Chapter 27
TWENTY-SEVEN
LUKE
The kitchen still smells faintly of garlic and cumin. The pan’s soaking in the sink, the lights are low, and the only sound is the hum of the fridge and the steady rhythm of Silas breathing beside me.
He fell asleep first, sprawled across the couch with one arm slung over my stomach, head tucked against my shoulder. His face is relaxed in a way I rarely get to see—calm, unguarded. Peaceful.
And it guts me a little. Because I know how heavy today was for him.
I shift carefully so I don’t wake him and let my fingers drift along his arm, tracing quiet shapes against his skin.
We’d cooked dinner together earlier—actual teamwork, even if he had to stop me from using a dull knife and made me measure the cumin three times.
He still supervised like I might burn his apartment down with the skillet, but he let me help.
After, we ate on the couch, barefoot and close, trading soft conversation and half-hearted arguments about what movie to put on. He let me pick. Fell asleep halfway through, of course.
But while he sleeps, my brain won’t shut up.
I think about Xavier. About the visit earlier. About the way Silas's voice cracked when he introduced me, and how his shoulders only dropped once we were back in the car—as though letting me in didn’t destroy him after all, but maybe healed something instead.
And I think about what it must’ve taken for him to let go. Or—not even let go. Just… open a new door without fully closing the old one.
I don’t know if I could do that. Love someone so deeply, lose them in the most cruel, drawn-out way—and still find space to love again.
It’s brave. And it’s terrifying.
And it makes me want to be better. For him.
My thumb drags slowly over his knuckles, and I watch the way his fingers twitch in his sleep. He probably doesn’t even know he’s doing it, some part of him is still holding on to me even when he’s not awake.
He’s beautiful like this. Soft edges. No tension in his brow. No walls.
And maybe that’s what scares me most—that I’m getting used to this. To him. To being seen and wanted and held like I matter.
Because I do.
At least, I think I do.
And right now, lying here with his breath warm against my collarbone and his arm draped over my stomach, I think I could fall in love with him a thousand times and still want more.
I whisper into the quiet, just in case something in him is still listening.
“I’ve got you, too, Silas.”
Then I kiss the top of his head, close my eyes, and breathe in the scent of his shampoo, his skin, his steadiness as I let sleep take me.
Three weeks later
There’s a crackle in the air that has nothing to do with the scoreboard or the roaring crowd. First home game of the season. Stands are full. Sun is brutal overhead. And I should be focused on the playbook and not the fact that I slept in Silas’s bed last night.
Correction: curled up in his arms, kissed stupid against his pillows, and fell asleep to the sound of his heartbeat.
And now I’m back to calling him Coach like we haven’t spent the last month and a half wrapped around each other, whispering words of love into each other's skin.
“Let’s go, Maddox!” Ty claps me on the shoulder as we head out of the tunnel, and I nod, slipping into my game-face. Helmet on. Head down. Pretend I’m just like everyone else.
Except I’m not. Not even close.
Because I can feel his eyes.
Across the field, hands on his hips, visor shading his expression, Silas is watching us warm up. Watching me.
He doesn’t look for long. He never does. But the few seconds his gaze lands on me feels like a full-body touch. I breathe in deep. Shake it off. Push it down.
He’s still Coach Gray in public. And I’m still just Maddox.
We’re good at pretending by now. At least, I think we are.
Things between us have felt solid lately. Strong. Like something real beneath the secret. Even with classes starting, even with him busier than ever—running drills, managing schedules, now adding studying into the mix—we’ve found our rhythm.
Late-night dinners. Morning coffee on his balcony. Quiet kisses before I sneak out.
And sure, it’s not perfect. The whole secrecy thing still bites sometimes. But we had a talk. I told him I want to tell my friends eventually. That I don’t want to hide forever. He didn’t freak out. He just… listened. Told me he understood.
Said we’d get there.
Now it’s game day. And despite the nerves and the pressure and the pounding in my chest, I feel okay.
Actually… I feel great.
“Slot fade,” Colton says, pulling his helmet on and flashing a grin. “Coach wants to start strong. You ready?”
I tug my gloves tighter. “Born ready.”
He bumps my shoulder. “Then run it clean, Maddox. First ball’s yours.”
The whistle blows. We break the huddle. And just like that, the season starts.
The crowd roars. The sun beats down. My cleats dig into the turf—and I run like the world’s watching.
No. Like he’s watching.
Every snap. Every yard. Every cut. I run the route sharp and clean, and when the ball arcs through the air, I don’t think. I just move. Leap. Catch.
And when I hit the end zone, breath burning in my lungs, I don’t celebrate big. Just toss the ball to the ref and jog back as if it’s nothing.
Because I know who saw it. Coach Gray. Silas. My secret. My something real.
The next run is supposed to be easy.
That’s what I think as we jog back into position. That’s what the play is—short yardage, low risk, something Coach called to reset the tempo and keep momentum on our side.
I recognize it the second Colton barks it out. Safe. Smart. Controlled. I line up, shake out my hands, and glance toward the sideline without meaning to.
Silas is already watching.
The snap comes fast. I take the handoff and cut inside like I’ve done a thousand times. The lane opens. Clean. Clear.
And then—impact.
It’s not the hit itself that gets me. It’s the sound.
A crack, sharp and wrong, like something snapping too close to my head. My vision whites out for half a second, my feet tangling as the ground rushes up to meet me. I hit hard, breath punching out of my lungs in a way that steals sound and thought all at once.
I try to roll.
My body doesn’t listen.
There’s noise everywhere—whistles screaming, the crowd gasping, players coming to a stop—but it all feels distant, muffled, like I’m underwater.
Hands are on me. Someone’s voice. Colton’s, I think.
“Luke—hey, stay down, man—”
I blink. Was I trying to stand up? The sky is too bright. The sun fractures into pieces, and my head throbs in time with my heartbeat.
“I’m fine,” I say, or try to. It comes out slurred, thick. “Just—give me a sec.”
A knee presses into the turf beside me. Time fractures a bit. Then suddenly the space around me opens, bodies parting fast, urgently.
I know that walk. Even before I see him.
Silas.
He’s there in my line of sight now, face tight and pale, eyes blown wide with something that looks nothing like coaching calm. He’s saying my name—my name, not Maddox—and it cuts through the fog sharper than the hit did.
“Luke. Don’t move.”
He goes in and out of focus, his words muffled.
“I’m good,” I insist, trying to erase the worry on his face, even as the world tilts when I try to lift my head. “I can—”
A stretcher appears in my peripheral vision.
That’s when I realize this isn’t nothing.
Hands steady my shoulders, putting a neck brace on me. Someone checks my pupils. Someone else is talking about protocol and evaluation and not taking chances.
Silas is still right there. Close enough that I can see the way his jaw is clenched so hard it might crack.
“Hey,” I mumble, trying to smile up at him, trying to make this smaller than it feels. “I’m okay. It’s just a small hit.”
The last thing I register before they start strapping me down is his hand gripping the edge of the stretcher—white-knuckled, shaking.
And the look in his eyes that says he’s already somewhere else. Somewhere bad. Then they start to lift me. And everything goes sideways.