Chapter 12
Twelve
Blair
The hallway feels colder than his room. Sharper. Like the air hasn’t been touched by breath or heat or him. I clutch my phone, thumbs fumbling as I text Kinsley back.
Me:
I’m fine. Just needed air. Be back soon.
I don’t say where I was. I don’t say whose lap I was in. I don’t say that I let her brother kiss me like he was rewriting my soul. How could I tell her that?
I turn the corner and run straight into Micah.
Literally.
My shoulder hits his chest, and I stumble back, startled. He catches me by the elbow, steadying me before I can fall.
“Whoa,” he says, eyes wide. “You okay?”
I nod too fast. “Yeah. Sorry. I wasn’t looking.”
Micah’s gaze flicks down to my hands. The jersey is still there—crumpled, unmistakable. His eyes narrow.
“That’s Kane’s number.”
I freeze.
He doesn’t say it like it’s trivia. He says it like it’s evidence.
“I—he gave it to me,” I say, voice thin.
Micah’s jaw tightens. “Did he?”
I nod again, slower this time.
He studies me for a beat too long. “You were in his room?”
I don’t answer.
Micah exhales through his nose, like he’s trying to stay calm. “Just… be careful, Blair.”
I blink. “Why?”
Micah doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. His gaze flicks from the jersey in my hands to the flush still lingering on my face.
“He’s got girls lined up,” he says, voice low. “You know that, right?”
I stiffen.
“They wait outside practice. DM him like it’s a sport. Some of them brag about hooking up with him like it’s a badge.”
I swallow, fingers tightening around the fabric.
Micah leans in just slightly. “You think you’re different. Special. But Kane doesn’t do relationships, Blair. He does control. And when he’s done, he moves on.”
I blink, heart thudding.
“He’s not built for softness,” Micah adds. “He’s built for winning.”
I want to speak. To defend. To say you don’t know him. But the words knot in my throat.
And then he walks away.
Leaving me in the hallway, jersey in hand, heart in my throat, and Kane’s voice still echoing in my chest—Just let me in.
I slam the door behind me and press my back to it, chest heaving. The room is quiet—too quiet. Kinsley’s not back yet from the dining hall. Just me. Just the chaos.
I drop the jersey on my bed like it’s burning my hands.
Then I start to count.
One. Two. Three.
Four. Five. Six.
But the numbers won’t hold. They slip. They tangle. They bleed into each other like watercolors left out in the rain.
Seven. Eight.
No—wait. I already said eight. Or did I skip it?
I start again.
One. Two.
Micah’s voice: He’s got girls lined up.
Three. Four.
Kane’s breath on my neck: You’re mine.
Five. Six.
My own voice: I want it to be you.
Seven—
I choke on it.
Tears spill down my cheeks before I even feel them coming. My knees hit the floor. My palms press to the rug. I try to breathe in fours. I try to tap my fingers in rhythm. I try to anchor myself.
But the numbers won’t stay.
The steps won’t hold.
And I don’t know how to quiet the storm Kane left behind.
I curl in on myself, forehead to the floor, and whisper the only thing I can manage.
“Please… just stop.”
But nothing does.
I check my alarm twice.
6:45 AM.
Then again.
Still 6:45.
It’s the only thing that feels solid. The only thing I can control.
And then my phone buzzes.
I glance down, heart already stuttering.
Kane:
Meet me before the game tomorrow.
My stomach flutters. Then drops.
Like I’ve just stepped off a ledge I didn’t know I was standing on.
I stare at the screen, the words glowing back at me like a dare.
Meet me.
Before the game.
Before the noise.
Before the world sees us.
I clutch the phone tighter, pulse racing. I should count. I should breathe. I should do something. But all I can do is sit there, knees pulled to my chest, and whisper the numbers like a prayer.
One. Two. Three. Four.
Five. Six. Seven. Eight.
They don’t help.
Because Kane’s voice is louder.
You’re mine.
I’ll be the rhythm.
I want you under my life.
And now he wants me before the game.
Before the crowd.
Before the mask goes on.
I don’t know what that means.
But I know I’ll go.
Even if it shatters me.
Kinsley walks in, balancing a to-go box from the dining hall and a drink in her elbow. “I brought you a sandwich,” she mentions, voice light. “Figured you skipped dinner again.”
I wipe my face quickly, trying to smooth the panic from my features.
She sets the box on my desk, then turns toward my bed and freezes.
Her eyes lock on the jersey.
Kane’s jersey.
Her brother’s number.
Folded. Sitting there like a confession.
She doesn’t speak right away. Just stares. Then slowly walks over and sits beside me, her weight dipping the mattress.
“I saw your face before I saw the jersey,” she mentions quietly. “And it scared me.”
I blink, throat tight.
“I know you,” she continues. “I know what it looks like when you’re unraveling. And I know what it costs you to let someone in.”
Her voice softens. “I love you, Blair. Not in the easy way. In the I’d fight for you even when you’re pushing me away kind of way.”
I swallow hard.
“So if you’re falling for him,” she starts, “just don’t lose yourself in the fall. Because I need you. The you that counts in eights and breathes in patterns and sees things no one else does.”
“Eat something,” she murmurs softly. “You look like you need it.”
I take it with shaking hands.
Because she’s right.
And I don’t know how to explain that I’m already unraveling, and Kane’s the only thing that makes the chaos feel like it has a rhythm.