Chapter 3 #2
His throat bobbed, his jaw tightening as the ride came to a stop.
His mouth parted, like he wanted to say something else, but we didn’t get the chance.
He offered his hand anyway, palm up, the way he used to when ice covered the sidewalks, and I chose fashion boots over sense.
I took it without thinking, and we walked back into the lights.
He dragged me toward the pier. His face was set in hard lines, which meant he was thinking hard about something.
My nerves were out of control, the excitement of what he meant about missing me…
how kind he was… Noah was always the best friend in the world.
Maybe that was what I needed here. To see him more, to be around people who knew me.
“Hey.” I nudged my shoulder into arm, since he was a head taller than me.
“Thank you. For the ride, for the dare.”
He shook whatever expression he had on his face and smiled at me. “Of course. I was thinking—”
“Can you help me email Ivy? Wait, is that weird? That’s your team. Shit. I shouldn’t… that’s too much.”
“I’d love to help.” He dismissed my worry with a quick flick of his hand. “I would lose my mind if you helped design for the Rampage. Are you fucking kidding me? I want to be your first design.” He winked, and damn.
That playfulness was new. The confidence was too. I liked it.
“Okay, how do I even start?”
“Start like you talk.”
“I talk too much.”
“Use it, then.”
I nodded, like he was my life coach, and we found a bench to sit on. He sat next to me, legs pressing against mine as I typed on my phone.
Hi, Ivy. It was so good to see you tonight.
Thanks for the kind words about my work.
If you ever need a designer for a small fan capsule or a drop that leans more toward fashion than merch, I would love to pitch ideas.
I know the Rampage brand, and I think there is a lane between game-day gear and streetwear that could be fun for players and fans.
Happy to send mockups and a deck. Either way, thanks for saving those screenshots. You made my month.
“Too much?” I asked, chewing my lip again to ease the nerves. Noah’s gaze dropped to my mouth, his eyes darkening for a beat before he smiled.
“The email sounds like you,” he said softly.
“Which could be risky.”
“Send it.”
I hit send. My stomach dropped. “I hate it here.”
He slid a hand to my waist and did not move it. He patted it twice, like he was proud of me, and I tilted my face up toward him.
“Your turn. Share a truth.”
He opened his mouth, lips parting, as he let out an awkward chuckle. It was a guffaw almost, and I blinked in surprise. “What was that sound you just made?”
“Honestly, couldn’t tell you. Just happened.” He closed his eyes, winced, and moved his hand from my waist toward my face. His brown eyes swirled with heat as he rubbed his lips together. Then, he sighed and cleared his throat. “Emily, I’ve always wanted to do this. Will you—”
“Is that Noah Abbott? No way!”
A group of women ran toward our bench, all wearing Rampage jerseys with Abbott’s name on the back. One of the women, tall, beautiful, with long legs and cute boots, threw her arms around Noah without stopping to say hello.
He released me in an instant, hugging the woman back as a few other familiar faces approached. The small crowd swelled with laughter and chatter, the kind that came easily to people who lived in his orbit.
“Hey, wow, it’s been forever,” he said, easy and warm, the public version of his voice sliding into place.
I watched him slip into it—the way his shoulders squared, his grin widened, his tone lightened. He wasn’t faking it; this was still Noah. But it was the Noah the world got to keep. The one who knew how to charm strangers and pose for photos without letting them close enough to see anything real.
I stepped back, giving them space. Someone handed him a marker for autographs. Someone else took a selfie. He laughed, patient and practiced, while I stood off to the side, the gap widening between us.
Reality hit me then—this was his life. Crowds. Cameras. A dozen people knowing his name before he ever said theirs. And me? I was a girl who still worked two part-time jobs and sketched ideas at her kitchen table.
When the last photo was taken, he turned to find me, scanning the crowd. I raised a hand, forced a smile. “I’m going to head out. Long day.”
His brow furrowed. “Em, wait—”
“It’s fine,” I said quickly. “I’ll text you when I get home.”
He hesitated, torn between the fans still calling his name and me already walking away. I didn’t blame him for staying; this was what he’d worked for. Still, something in my chest pinched as I crossed the pier and blended back into the crowd.
By the time I made it to the L platform, my phone buzzed.
Noah: Sorry about that. Didn’t mean for tonight to end like that. I’ll call you later, okay?
I stared at the message for a long moment, hating the twisted in my gut. I loved seeing him, but we were just so different.
Me: All good. Get home safe.
Then I tucked my phone in my bag, leaned against the cold metal railing, and watched the lights smear across the lake. When the train finally pulled in, I got on and told myself not to wait for his call.
But I did.
And it never came.