Chapter 26 Real & Raw Beau
Real & Raw
Beau
Bluebeard sprawls across the back of the couch like it’s his own personal throne. One paw dangles over the edge, tail flicking lazily. Luna’s kneeling on the couch beside him, scratching his chin while murmuring nonsense as if he understands. The cat leans into it with all the trust in the world.
Figures. The cat gets a more affectionate goodbye than I do.
I lean against the kitchen doorway, mug warming my hands.
There’s something inexplicably grounding about watching her like this.
Hoodie askew, yesterday’s makeup ghosting the corners of her eyes, hair barely hanging on in the loose bun she threw up last night.
There’s glitter stuck to her cheek from Celeste’s overzealous goodbye hug. She doesn’t seem to notice.
My eyes fixate on the trail of sparkles, but not in the usual way. Untidiness, day-old makeup. Normally, that’s the sort of thing that would itch at my brain. Bother me until I swiped it away. But it looks good on her. Perfect really. I can’t stop staring.
“I think he loves me more than he loves you,” she says, not looking up.
“Unlikely,” I murmur, sipping my coffee. “He’s just using you for your long nails.”
Her usual smile is sharp, and a little guarded.
But this one is softer, genuine. The kind I want to earn.
She scratches behind Bluebeard’s ears one last time.
Then she straightens with a stretch, arms overhead, hoodie riding up just enough to make my breath catch.
It’s nothing. Skin and shadow. But my body still reacts like it’s something seismic.
I swallow around it.
“I should go,” she says, blinking toward the window. “Coach Danner’s going to strip me of my captaincy if I’m late for this meeting. Or murder me. Could go either way.” She shrugs.
She scoops up her phone from the counter, thumbs flying, brow furrowed like she’s trying to reschedule her entire life on the walk to the rink. Maybe she is.
“Crap. I’m gonna have to walk like a cartoon character trying to outrun gravity.”
“See you at practice?” Funny how the change in practice times started us off on the wrong foot, but now it’s the thing I’m most thankful for. Knowing I’ll get to see her between our exhausting schedules.
She heads toward the door, pulling on her jacket one sleeve at a time. “Definitely. Unless Coach really goes through with it this time. Which is a possibility. If you don’t hear from me in a couple of hours, avenge my death.”
I step up behind her, hands slipping around her waist, and drop a kiss on the back of her neck. She shivers under the touch.
“Before you go. I have a question for you?” I murmur the words against her neck.
“Mm hm.” Her voice is wispy, but she shakes off the fuzz. “If you’re trying to seduce me into climbing back into bed with you, it’s not going to work. Remember? Murderous coach waiting?” She doesn’t move away, though.
My laugh is husky. “It’s not that. Not that I’d refuse. But no, it’s about the gala I was telling you about. It’s next Saturday. I’d still love for you to come.” I say, slower than intended.
“Oh shit, is it?” I can feel her tense up. “Right. Still want me to come?”
“Yeah,” I say, and it comes out quiet but steady. “I do.”
“I guess it was a bit much for a first date, but a second date. Why not?”
“Yes, save the black-tie affair for after we spend the day babysitting your sullen teenager of a sister.” I shake my head.
“She’s not... well, yeah, I guess she is. But you loved it.”
“I loved spending time with you and getting to know you a little better, not fending off your little sister’s dance friends.”
“They didn’t mean any harm. Their moms, on the other hand.”
I nod. “Right? They were terrifying. But I escaped intact.”
“You did. Thank you for taking us,” she says, leaning into me. “I guess you got through that, so I can probably survive a charity fundraiser.”
“You don’t owe me anything. If you don’t want to go, don’t feel like you have to just because I came to your sister’s thing.”
“Oh good. So, the ride didn’t come with a blood oath of service to the Whitaker family?”
I laugh, but it doesn’t quite ease the nerves. I really want her to come with me, but I can’t blame her if she doesn’t want to. “No. That clause only kicks in if I give you a ride on the family yacht.”
“A yacht? Of course.” She twists around, looping her arms around my neck. “Yes. I’ll come to the gala with you. But don’t blame me if I use the wrong fork.”
“It’s hors d’oeuvres only. No forks.”
“That’s a relief. Thanks for easing my mind.”
“Always.” I slide my hands up her back to tangle in her hair, pulling her in.
Then I dip down to capture her lips. She moves with me, lips pliable.
Tongue darting out to trace my lower lip.
Lust fizzes through me, sending tingles through my body.
My fingers flex in her hair, and my tongue strokes hers.
Then I remember our conversation and groan, pulling away. “You better get out of here, Wild Thing, or I’ll be dragging you upstairs caveman style.”
“Right, crap.” She pushes me away and runs a hand through her hair. Then she backs up, turning to push the door open. “I’ll see you later.”
“Later.”
The door clicks behind her. The house is immediately, oppressively silent. No echo of her boots on hardwood. No scent of her sweet shampoo lingering in the air.
Just me. A half-drunk mug of coffee. And a cat who’s already pretending I don’t exist. Although that’s preferable to JJ sticking himself all up in my business.
The basement hums with fluorescent lights and the faint buzz of the old treadmill in standby mode. The air smells like sweat and rubber and something metallic underneath.
Dev’s already warming up. He doesn’t look up when I walk in. Just nods once, the silent acknowledgment of two people who know what this space is for.
I set my water bottle down and start stretching. We don’t talk. We don’t have to.
I lift. He spots. Then we switch.
It’s the kind of repetitive motion I crave. Steady, predictable, dependable. There’s something about matching someone else’s breath that tricks your brain into thinking everything’s okay.
“You good?” he asks.
I don’t look at him. “Yeah.”
He doesn’t respond. Just keeps taping his wrist, slow and tight. He’s as efficient with his exercises as he is with his words.
“Just tired,” I add.
“Uh-huh.” The sound is too flat to be agreement. “You’ve been tired since Chicago.”
The clang of the barbell hitting the floor rings through the room as I set it down harder than necessary.
Dev glances at me, expression unreadable. “You bolted after the game. JJ said he thought you were gonna puke.”
“Thanks for the medical update.”
He waits again. He’s too patient. It makes it worse.
“You ever talk to anyone?” he asks eventually. “About... everything?”
I pause mid-reach for a kettlebell. “Like a therapist?”
He nods. “Started back up last spring. Took me a while to find someone who didn’t drive me crazier with their chatter, but it helped.”
I grip the handle tighter. “You’re just now telling me this?”
“I wasn’t hiding it. It just... wasn’t relevant until now.”
His tone’s neutral, but I hear it anyway. The not-so-subtle suggestion that now it is relevant. That I’m unraveling a little and he sees it.
“I’m fine,” I say. “I’ve got routines.”
“You also have panic attacks in equipment closets.”
The sentence hits harder than I expect. Not because it’s cruel. Because it’s true. And clearly, I haven’t been hiding my spiral as well as I’d imagined.
I sit down on the bench, elbows on knees, sweat cooling against my skin.
“I don’t know how to explain it,” I admit. “It’s like... things get loud. Even when there’s no sound. And my body just quits. I can’t breathe, I can’t talk.”
Dev nods slowly, like he gets it. Because he probably does.
“You can’t logic your way out of it,” he says. “Believe me, I tried. What you’ve got, Whitaker, is a toolbox of coping mechanisms. But they’re just temporary patches. If you don’t learn proper techniques to deal with your issues, they’ll spring too many leaks to control.”
I rub a hand over my face, the faint stubble catching against my palm.
I need to shave. “I should be able to deal with my problems on my own.” Something driven into me since my childhood.
Don’t let the world see you crumble. Don’t let the public into your private life.
Rules I’ve been flaunting dangerously of late.
“No,” he says firmly. “It’s pressure. And your brain thinks the only way to keep breathing is to shut everything else down.”
His voice is low. Calm. Not pitying. Just solid.
I look up. “I feel trapped.” The words get stuck in my throat on the way out.
It’s hard to admit, especially to Dev. I know how hard he had it growing up.
Alcoholic father, foster care, neglect. I’m lucky to have all the opportunities I could ever dream of laid out in front of me. All except the one I want.
He grunts, curls never ceasing as he looks at me through narrowed eyes. “Trapped?”
“Never mind. It doesn’t matter.” I try to shake it off, bending down to switch up the weights on the bar.
“Dude. It does. What you want matters.”
“Thanks,” I say, not really believing myself.
“If you won’t listen to me, you should talk to someone else.” He’s so casual about it. Makes it sound so normal.
“You think therapy’s gonna fix me?”
He shrugs. “It won’t fix you. It’ll just help you recognize when you’re bullshitting yourself.”
We fall back into silence, but it’s different now. Not empty. Just... paused. I exhale slowly, and the air tastes cleaner than it did ten minutes ago.
By the time we climb the stairs, I’m drenched, drained, and weirdly lighter.
That is, until JJ nearly smacks me in the face with his phone.
“Dude,” he says, eyes wide. “You’re going viral.”
I blink, chest still heaving from the last set. “What are you talking about?”
“Socials, blogs, online news outlets All of them. You and Luna.”
He taps the screen and holds it out. It’s a photo from last night.
We’re in the theater parking lot, backlit by a halo of headlights.
Luna’s sitting on the curb with a cup of something warm, her hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, her hair a chaotic knot, half falling out of the elastic.
She looks exhausted. Real. Smiling. Not a sign of her perfectly polished influencer persona.
And I’m standing there, looking at her like I forgot anyone else existed. My stomach flips. Hard.
JJ swipes. This shot shows Luna leaning on the handle of Celeste’s garment bag while Celeste herself leans against my car, laughing. I’m in the background, blurred but visible. A ghost in my own life.
Swipe.
Us again. Walking side by side, the night sky dim and grainy behind us. She’s got her phone out, waving it at Celeste, and I’m just... watching her. It’s the kind of moment that wasn’t meant to be captured. Which, of course, is why someone did.
JJ whistles. “Wildaker. Dude, you’ve got a couple name. You’ve made it.”
Dev leans in beside me, face unreadable. “Where the hell did these come from?”
“Some arts blog first. Then someone tagged Luna, and now it’s on, like, every gossip account with a follower count over ten K.”
The caption underneath one of them reads:
“Who is the girl with Beau Whitaker? Is the country’s most eligible ice prince off the market?”
My jaw clenches.
JJ’s still scrolling. “Look, you guys are trending with, like, hearts and swoon emojis. It’s all good stuff.”
I shake my head. “That’s not the point. We weren’t filming. It was supposed to be a private moment. They don’t know her. That’s not her.”
“What do you mean?”
“She was tired. She was just trying to support her sister. She wasn’t performing. She was just... being Luna.”
And now the world thinks they’re entitled to it. Her laugh. Her face. Her proximity to me.
JJ shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “Public loves it, though. Comments are wild. Someone made a fan edit already. It’s low-key romantic.”
That makes it worse.
Because this thing. This fragile, sharp, still-forming thing between us. It’s real. Or it was. But now it’s content.
I hand him the phone without another word and push past them both. Take the stairs like I’m chasing something. Close my bedroom door with a solid thud that rattles the frame.
I sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, and stare at nothing.
She trusted me.
She let me into her orbit. Let me hold a corner of her chaos. And I told myself I could keep it safe.
Now she’s trending.
Now she’s a headline.
And it’s all my fault.