Chapter 24
NOAH
Iwoke up before my alarm, staring at the ceiling of a hotel room that smelled like detergent and stale coffee.
My body felt ready in the way it always did on game days—legs loose, shoulders heavy, hands already twitching like they wanted something solid to hit.
My mind, on the other hand, had been awake for hours.
I rolled onto my side and checked my phone, already bracing myself for what I might see.
A text from Em was sent early, a picture attached before I even opened it.
Miles sat at the table in his Rampage shirt, cereal smeared across his cheek, Sassy’s head resting on his foot like she’d decided that was her spot forever.
Em: Miss you already! Kick ass today, Noah!
Noah: You watching the game?
Em: Of course. Would never miss it.
Another photo came in, and it was Em. Her eyes were closed, her glasses on. She made her lips pucker into a kiss as she pointed at her shirt. It was new. Rampage-style, bejeweled, and shit. It was my number. She wore my jersey.
Something warm and aggressive flooded my veins. Another fantasy was her in my clothes. Just my jersey.
Noah: Oh my GOD.
Em: You like?
Noah: If we win today… can I see you in just that? PLEASE.
Em: Whoa, all caps. Someone must be…tense.
Noah: Em.
Noah: Em. On my bucket list of fantasies, you in my jersey is in the top three. I need you to understand the severity of that. This is serious.
Em: Oh, is it? Super serious?
Noah: You little shit.
Em: LMAO
Em: Who’s to say I’m wearing anything underneath it now?
Noah: EM
Em: Just kidding. We’re running to the store in a bit to get some food and supplies. But yes, Noah. Play hard today and I’ll reward you.
Noah: You have no idea how hot that was to read. I might have a praise kink. Tell me I’m a good boy and give me treats.
Em: You are killing me today. Now go be a good boy and play hard.
I couldn’t stop fucking grinning. Em kept me updated with messages of her and Miles, so I never worried what they were doing or up to. I knew they’d met with her parents and that her brother might come visit for a day or two.
I loved that she kept me updated on her life, that she wanted to share this with me.
I loved that she brought Miles to her parents, that her brother wanted to come.
I had a few minutes before I had to get ready, so I scrolled.
I had a few messages I ignored because I didn’t have the capacity, but it’d feel good to delete them.
Three messages from my dad. Two from my mom. One from a number I didn’t recognize but somehow already knew belonged to a lawyer or something. The relief I’d felt evaporated instantly, replaced by a sharp, sour heat in my stomach.
I opened the first message.
Dad: Is this really what you think is appropriate?
Dad: You’re putting him at risk.
Mom: Who is watching him while you’re gone? Is she even licensed?
My jaw clenched so hard it hurt. I read the words again, slower this time, hoping I’d misunderstood. I hadn’t.
The next message was a photo.
Em and Miles, walking out of a coffee shop.
Miles holding her hand, swinging it like he always did, his feet barely touching the ground.
Em mid-sentence, her face open, relaxed, unguarded.
It took me a second to realize why my hands had started shaking because this was such a normal moment to capture.
They’d followed them. Or paid someone to.
Heat crept up my neck, anger and fear tangling together so tightly I couldn’t separate them. My dad’s next message came through before I could stop staring at the picture.
Dad: You’re neglecting your responsibilities. This will get ugly if you don’t take it seriously. Protect him.
Like I hadn’t been doing exactly that every day since Nat died.
I sat up abruptly, heart pounding, and typed Em’s name without thinking.
Noah: Hey, are you in the condo right now?
Noah: Don’t leave today. Stay inside. Order whatever you need to. Don’t let anyone up.
The dots didn’t appear right away, and the waiting was unbearable. My knee bounced against the mattress as I stared at the screen, every awful scenario lining up in my head. I hated that they’d dragged her into this. I hated that they’d weaponized my own fear against me.
Another buzz.
Em: Hey, yes, we’re home. We’re okay. What’s going on, Noah?
My shoulders sagged, relief hitting so hard it made me dizzy. I forced myself to slow down before responding.
Me: I’ll explain later. I’m sorry. Just… please stay inside today.
I dropped the phone on the bed and stood, pacing the length of the room. I needed to move. I needed something physical to burn this off, something I could control.
I dressed quickly, hands moving on instinct. Compression shirt. Pants. Hoodie. Shoes tied tight enough to feel secure. I grabbed my duffel and headed downstairs before my thoughts could catch up. This was fucking unacceptable. Spying on Miles. Bringing Em into this. Their actions were bullshit.
The bus ride to the stadium felt longer than usual, even though the route wasn’t that long.
I dropped into my seat and immediately braced my forearms on my thighs, fingers laced together so tightly my knuckles ached.
Quinn was already loud two rows up, music blasting through his headphones and bleeding into everyone else’s space, but today the noise didn’t do what it usually did.
I couldn’t shake the image of that photo. Em’s hand wrapped around Miles’s. The way he leaned into her like it was second nature. The way she looked relaxed, unaware she was being watched. My jaw clenched again, teeth grinding as heat crawled up my neck.
Jordan slid into the seat across from me, tapping my knee with his foot. “You good, man?” he asked, voice raised to compete with the music. “You look like you want to fight someone, and the game hasn’t even started.”
“I’m good,” I said, even though the words felt sharp in my mouth. “Just ready.”
Oliver sat across the aisle, elbows on his knees, eyes forward.
He didn’t ask. He never did on game days.
But he caught my eye for half a second and gave me a look that said I see it.
I nodded once, grateful for the silence.
I wasn’t sure if I could handle talking about it.
I might fucking explode. God, I wanted to take this aggression out on the field.
I was gonna spiral without a physical release.
As the bus pulled up to the stadium, my phone buzzed again in my pocket. I didn’t check it. I already knew what it would be, and if I opened the text now, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to shut that door again.
The stadium tunnels were loud and echoing, concrete amplifying every footstep and shout.
The smell hit first—grass, rubber, sweat, metal—familiar enough to calm my hands even while my chest stayed tight.
I dropped my duffel at my locker and started changing, movements automatic, muscle memory taking over where my head refused to cooperate.
Quinn was pacing as he taped his wrists, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “All right, fellas,” he yelled, clapping his hands. “Same shit as always. Punch first. Don’t let them breathe.”
Jordan echoed him, slapping lockers and hyping up the younger guys. “Protect the pocket. Make it ugly. Let’s go.”
I stayed quiet, pulling my jersey over my head and adjusting the pads underneath. My heart was pounding harder than usual, not from adrenaline but from the effort of keeping myself contained. Every part of me wanted to break something and go back to the condo and stand between Em and the world.
Coach Booth stepped into the locker room, and the noise didn’t stop so much as it recalibrated.
Quinn was still talking, someone was still laughing, but the volume dipped instinctively, like everyone’s body knew to listen even if their mouths hadn’t caught up yet.
Booth didn’t raise his voice or clap his hands.
He never did. He waited, clipboard tucked under his arm, eyes steady and patient in a way that made you want to earn his trust instead of avoid his disappointment.
“They’re going to test your discipline today,” he said once the room settled. His voice carried without effort, even and deliberate. “Late stunts. Inside pressure. They want you guessing instead of reacting. Don’t get cute. Communicate and do your job.”
I stood there, hands on my hips, sweat already cooling on my back, and the words hit somewhere deeper than football. Discipline. Reaction. Control. The things I was clinging to right now whether I wanted to admit it or not.
Booth’s gaze moved across the room slowly, lingering on faces like he was checking inventory. When his eyes landed on me, they stayed there a beat longer than necessary. Not accusing. Assessing.
“Abbott,” he said. “Walk with me.”
A few heads turned. Quinn shot me a look, eyebrows raised, but I didn’t give him anything back.
I followed Booth out into the hallway, the noise of the locker room fading behind us as the concrete walls swallowed sound.
My pulse thudded harder with every step, not from nerves about the game, but because I knew he saw it.
Whatever I’d been trying to keep contained.
He stopped near the tunnel entrance, arms crossing over his chest as he turned to face me. The hum of the stadium filtered in faintly, distant cheers bleeding through the walls. Booth studied me in silence for a moment, long enough that I had to consciously keep myself from filling it.
“You’re playing angry today,” he said finally. His tone was calm, almost conversational. “I can see it in on your face, how you’re standing.”
I let out a slow breath through my nose, jaw tight. There was no point pretending. Booth had coached long enough to know when a player’s head wasn’t in the game.
“Family stuff,” I said. The words felt inadequate, but they were all I had ready. “They crossed a line.”