels like I’m betraying someone.
Like if I look at him too long or laugh too hard at something he says, I’m somehow complicit in the mess he doesn’t know he’s in.
I groan like I’ve been stabbed and rip the white t-shirt off, tossing it onto the growing pile of reject shirts on my bed. Then I dig through my closet again like the answer to all my problems is hidden behind my winter jacket and that flannel I stole from Hughie in sophomore year.
First shirt I tried on was a navy polo, which made me look like I was about to ask him if he’s ever thought about opening a Roth IRA. Then I switched to a plain black tee, which would’ve been fine if it didn’t fit like it had shrunk in the dryer. Cool, love that for me.
Third attempt? A gray shirt with the basketball team logo on it. I don’t even like basketball, but it was clean, and I was desperate. Then I remembered I was walking into a hockey house and decided not to wear it for fear that I get heckled into oblivion before we even open the textbook.
So now I’m shirtless, annoyed, and ten minutes late to leave. But sure, yeah, everything’s fine.
Totally normal.
Just a dude about to study with his definitely straight, definitely taken, definitely way too pretty partner and pretending like it’s not slowly turning him into an emotional pinata.
I grab the first non-offensive thing my hands land on, a soft, well-worn navy blue university hoodie with our school’s stupid crest stitched into the chest. I yank it on with a huff, giving up on looking cool or effortless or like a person who isn’t spiraling about his fucking outfit before a study session.
Like, Christ, I’m not trying to seduce the guy. I just don’t want to look like a troll. Is that too much to ask?
The second the hoodie’s over my head and I’ve smoothed my hair back into some semblance of order, Hughie walks in like he owns the place.
Which, okay, technically he kind of does since we share the apartment but he makes himself real comfortable by throwing his massive goalie body right onto my bed like a sack bricks.
He stares at the ceiling for a second, breathing like he just finished a therapy session (which he didn’t…
but he should), and then casually turns his head to look at the absolute disaster that is my room.
The floor is littered with every shirt I own, most inside out, some half-hanging off the dresser, one somehow draped over my desk lamp.
He raises a single judgmental brow.
I sigh dramatically and flop onto the chair at my desk. “Don’t ask.”
“Wouldn’t dare,” he mutters, eyes drifting back up toward the ceiling. “Looks like a war zone in here, though.”
“It was a war zone,” I shoot back, dragging a hand down my face. “It’s fine now. Ceasefire. We’re moving on.”
He snorts but doesn’t push. That’s the thing with Hughie…he always knows when to press and when to leave it the fuck alone. Probably because he knows me too well. And also because he’s lowkey emotionally stunted and would rather die than talk about feelings unless forced to.
“Where you going, looking like a brooding academic?” he finally asks, eyeing my hoodie with mock suspicion.
I grab my backpack and sling it over my shoulder like it might steady me. “Study session. Physiology. Group project.”
“With?” he asks, even though I know he knows.
I hesitate. “Griffin.”
Hughie hums in this annoyingly knowing way and doesn’t say anything else. But he doesn’t have to. The look on his face says it all: You’re in so much trouble and I’m letting you dig your own grave.
I huff out an annoyed breath and move to lace up my chucks.
Hughie’s still staring at me, which I ignore for a grand total of five seconds before I snap.
“What?” I huff, adjusting the hoodie like it’s done something personally offensive.
He shrugs, all casual, like he’s not dissecting my soul with his eyes. “Nothing. Just… watching you get ready for your little crush study date.”
I freeze mid-step and then I pivot on my heel and glare at him.
“It’s not a crush,” I say, way too fast, which is exactly the wrong move because now he’s grinning at me.
He lifts one brow again. “Jacob.”
“I’m serious,” I say, trying to sound calm and failing miserably because I’m one misplaced heartbeat away from spiraling. “It’s not… I mean, he’s just nice. And smart. And…fuck off.”
Hughie just laughs. Like full-belly, smug-ass older brother laughter. “It’s so obvious.”
My stomach twists, not from panic but from straight-up embarrassment. I’m not embarrassed that Hugh knows. I mean, please, the guy has known for years that I’m bi. He was the first person I ever told, and he took it with his usual goalie-level calm like I’d just told him we were out of milk.
Nothing about my identity has ever made him look at me differently. Not once.
Which is maybe why I feel extra exposed now. Because if he’s noticing something? Then it’s definitely a thing. Oh god….
“Obvious to who?” I mutter, now busying myself with shoving my laptop into my bag, trying to keep my voice low enough to mask the heat crawling up my neck.
He rolls onto his side, propping his massive head on one hand. “Just me. Maybe Terry, if he’s being creepy and observant. Mack’s too dense. But yeah, it’s only obvious to people who know you.” He pauses, then says it again, softer this time. “Who really know you.”
I hate that that makes me feel both seen and wildly attacked. Because I can lie to literally anyone else, but not to him. Not when he can read my bullshit before I’ve even opened my mouth.
Hughie watches me in silence for a beat, his expression shifting; dropping that teasing glint and settling into something softer and more careful. Which I hate, because I already know what’s coming. I can feel it in the way he exhales, slow and low, like he’s trying not to piss me off.
“Jake…” he starts gently, which is already a red flag because he only ever uses that tone when he’s trying to let me down easy. “I just don’t want you to get your hopes up, alright? Griffin… he’s straight.”
The words land like a punch to the chest. Not because I didn’t know, but because hearing it out loud feels like someone poking a bruise I wasn’t ready to admit I had.
It’s not like I expected anything. I’m not delusional.
I know how this works. I’ve been around long enough to know when someone’s not available in any capacity.
But still, just hearing it in that careful, padded tone like I’m something fragile just fucking stings.
“I’m not stupid, Hugh,” I snap, sharper than I mean to, but the words fly out before I can stop them.
He blinks, clearly a little startled, but doesn’t say anything right away. Probably because he’s waiting for me to calm down.
“I know he’s straight,” I continue, shouldering my bag a little too roughly. “I’m not sitting around doodling his name in the margins of my notebook. We’re working on a project. I’m allowed to think he’s hot and still function like a normal person.”
Hughie’s lips part like he might argue, but I don’t give him the chance. I yank my headphones off the dresser and shove them into my bag, zipping it closed like it insulted my intelligence.
“I’ll be back later,” I say, already halfway to the door, not even waiting for a response.
I’m halfway up the steps, fingers curled tight around the strap of my backpack, when the door swings open and she walks out.
Sabrina Allen.
Looking every inch the Barbie dream girl in a tight white top that hugs all the curves God probably carved with an X-Acto knife, and black leather pants that shine. Her hair is curled to oblivion, all gold and bounce and effort, and her makeup is perfect.
Her lipstick? That same dangerous, blood-red shade she wore the night she was fucking Connelly.
And for one solid, infuriating second, I have to fight the urge to say something. Anything. Because seeing her here, at this house, where Griffin lives, where his bedroom is, where he sleeps and eats and maybe kisses her like she hasn’t been crawling out of Connelly’s bed…it makes me want to yell.
She sees me the same time I see her, and her perfect face freezes. She goes rigid for half a second before her eyes narrow just a little. She honestly looks like a fucking mean girl with how she is scowling at me like I did something wrong.
I just stand there with my jaw clenched trying not to feel the things I am currently feeling. I don’t even want to admit to the level of jealousy coursing through me because it’s so fucking pathetic.
Jealous that she was probably in his room, in his hoodie, in his lap. Jealous that she gets to touch him, laugh with him, press her body against his, kiss his neck and hear his sleepy voice and be the person he lets into his space when he’s worn out from practice and just wants someone to be close.
And what the fuck does she do with that?
She throws it away. She lies. She cheats. She fucks around behind his back, and she still gets to be the one who’s with him. She gets to sit next to him at bars, wear his jersey, be the name in his phone with hearts and emojis next to it. She gets his affection.
I hate her for it.
And even worse?
I hate myself for hating her. For wanting what isn’t mine. For catching myself watching Griffin laugh and smile and be the kind of golden, good-hearted guy people write songs about and thinking God, please don’t let him stay with her.
She keeps walking, faster now, clearly wanting to be out of my sight line and probably also out of the blast zone of my judgment. She doesn’t say anything, which is probably smart. She just shoots me a sharp look and stomps off down the driveway, heels clicking.
And I just stand there.
Like a fucking idiot.
Feeling like a hypocrite, a coward, and a heart-eyed cliché all rolled into one hoodie-wearing, emotionally constipated mess.
I should have called her out or told her that she was a terrible person or…something. But I didn’t. Fuck me.
I shake it off.
Or at least, I try to. I grit my teeth and force myself to act like a normal human. This isn't about her. It's about the project. It’s about school.
I make my way up the porch steps and knock on the heavy red door.
No answer.
I wait a beat and try not to let my brain run wild before knocking louder this time.
Still nothing.
I exhale through my nose, slow and sharp, and just as I’m about to mutter “fuck this” and turn around to leave, the door swings open.
And there he is.
Griffin.
Shirtless.
And listen. I’ve seen him shirtless before, obviously. But this? This is a different beast entirely.
Because he’s standing there with sleep-creased cheeks and pillow marks on his goddamn shoulder, hair a chaotic halo of curls that look like they’ve been tumbled around by eager hands and maybe even bitten.
His skin is golden and flushed. And he’s built, not in that overly veiny gym-bro way but in that sculpted, naturally athletic way.
He has a broad chest and cut abs. That fucking Adonis belt peeking out of low-slung sweatpants.
I actually lose track of what I’m supposed to be doing for half a second.
Just long enough for a shitty thought to slam into me like a truck.
Sabrina. Her stupid red lipstick. Her fingers.
Had she just been here? Was she the reason his hair looks like it got tugged and pulled? Did she run her claws through it and whisper in his ear and…
My jaw tightens.
And the words that come out of my mouth are meaner than I mean them to be.
“Oh, sorry, are you too busy to study?”
His brow furrows, lips parting as he blinks down at me like I just woke him from hibernation. He rubs one eye with the back of his knuckle and yawns, like a literal golden retriever in human form, then squints at me.
“No?” he says, voice still thick with sleep, blinking. “Shit. Sorry. I was just napping.”
And just like that, the venom in my chest wavers because he looks so confused and earnest and not at all like someone who just rolled out of bed with a girl he’s supposed to be in love with.
He looks like someone who was tired and fell asleep and is now trying to figure out why the weird trainer kid looks like he’s ready to set the world on fire.
I wish I wasn’t so easy to read.
I wish I didn’t care this much.
But I just nod and look away, pretending I’m very interested in my shoes as he stands there shirtless and half-asleep, still too beautiful for my fucking peace of mind.