16. Roman
Roman
Monday hits like a fucking truck.
The alarm goes off way too early, and I drag myself out of bed feeling like I’ve barely slept. Probably because I haven’t. I spent all night staring at the ceiling, trying to will away the flashes of memories: Caleb and Damon. Damon and Caleb.
Killian’s already in the kitchen by the time I shuffle downstairs, making his usual protein shake. He glances up as I walk in, his sharp blue eyes narrowing as he looks me over, his gaze lingering on the marks on my neck but he doesn’t say anything about them.
“You look like shit,” he remarks as he takes a sip from his blender bottle.
“Thanks,” I mutter and grab a banana from the counter.
He doesn’t push it, just watches me for a second before returning to his shake. That’s the thing about Killian—he knows when to pry and when to back off. Today, thankfully, he’s chosen the latter.
“Yours is in the fridge,” he says, lifting up his blender bottle. “Figured you’d prefer it over a heavy breakfast. Grab it and meet me by the SUV.”
With that, he walks out of the kitchen and I can’t help but give a small smile as I watch him leave. For all the shit Killian gives me, he really does know me better than anyone else.
Finding the first aid kit, I clean the bite mark on my shoulder, slap a large band-aid on, and walk out.
Campus is the same as always—busy, noisy; a mess of people moving in every direction. I slip into the crowd, keeping my hood up and avoiding people as I head to my first class.
I barely hear anything the professor says and forcefully snap myself out of it. I take notes out of habit, my hand moving mechanically while my brain is elsewhere. The whole morning it’s like that—going through the motions, nodding here and smiling there, giving half-assed answers when asked a question.
No one notices anything different about me. I don’t know if I should feel thankful or sad.
By lunchtime, I’m drained and the last thing I need is to see him. But of course I do. He’s walking across the quad, a cigarette dangling from his black-painted fingernails, his curls falling messily over his forehead.
He’s wearing a black hoodie, ripped jeans, a chain hanging from his belt and black boots; his usual fuck-you attitude is practically radiating off him. Seriously, why is everything about him so goddamn hot?
I freeze for half a second, my heart lurching in my chest before I force myself to keep moving. I think about turning around and ducking into one of the buildings to avoid him altogether, but then, as if he could sense me, he turns his head.
The mark on my shoulder throbs when our eyes meet, and once again, I still can’t get over how clear his eyes look. His steps falter for a split second, and I know I should say or do something .
But I don’t and neither does he. I break eye contact first, my chest tight as I walk away from him this time.
The rest of the day is a blur of class, class… and more class. By the time I’m done, I’m more than ready to hit the ice and snap out of this funk. But the universe must hate Roman Bishop because, on my way to the rink, I spot him again.
This time he’s sitting on a bench close to the art building, hunched over a sketchpad, earbuds in, a cigarette dangling from his lips. I slow down, my heartbeat picking up as I watch him. He looks so peaceful, so fucking calm, like the chaos of the world doesn’t bother him when he’s in his element.
It pisses me off.
Not because I’m jealous, no, but because I want that. To be able to switch off and opt out of the endless cycle of guilt, pain, anger, and confusion. I shake my head and keep walking before I do something I’ll regret.
The rink is freezing, but it’s a welcome change from the confusion of the day. The sharp chill bites at my skin as I lace up my skates, the familiar weight of the pads grounding me. I need this right now; I need to do what I do best just so I can fucking breathe.
Killian sits down next to me, his grin easy but his eyes not missing a beat. “You ready to kick some ass today, Bishop?”
“Always,” I mutter, even though my heart’s not really in it.
He watches me for a second like he’s trying to figure out what’s going on in my head, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he smacks my shoulder and stands up, his voice carrying across the locker room.
“Alright, assholes, let’s go! Time to show Coach why we’re the best fucking team in the league!” The guys cheer, their energy infectious, and I force myself to ride the wave as we head out onto the ice.
Practice is brutal, but it’s exactly what I need. The drills, the sprints, the scrimmages—it all demands my full attention, leaving no room for anything else. By the time we’re done, my body aches in the best way, and my head feels a little clearer.
Killian skates over, a water bottle in hand. “Good work today,” he says, tossing it to me.
“Thanks,” I mutter, catching it and taking a long drink.
He hesitates, and I know he’s worried about me when he asks, “You good, Rome?”
I nod, avoiding his eyes. “Yeah. Just tired.”
“Alright,” he says, but his tone tells me he doesn’t buy it. But I can’t help it. I can’t snap out of how confused and fucked up I feel.
As we head back to the locker room, I can’t help but think about Damon. About the way he looked at me earlier. About the way he looked sitting at that bench, lost in his art.
And most of all, about the way his lips felt on mine.
Fuck.
When I get home, the house is alive with its usual chaos. Put ten of the best athletes in a house together and you’re bound to have that. Usually I would join in with Eli or Thorn in playing video games in the living room, but I think I need the quiet more than the distraction.
I fall down on the bed and stare up at the ceiling like I have been doing for the past few days. I wish I had an answer as to why the fuck I can’t stop thinking about Damon. About his hands on me, his lips on mine, how fucking possessive he sounded when he told me only he’s allowed to make me bleed.
There’s a knock on the door and I know it’s Killian before he walks in and sits down next to me. I don’t look at him because I know the questions will be clear as day on his face. I don’t know why, but him being here and not pushing it makes me feel like purging everything.
“I’m not doing good, Kill,” I blurt out, feeling a tear slip down the side of my face. “I’m not doing good at all.”
He doesn’t say anything, he just waits for me to speak. He leans back against the headboard with his hands on his thighs and just… waits.
“I thought I was dealing with the guilt, but I realize now that I never even had a fucking handle on it. It’s been two years and the wound Caleb left hasn’t healed, it’s festering and starting to kill me.”
Killian doesn’t move, doesn’t even breathe too loudly. I just feel his eyes on me.
“And then there’s Damon,” I say with a scoff, my throat tightening. “He’s… he’s fucking everywhere, Kill. In my head, under my skin, and I can’t cut him out no matter how hard I try.”
I sit up abruptly, raking a shaking hand through my hair and pulling my knees up to my chest. My whole body is too hot, too tight, and it feels like I’m coming apart at the seams.
“The way he looks at me, the way he fucking pushes me, like he’s waiting for me to break. And I hate it. I hate how much I like it. How the pain he gives me is the only thing that grounds me.” I choke on the confession, my hands balling into fists. “I haven’t even wanted to get into a fight since he hit me. Haven’t felt the need to sink into pain just to feel something.”
The words hang in the air, heavy and ugly, but I can’t stop.
I suck in a shaky breath, my fingers digging into my scalp. “And you wanna know the worst part? The absolute worst part?” My voice cracks, and I barely manage to get the words out. “Every time I look at Damon, I don’t even see his brother anymore. Not even when he’s wearing Caleb’s leather jacket. I don’t fucking see the guy I loved. I just see Damon.”
Killian shifts slightly next to me, but I still don’t look at him when I talk again.
“I loved Caleb,” I continue, my voice breaking on his name. “He was my first everything, Kill. My first friend, my first love, my first kiss… and he left me without even giving me a reason why. Do you have any fucking idea how angry I still am with him and how guilty I feel for being angry? What the fuck is wrong with me?”
Sighing, I swing my legs off the bed and rest my elbows on my knees. “He’s gone and here I am, making out with his brother, and it made me feel alive for the first time in two years. Yet another thing for me to feel guilty about on top of everything.”
The silence stretches for longer than a few seconds and I can hear my heart pounding in my ears. I swallow deeply and finally turn to look at Killian. “I don’t know what Caleb would think of me now, but it can’t be good.”
Killian stands up, then walks around the bed and sits down next to me, mimicking my position. “You’re wrong, Rome.”
I blink at him, thrown off by the certainty in his voice. “What?”
“You’re wrong. He wouldn’t think any of that shit. You know why?” he asks, and I shake my head. “Because Caleb loved you. He fucking loved you and would never want you to drown in all this guilt. He’d want you to be happy, Roman. To move on.”
My throat feels tight and I shake my head again, but I’m unable to speak.
“And yeah,” he continues, “maybe he wouldn’t have expected you to move on with Damon. But if he were here and he saw how this was eating you up inside, I think he’d give you his fucking blessing. Because he knows you’d look after his fuckhead brother and his fuckhead brother would look after you.”
Tears well up in my eyes. “Kill—”
“You don’t have to believe me. But remember, I knew Caleb, too and I know he wouldn’t want this for you. He wouldn’t want you to be miserable, Rome. He’d want you to live.”
The tears spill without warning down my cheeks, and I bury my face in my hands, my shoulders shaking as the sobs take over.
Killian doesn’t say anything else, he doesn’t need to.