Chapter Fourteen
Fourteen
Kane
The locker room is loud. Music thumps from someone’s speaker, cleats scrape against tile, and the usual trash talk flies across benches like sparks. It’s game day, and the Riverhawks are loose, hyped, ready to tear through whatever team dares to stand in front of them.
But I’m not locked in.
I sit at my locker, elbows on my knees, jersey half on, staring at the concrete like it might give me answers. My phone’s buried in my bag. I haven’t checked it. I won’t. Not yet. Because I don’t know if she’ll show.
I told Blair to meet me before the game. Before the noise. Before the world sees us. But maybe I pushed too hard last night. Maybe the kiss—the way I claimed her, the way I didn’t ask—was too much. She kissed me back. I know she did. But she also looked like she might shatter in my hands.
Across the room, Micah’s laughing with a few of the guys, loud and easy, like he didn’t spend the last week circling Blair like a vulture. He catches my eye for half a second and smirks, just enough to make my jaw tighten.
He’s been waiting for a crack.
And if Blair doesn’t come… maybe he found one.
Micah’s voice cuts through the noise like a blade.
“Ran into Blair this morning,” he says, too casually, as he strolls over to my locker. “She was looking extra hot.”
I don’t look up. I keep my elbows on my knees, fists clenched, jaw locked. He’s fishing. I know it. He knows I know it. But he’s still here, still circling, still trying to draw blood without throwing a punch.
“She was wearing that tight black hoodie,” he adds, leaning against the locker beside mine. “Hair pulled back. Real quiet. Real pretty.”
I glance at him, slow and sharp.
He smirks. “Didn’t say much. Just looked… distracted. Thought maybe she was thinking about you. Or maybe not.”
I stand.
Not fast. Not loud. Just enough to shift the air.
Micah doesn’t move. He just watches me, eyes gleaming with something smug. Something bitter. Something that still hasn’t healed from the hit I gave him last week.
“She’s got that look, you know?” he says. “Like she wants to be wanted. By someone who knows what they’re doing.”
I step closer.
He lifts his hands, mock surrender. “Hey, I’m just saying. You might not be the only one she’s meeting before the game.”
I don’t respond.
Because if I do, I’ll break something.
Micah walks off, laughing under his breath, and the locker room noise rushes back in like a flood. But it’s all static now. All background.
Because the only thing I can hear is her name.
And the only thing I can feel is the heat rising in my chest.
“I hate that fucker.”
My fist slams into the locker, the metal ringing out sharp and final. Heads turn. No one says a word. They know better.
Rhett’s already walking over, helmet dangling from his fingers, brows raised. He’s the only one who doesn’t flinch when I lose it. He’s seen worse.
“Who’s the chick?” he asks, voice low. “Because I know damn well that’s the only thing that gets you this riled up.”
I don’t answer right away. My knuckles throb. The locker door’s dented. Micah’s smirk still burns in the back of my skull.
“Blair,” I say finally. Her name grounds me. “Micah saw her this morning. Said she looked hot. Said she might be meeting someone else.”
Rhett whistles under his breath. “He’s still pissed you laid him out.”
“He’s still trying to get in my head,” I mutter.
Rhett shrugs. “Then don’t let him.”
I nod, jaw tight. Because I don’t believe Micah. Not for a second. Blair’s not like that. She’s not playing games. She’s not looking for attention. And even if she was—I’d know. I’d feel it.
But that’s not the point.
The point is, I don’t want her name in his mouth.
Micah’s loud across the room, laughing with a couple of the guys like he didn’t just try to twist the knife. He’s a decent player. Fast. Sharp. But he’s not the captain. He’s not respected. Not really.
I am.
And if he thinks he can mess with me through her, he’s about to learn what it means to cross a line.
“I’ve got somewhere to be.”
I look at Rhett, voice low but firm. He’s the only one I owe an explanation to.
“I’ll be ready in time.”
Rhett smirks, shrugs his shoulders like he’s already bracing for the fallout. “Coach is going to kill you, brother.”
“I can deal with him.” I grab my phone, the screen still dark. “I need to see my girl.”
That last part slips out before I can stop it. But it’s true. She’s not just some distraction. Not just some pre-game ritual. She’s the thing that’s got my pulse racing harder than kickoff.
I bolt out of the locker room, cleats echoing against the hallway tile. The noise fades behind me, Micah’s laugh, the music, the scent of sweat and adrenaline. None of it matters.
Because if Blair’s out there waiting, doubting, spiraling, I need to be the one she sees first.
Before the crowd.
Before the game.
Before anyone else tries to rewrite what last night meant.
Blair
Kinsley’s curling her hair at the mirror, one leg tucked under her, the wand spinning through long strands like it’s just another Saturday. She hums something soft, something forgettable, and doesn’t look up when I sit on the edge of my bed.
She’s being cool about this. Too cool.
I expected her to freak out—throw a pillow, demand answers, ask what the hell I’m doing getting tangled up with her older brother. But she doesn’t. She just curls another piece, sprays it, and glances at me like she’s waiting for me to speak first.
I don’t.
Instead, I stare at the jersey on the chair. Grey, white, and hunter green. Number 17. Kane’s number. His world. His scent still clings to the fabric, faint and stubborn.
“You’re gonna wear it?” Kinsley asks, finally breaking the silence.
I nod slowly. “I think so.”
She shrugs, like it’s no big deal. But I see the flicker in her eyes. Not judgment. Not jealousy. Just… worry.
“You don’t have to explain,” she says. “I get it. He’s intense. But he’s not stupid. If he’s choosing you, he means it.”
I swallow hard. “It’s not just him I’m worried about.”
She turns off the curling wand and sets it down. “The crowd?”
I nod again. My throat’s tight. “It’s going to be packed. Loud. I don’t know if I can—“
“You don’t have to stay long,” she says gently. “Just show up. Let him see you. Then we can bail if it gets too much.”
I look at her. Really look. She’s calm. Steady. The kind of anchor I didn’t know I needed.
I reach for the jersey and slip it over my head.
It’s heavy. Familiar. Terrifying.
But I wear it anyway.
Because I promised him.
Because I want to be brave.
Because I want to be his—even if just for today.
Kinsley sets the curling wand down and turns to me, her voice soft. “Want me to do your hair?”
I blink. “What?”
She shrugs, casual. “You always wear it straight when you’re nervous. I figured… maybe curls would feel different. Lighter.”
I hesitate. My fingers twitch against the hem of Kane’s jersey. “I don’t know.”
She pats the stool in front of her. “Sit. Let me help.”
I move slowly, like I’m stepping into something sacred. She doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t push. Just sections my hair and starts curling, the wand spinning through blonde strands with practiced ease. The heat smells like product and comfort. Her hands are gentle. Steady.
“You don’t have to be anyone but yourself,” she says quietly. “Even in his jersey.”
I swallow hard. “I’m scared.”
“Of the crowd?”
I nod. “Of being seen. Of being his in front of everyone.”
She pauses, then resumes curling. “You already are. This just makes it visible.”
I close my eyes for a moment, letting the rhythm of her movements settle me. The curls fall soft around my shoulders, framing my face like armor made of silk.
When she finishes, she hands me a mirror.
I look like someone brave.
Not fearless. Not invincible.
But brave enough to show up.
I stand in front of the mirror, curls soft around my shoulders, Kane’s jersey hanging heavy on my frame. My heart’s thudding, not fast, but deep like it’s echoing through my ribs. Kinsley watches me from the bed, legs crossed, phone in her lap.
“I need to go,” I say, voice low.
She looks up. “To meet him?”
I nod. “Before the game. He asked me to.”
Kinsley doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t tease. Just studies me like she’s checking for cracks. “You sure?”
“No,” I admit. “But I’m going anyway.”
She smiles, small and warm. “I’ll meet you there. I’ll find a spot near the edge of the crowd, just in case.”
I exhale, grateful. “Thanks.”
“Text me if you need out,” she replies. “I’ll come get you.”
I grab my phone, my ID, and shove my hands into my pockets.
I open the door and step into the hallway, the air cooler than I expected. My steps echo against the tile, and I count them without meaning to.
One. Two. Three. Four.
I’m not fearless.
But I’m going.
The stadium rises in the distance, all steel and noise and anticipation. I can already hear the buzz of early fans, staff, and the hum of game day energy. But I’m not heading toward the crowd.
I’m heading toward the edge.
Kane’s directions were vague—Meet me before the game—but I follow what little directions he gave me. Past the student lot. Past the loading dock. Past the chain-link fence that separates the stadium from the maintenance trail.
And there it is.
A narrow path behind the bleachers, half-shielded by overgrown hedges and the shadow of the concrete wall. Secluded. Quiet. Forgotten.
He’s already there.
Leaning against the wall, hoodie pulled up, head bowed like he’s been waiting for hours. When he looks up, the noise of the stadium disappears. It’s just him. Just me. Just the space between us.
I step closer, heart thudding.
He doesn’t speak. Just reaches out, fingers brushing mine, pulling me into the shadow with him.
And suddenly, it’s not game day.
It’s not routines.
It’s not chaos.
It’s us.
“I didn’t know if you’d come,” he says, voice low, rough.
“I almost didn’t,” I whisper.
His jaw tightens. “Micah said something, didn’t he?”