Chapter 5 Damien
Damien
Monday hits and I’m not prepared.
The court smells like varnish and that sharp chemical bite of floor polish, the kind that sticks to the back of your throat if you breathe in too deeply.
The rhythmic squeak of sneakers on hardwood is usually grounding, but today it only grates on my nerves. Same with the echo of the ball smacking against the floor in quick, perfect intervals that usually pulls my mind into focus—not today.
My head isn’t here. My hands know what to do, my body remembers every drill, every pivot, every cut across the court, but my mind is a thousand miles away.
It’s in a room back home, three doors down from mine. It’s still caught in mismatched blue and brown eyes that should hate me but don’t.
Every time I try to drag my thoughts back to the play, to the weight of the ball in my hands or the sound of Coach Blakely barking from the sideline, I see him. Sitting next to Ryan at dinner time, not interacting with anyone, and barely eating anything.
It’s only been two days, and he’s already everywhere.
“Moore!”
The bark of my name slices through the fog in my head. I blink just in time to see the pass I was supposed to catch sail past my hands and slam onto the floor with a hollow thud. The rebound bounces out of bounds, and everyone stops.
“Jesus Christ, Damien!” Coach Blakely’s voice is a whip crack, dragging my attention forward, whether I like it or not. “You wanna wake up sometime today, or are you saving that for the damn playoffs?”
A few of the guys laugh nervously under their breaths, the sound cutting off when Coach glares at them. My jaw tightens as I meet his furious blue-eyed gaze. Everyone knows not to piss off Coach Blakely on a Monday, but here I fucking am.
I rub the back of my neck and mutter, “Sorry, Coach.”
“Sorry doesn’t win games, Moore,” he snaps, stalking over to me.
“You think you’re hot shit because you’re a legacy player and your name’s all over the stat sheet.
But if you can’t keep your head in the game, you’re a liability.
I’ve got a bench full of hungry players who’d kill for your spot. You wanna give it to them?”
Bringing up my dad is a low fucking blow, and he knows it. I shake my head. “No, Coach.”
“Then show me why I chose you to lead this team!”
The next whistle blows, and we reset. My muscles burn from the repetition, but it’s the kind of pain that clears my mind and finally lets me fucking focus. I catch passes on autopilot, take the shots, make it, but don’t feel it. The ball leaves my hands, the net whispers, but none of it matters.
By the end of practice, sweat slicks my back, and the front of my shirt clings to my chest. My legs ache, my throat is raw, and I can feel a bruise blooming along my ribs from a poorly timed rebound.
Coach dismisses us with one last threat about focus, and the team breaks apart fast. We’re all headed to the locker room with the quiet relief of men escaping the full brunt of Coach Blakely’s wrath.
The locker room is all white tiles and steel benches, the air thick with steam, sweat, and the smell of deodorant. I drop onto the bench in front of my locker, elbows on my knees and head hanging.
My heartbeat is still going too fast, and my thoughts are all jumbled up. I tug at the hem of my tank, pull it over my head, and wipe my face with it. Fuck, I need to get my breathing under control.
“You want to tell me what the hell that was?”
Ryan’s voice cuts through the noise of running showers and slamming locker doors. He’s standing across from me, curls dripping, towel slung around his shoulders, and lips drawn into a thin line.
I don’t answer him right away. I grab my water bottle instead, twist off the cap, and take a long drink until the plastic crinkles in my grip. “Not now, Torres.”
He scoffs. “Yeah, now. You nearly got your ass benched, and last I checked, you actually gave a shit about basketball.”
“I said drop it,” I grumble, and he ignores me, of course.
“I won’t fucking drop it. You’re distracted, short-tempered, and playing like someone took your spine out. What’s going on, D? You haven’t been right since Friday, and…” he trails off, and I watch as he pieces everything together in real time. “Eah, puneta. Is this about Noah?”
I stand up slowly, the motion way too controlled for how I’m feeling right now. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
Ryan doesn’t back down—he never fucking does. He just tilts his head slightly, arms folding across his chest, and his gaze doesn’t waver. Something about how calm he looks only sets my teeth further on edge.
“I don’t?” he retorts. “Because from where I’m standing, it sure as hell looks like you’ve been spiraling ever since Noah walked through that front door.”
I clench my jaw so tight I feel it pop. “You need to shut the fuck up.”
“No. You need to pull your head out of your ass,” he snaps, stepping closer.
“You think I don’t see it? How you look at him when you think no one’s watching?
How you went mute the second he walked into that kitchen?
Jesus, Damien, he’s living in the same house as you again, sleeping down the hall, and you haven’t said more than three words to him. What the hell is your plan here?”
“My plan,” I grind out, “was for him not to be here at all.”
“Yeah? And whose fault is that? Not his. You’re the one who left. You didn’t just ghost him, you fucking shattered him, and now you’re acting like he’s the problem for existing in the same goddamn space?”
I close the distance between us, my chest brushing his. “You don’t know what the fuck happened, Ryan.”
“No, I don’t, because you won’t tell me!” he exclaims. “You won’t tell him, either, and he’s the one who fucking deserves to know more than anyone. I’ve been watching you both circle each other like you’re afraid touching will make you combust. Newsflash, pendejo—it already did.”
My vision goes red, and my fist connects with his jaw before I register that I’ve moved.
The crack echoes through the locker room, cutting through the sound of the showers and banter. Ryan’s head jerks sideways, and he stumbles back half a step, catching himself on the edge of the bench. The red blooms fast on his cheek, a flash of color against flushed, tanned skin.
A few lockers slam shut mid-conversation. One of the guys mutters a low “holy shit,” but no one intervenes.
Ryan straightens slowly, hand rising to cradle his jaw. He doesn’t hit me back or yell. He just looks at me, and it’s fucking worse than anger.
“?Te sientes mejor?” he asks, his voice tight.
The adrenaline spikes, then crashes, leaving nothing but shame and the dull ache in my knuckles. My stomach twists as I look at him and see what I’ve done.
“No,” I mutter, swallowing hard. “Fuck. Ryan—”
“Don’t,” he says, holding up his hand. “Just… don’t.”
“I didn’t mean to—”
“But you did,” he cuts in. “You wanted to hurt someone, and I was right there.”
I breathe out through my nose. “You pushed me.”
“I always push you,” he says, wiping the blood from his lip with the back of his hand. “That’s never made you violent before.”
The guilt crashes over me so fucking fast, I might puke. I sit down hard on the bench behind me, elbows on my knees, hands curled tight. I don’t have a defense. I don’t have anything except this fucked-up knot in my chest and a shame I can’t swallow.
“I’m sorry,” I breathe. “Fuck, Ryan. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”
Ryan studies me for a second, then he exhales and glances toward the door, where a couple of the guys are still watching us like it’s a car crash they can’t look away from. “Sort your shit out, Moore,” he mutters, then grabs his gym bag and turns away.
The moment he walks out, the shame deepens.
I punched one of my best friends because I can’t handle the way Noah exists in the same building as me.
Because I can’t get a grip on the feelings I’ve been burying since the day I walked away from him.
Because two days of seeing him again is enough to unravel everything I’ve tried to stitch back together.
I let my head fall into my hands, heart pounding against my ribs.
I can survive a lot, I’ve proven that. But I’m not sure I can survive him again.