Chapter 34 Silas
THIRTY-FOUR
SILAS
Certification Complete.
Official Documentation to Follow.
Congratulations .
I stare at it for a long time. No fanfare. No balloons or cake. Just a subject line and a PDF.
Still, it means something.
It means I did it.
After months of late-night modules, case studies, awkward role-play simulations with overly enthusiastic online classmates, and enough reading to make my eyes ache, I passed the final milestone for my sports psych certification.
It wasn't just about the credential—it was about reclaiming what I'd lost.
Back when I was coaching, I'd seen too many kids like Luke: talented, driven, but carrying invisible weights.
The kind that could break them if no one noticed.
I'd failed him in ways I couldn't fix then, but this?
This was my way of making sure I wouldn't fail anyone else.
Or maybe, deep down, it was my way of proving to myself that I could be more than the guy who got fired for falling in love.
I lean back in the creaky chair, blinking at the low light bleeding in through the blinds. It’s just past sunset. Another shift starts in an hour, but for now, the apartment is silent. Still. Unchanged.
The same framed posters from my coaching days hang crooked on the walls—motivational quotes about perseverance that now feel like mocking echoes.
Dust gathers on the shelf where I used to keep game tapes, and the fridge hums faintly, stocked with nothing but beer and takeout leftovers.
No laughter bouncing off the walls, no shared meals.
Just me in this space that's too big for one person but also too small for regrets.
No one to tell. No one to celebrate with.
I crack open a beer, take a sip, and let the carbonation burn down my throat as I stare at the screen again—at the proof that I’m not just… treading water anymore.
I’m building something.
I pull out my phone before I can overthink it.
Luke. His name is still there. I never deleted it. I tried a few times and always ended up adding it back in; I probably know his number by heart now.
My thumb hovers.
Hey. I know this is random. But I just finished something important, and for some reason…you’re still the first person I want to tell. I hope you’re doing well. Actually, I hope you’re doing amazing.
I stare at the blinking cursor. Breathe.
My mind flashes to that last game—the hit coming out of nowhere on the field, the crack of pads, Luke crumpling under the pile.
He didn't get up. Flashes of them loading him on the stretcher, the panic I felt, the need to go with them until they told me no.
Then I stood frozen on the sideline, heart in my throat, watching them load him up while the crowd's roar faded to stunned silence.
I wanted to go to the hospital. God, I wanted to run straight there, sit by his bed, hold his hand through the pain and the fear.
But I couldn't. Showing up would've lit the scandal on fire—coach and player, age gap, the whole ugly headline waiting to happen.
It would've ruined him: eligibility gone, recruiters backing off, his future torched before he even healed.
He was twenty-one, full of fire and promise; I was the one who'd already cost him enough.
So I drove home instead. Sat in the dark kitchen with my phone shaking in my hand. Typed the goodbye. Clean break. Then I poured a drink I didn't finish and let the silence swallow me. Left him to face the hospital alone, no visit, no explanation beyond those cold words on a screen.
He was so bright then, and I was the idiot who thought abandoning him was the kindest thing I could do.
But now? I've scrolled his profile late at night—seen him back on the field, thriving, posting about new plays, big wins, laughing with his teammates and friends. That smile again, bright and whole, aimed at the camera instead of me.
He's healed. Moved on.
And I'm still here, wondering if I ever really let him go.
If he's moved on completely, I shouldn’t text him. What if I'm just a ghost from a scandal he wants to forget?
I delete the text without sending it.
Because I remember.
I remember the way he used to smile at me—like I was the only thing that mattered in the stadium lights.
And then, a few months ago, after everything fell apart, seeing him smiling that same way at someone else.
Not the polite grin for cameras or teammates—the real one, soft and unguarded, the one I'd thought was mine alone.
Even if it was just a spark of something new beginning for him, it still gutted me.
He deserves someone who can give him everything. All the time. Not someone who has to rebuild from the ruins of their own wreckage.
I set the phone face down on the counter.
The silence wraps around me again, but it doesn’t feel quite so suffocating.
Because I don’t feel unlovable anymore.
Just unsure if I’m allowed to want something like that again.
Someone like him.
But maybe, one day, I’ll find out. The certification in my inbox is proof: ruins can be rebuilt. And hearts? They might just heal enough to try to love again.
The shift is half over when I finally start to feel human again.
I’ve been on autopilot since the certification email landed in my inbox. I told no one. Didn’t even mention it to my manager when I clocked in. I just grabbed my barback apron, tied it tight around my waist, and got to work pouring drinks for people who’ll forget everything I serve them by morning.
Some milestones are like that—loud in your chest but silent to the world.
It’s Friday, so the crowd is thick. Laughter and low bass compete for dominance. I’ve got two vodka sodas up, a mojito muddling, and a group of guys on the left end of the bar ordering whiskey like they’re gearing up to fight God.
And then I hear it.
“Hey, can we grab another round down here?”
It’s not the voice that gets my attention—it’s the way the crowd shifts, the way the air seems to crackle in a way I’ve learned not to ignore. Instinct, maybe. Or hope. I glance up out of habit more than anything.
And that’s when I see him.
Not the guy who called out. The one next to him. Leaning against the bar, one elbow braced casually, a crooked smile on his face as he listens to his friend talk. The overhead light catches in his hair, casting shadows over cheekbones.
Luke.
Time doesn’t stop, but it slows. My breath hitches mid-pour. The ice bucket in my hand feels like it weighs a hundred pounds. I stare because I can’t not stare.
He hasn’t seen me yet.
He’s laughing at something the guy beside him said—Colton the QB from his team.
Luke’s hair is a little longer than it was, curling slightly at the ends.
He’s got on a faded tee that clings to his arms in ways that should be illegal, and a silver ring flashes on one of his fingers when he pushes it through his hair.
And then he turns.
He sees me.
We both freeze.
God, he’s beautiful. And real. Not a photo, not a memory, not a ghost. Just… Luke. Standing ten feet away from me in the bar where I come to disappear.
I brace for him to look away. To retreat. To pretend I don’t exist the same way he did a few months ago. But he doesn’t.
He holds my gaze. And then—then—he smiles. Not the full-dimples, flirty troublemaker grin. Just a small one. It lands like a punch to the ribs.
I open my mouth. I don’t even know what I was going to say. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.
But Luke moves first. He leans slightly forward and rests his forearms on the bar. “Tequila sunrise,” he says, then adds with a smirk, “Extra sunrise. And he wants a Pina colada.”
His voice is light. Warm. There’s no edge to it. I nod, hands steadying instinctively. I reach for the bottle and the shaker, heart pounding as though I’ve just run drills in the rain.
He watches me make the drinks, adding an extra dash of grenadine to top it off just like he requested.
I don’t dare ask him anything. Not yet. Not here. I just slide the glasses in front of him and say quietly, “On the house.”
Luke nudges Colton's drink toward him and lifts his slowly, eyes holding mine. Tilts it toward me in silent cheers. Then, without another word, he turns back to his group across the room.
I’m left staring at the spot where he stood. I’m not sure how long I stand there, but Colton shoots me a knowing glance and a tiny smile before following Luke away.
I go back to pouring drinks, but nothing feels the same.
I keep busy for the next two hours, until my manager comes and relieves me for my break.
Untying my apron, I stride down the hallway to our break room.
While every single part of me wants to seek Luke out, I definitely rein in that instinct.
A smile doesn’t mean anything. So why does it feel like everything?
I sit down on the ratty couch in the break room, the vinyl groaning under me like it resents the weight. My apron’s bunched in my lap, my hands clenched on top of it.
A smile doesn’t mean anything. I repeat it like a mantra. Like a lifeline.
But it’s a lie. Because it wasn’t just a smile. It was his smile. The one that used to be mine.
And I know I’m not supposed to read into it—hell, I’ve spent months learning not to. I’ve clawed my way out of grief and guilt and all the wreckage I left behind, just to reach this point. A quiet, steady place. Manageable.
But now?
That smile felt like a possibility.
A door swinging open. Like maybe…maybe I haven’t lost everything after all. I exhale slowly and rest my head back against the wall. The hum of the walk-in fridge kicks on behind me, the floor vibrates faintly beneath my boots.
The door creaks open.
I don’t lift my head. Not right away. It’s probably Ethan from the kitchen, sneaking in to check his phone or bum a snack off the bartenders.
Then I hear it. A quiet laugh. Familiar. A little tipsy.