Chapter 20
NOAH
Practice ended the way Thursdays always did—heavy, loud, and unforgiving—but today my body felt it in a different way.
Not just the burn in my legs or the tight pull across my shoulders where pads rubbed raw skin.
This was deeper. Quieter. Like everything I’d been holding back for weeks had finally decided to take up space all at once.
I jogged off the field with the rest of the line, helmet tucked under my arm, sweat cooling fast against my spine, and tried to convince myself the ache in my chest was just adrenaline wearing off.
It wasn’t.
It was Em. It was last night. It was the sound of her voice in my car this morning, cracked and honest and trying so hard not to apologize for existing. It was the way she listened—really listened—when I spoke, like my words didn’t need translation or proof to be believed.
“Abbott.”
Coach Booth’s voice cut through the noise, sharp but not angry. I stopped short and turned back, muscles protesting as I did. He stood there with his clipboard tucked under his arm, eyes scanning me the way they always did—checking alignment, effort, focus.
“You were late on your second step in combo during inside run,” he said. “Not by much. But late.”
“Yes, sir,” I replied automatically.
He held my gaze for a beat longer than necessary, then nodded once. “Everything else was solid. Don’t overthink it. If you are, talk to Mercer.”
That landed harder than the correction. Overthinking was my specialty lately.
In the locker room, the sound hit like a wave—music blasting too loud, laughter echoing off concrete walls, cleats scraping tile.
Normal. Familiar. The kind of chaos I usually loved because it drowned everything else out.
Quinn was already mid-story, hands flying as he reenacted some imaginary defensive breakdown.
Jordan lobbed a towel at my chest as I walked past.
“You’re smiling,” Jordan said, squinting at me like I’d grown a second head. “That’s fucking unsettling dude.”
“I’m not smiling,” I shot back, dropping my helmet into my locker.
“You absolutely are,” Quinn added. “Either something good happened, or you’ve finally snapped and this is your villain arc. That would be fun to watch though, not gonna lie.”
I peeled off my pads, the weight hitting the floor with a dull thud. “Relax. I’m allowed to be in a good mood.”
Oliver caught my eye from two lockers down. He didn’t say anything at first. Just watched me the way he always did, like he knew better than to jump into the noise.
When Quinn drifted away, Oliver stepped closer, voice low. “You good?”
“Yeah,” I said—and this time, it wasn’t a lie I told out of habit.
Sure, my mind was stretched in every direction, but I channeled the energy on the field today, and it worked.
If I could continue to push all thoughts of Miles, Nat, my parents, and Em away when I was in the game, I’d be undefeatable.
He tilted his head slightly. “You look… lighter. Why? Why are you lighter?”
I huffed out a breath, rubbing a hand over my jaw. “Trying something new.”
Oliver nodded once, satisfied. He didn’t ask follow-ups.
He never did. That was why I trusted him.
We had a solid understanding and gave each other the space we needed.
I loved the guy, but my mind was so full from all the other shit, and I had to learn to deal with that first. I plopped down, checking my phone when Oliver hit me on the shoulder. “What was that for?”
“After this game, we’re doing happy hour. The Brotastic Five.”
“Oh god.” I pinched my nose. The name was so damn stupid.
It truly was. But Callum, Ivy’s husband and Oliver’s best friend from college, named the stupid group chat that, and it unfortunately stuck.
It was Callum, Oliver, Jordan, me, and Quinn.
How the fuck Quinn kept popping up in my life annoyed me, but he was honestly a good dude.
“The bros are getting restless. We haven’t had a night out in a while, and Sloane is on me to initiate it.”
“I can’t easily… go out anymore. Not with Miles.”
“You know Ivy, Sloane, or your girl Em would help with that.” Oliver squeezed my shoulder. “Think about it. We can also have him in on the fun too. Brotastic plus a pipsqueak.”
My lip twitched. Loved referring to Em as my girl. She damn well was. “Imagining Miles at a bar with us hitting a hard glass of milk does bring me more joy than it should.”
“You’re getting in the spirit. After Sunday, we’ll talk.”
He let me go, and I sighed, grateful for him and the team.
They’d kept me going when Nat died and my world upended.
They brought us food, made sure I showered, and were the best guys anyone could ask for.
And then, I’d disappeared on them. Guilt pinched at my chest, the ever so familiar ache of regret blooming.
I’m a disappointment. The word kept reappearing, and I shoved it away, refusing to let that cloud my mood. It didn’t matter how many times my parents or older coaches had said it. Em and I had a date tonight, and that was something I never thought I’d have.
My phone buzzed in my hands, pulling me from my spiral when my parents’ names popped up. That didn’t help shit. Their messages were all the same bullshit.
You’re being unreasonable.
This doesn’t have to be public.
We’re trying to protect him.
Think about how this looks.
Protect him.
Like I hadn’t been doing exactly that since the day Nat died.
The thought of my sister hit like it always did—sudden and sharp and impossible to prepare for. One second she was there, loud and opinionated and so sure I’d screw this up. The next, all I had left were memories and a kid who looked at me like I hung the moon.
I showered fast, letting the water pound against my neck, eyes closed as I leaned my forehead against the tile.
Nat would’ve loved Em and Miles together.
She knew how much I loved her in secret and had teased the hell out of me for not asking her out.
She told me to stop being an idiot and let myself be happy so many times.
The grief sat heavy in my chest as I dressed, pulling on a clean shirt and stuffing my practice gear into my duffel. I checked my phone again on instinct.
Another text from my dad.
Dad: We can’t keep this quiet forever. If you won’t listen, we’ll find someone who will.
My stomach dropped. He threatened serving me quite a bit but wasn’t acting on it yet. He would soon.
That wasn’t subtle. That wasn’t concern. That was a goddamn threat.
I locked my phone and shoved it into my pocket before I could spiral. Not now. Not today. Not when I’d finally chosen something for myself instead of reacting to everyone else.
By the time I hit the parking garage, my body was tense and sore and my mind was already home.
The engine hummed under my hands as I pulled out into traffic, Lake Shore Drive crawling slow enough to give me space to think. I didn’t reach for my phone. I’d already said enough today. Tonight wasn’t about explaining or justifying. It was about showing up.
I pictured Em at the apartment—probably cross-legged at the table, hair falling into her face, trying to focus on work while pretending she wasn’t waiting. I imagined Miles mid-sentence, Sassy underfoot, the quiet domestic chaos that somehow felt more real than anything else in my life right now.
My chest tightened, nerves and relief tangling together.
I’d ordered a ridiculously large puzzle with dogs dressed up in suits, one we saw years ago, and she’d laughed hard.
I also picked out our favorite Thai food we ate in college all the time.
Em loved puzzles, the simplicity and calm of them.
I wanted nothing more than to do one with her and talk.
The condo lights were on when I pulled into the parking garage. My chest tightened as soon as I cut the engine, nerves finally catching up now that there was nothing left to distract me. Pads off, helmet stowed, game face gone—this was the part where I didn’t have to hide behind anything.
I grabbed the takeout bags, the puzzle box tucked under my arm, and I took a second before heading upstairs.
Just one breath. In through my nose, out through my mouth, the way Sloane had taught me when everything felt like it was piling up.
This wasn’t a fourth-quarter drive or a blitz pickup.
This was Em. This was home. That mattered more.
The door opened before I could knock.
“Uncle Noah!” Miles barreled into me at full speed, wrapping his arms around my legs with the kind of force only a kid his size could generate.
I laughed despite myself, setting the food down in time to scoop him up.
He smelled like soap and syrup and outside, his hair still damp at the nape of his neck.
“Hey, dragon rider,” I said, lifting him until his feet left the floor. “How was school?”
He launched into a story immediately—something about recess and a kid who definitely cheated at tag and how Ms. Em helped him remember most of his library books even though he forgot one. I listened, nodding and asking questions where it mattered, but my eyes had already found her.
Em sat at the table, laptop open but clearly abandoned, one leg tucked under the other.
She wore soft black leggings and an oversized Central State sweatshirt, the old one with the faded logo she’d stolen from me years ago and had never given back.
Her hair was pulled up in a messy knot, glasses sliding slightly down her nose, and when she looked up and smiled at me, my chest warmed.
There she is.
“Hi,” she said, standing slowly, her cheeks pinkening.
“Yeah,” I replied, my voice rougher than I meant it to be. “Sorry I’m late. I had something I had to pick up.” I held up the bag, and her eyes widened. “I once recall you exclaiming loudly that knowing your Thai food order was the way to your heart.”