Chapter 42 Damien
Damien
I drive home on pure muscle memory, headlights cutting through the dark, mind miles away from the empty stretch of highway between the Blackthorne U parking lot and the house.
This is the kind of night that should have me riding high—press, scouts in the stands, a stat line that’ll make the blogs tomorrow.
But there’s news in my chest, twisting and writhing, and none of it feels real yet.
Ryan is riding shotgun, slouched low, one leg bouncing, earbuds in but not really listening to music. He glances at me every so often, probably trying to read my mood.
“You good?” he asks when we pull into the long driveway.
“Yeah,” I manage when I cut off the engine. “Just tired. It was a long trip.”
Ryan just shakes his head and heads inside, leaving me standing in the chilly night air, key fob clutched tightly in my palm.
The grass is frosted, shoes crunching as I make my way around the house, counting every step while I’m stuck inside my own head.
I’m not ready. I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready.
Inside, the place is too quiet for a Saturday night, even by Sin Bin standards.
The boys must have decided to stay out after the game or left for parties.
I hear the faint clatter of dishes in the kitchen, a burst of laughter that dies down when someone notices me, and then footsteps sounding from the living room.
“Hey,” Luca says when he sees me, catching the tightness in my jaw. “Great win, D.”
“Yeah,” I answer, and my voice sounds rough, almost unfamiliar. “Team played hard.”
He lets a small smile slip, and for a second, I want to tell him everything, but the words lodge in my throat. “Congrats, man,” he says quietly, and then leaves me to it.
I take the stairs two at a time, muscle memory carrying me straight to my room.
The door’s slightly open, the hall dim except for the thin line of gold spilling out from inside.
I pause, just for a second, catching my breath, steadying myself on the threshold between the world as I knew it and the one that’s about to change.
The world where I have everything I ever wanted—and I might have to choose.
I push the door open, quieter than I need to, and see him curled up on my bed. He’s wrapped in my oldest, softest shirt, blue hair half covering his face, one pale ankle sticking out from beneath the blanket.
My heart aches just looking at him, at the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the peace that sleep brings him—peace he rarely finds awake. There’s color in his cheeks tonight, a little more than last week. He’s healing. He’s still here.
I peel off my shirt and jeans, dropping them wherever they land.
I want him—want skin and heat and the steady, grounding weight of him.
I slide under the covers and wrap an arm around his waist, pulling him into the curve of my body.
He’s warm and solid, and for a second, I let myself just exist here, breathing in the lavender and citrus, and the quiet, sweet smell of Noah.
All I want is this—quiet, safe, holding him through the night, the news I’m carrying tucked away for tomorrow. I should be celebrating, or panicking, or maybe both. Because after the game, my phone lit up with missed calls from my agent.
Top draft pick.
It’s the kind of call you wait your whole life for, the kind of call that should have you screaming in a parking lot with your friends, jumping on tables, cracking open champagne in the locker room.
But all I did was dial my dad, hands shaking, voice thin, the words spilling out before I even knew I was saying them.
He’d gone quiet on the other end, a different kind of quiet than I’ve ever heard from him, and then—finally—pride, relief, the grounding comfort of someone who gets it. He told me to sleep on it, to let it be real in the morning. To tell Noah when it feels right.
Now, with Noah pressed into me, the weight of that news settles deeper in my chest. I stroke his hair, careful not to wake him, and think about what this means—what it could mean for us.
Everything will change. New city, new team, new rhythm. There will be contracts and sponsors and scrutiny—all the things that used to be dreams before Noah. All the things that suddenly seem so much less important than the boy breathing steady and soft against my skin.
He makes a soft, muffled sound, turning blindly until he finds me, pressing his face into my chest with a sleepy sort of desperation.
“Mien…” His voice is a thread, sleep-soft and scratchy. He blinks at me, trying to find his bearings, and then a slow, sleepy smile spreads across his lips. “You’re home.”
“I’m home, baby,” I whisper back, tightening my hold around him, hand slipping under the edge of my shirt where it rides up over his hip. “Missed you.”
He hums, content, and buries his face in my neck, his arms sliding around my waist. “Missed you too,” he mumbles, words muffled by my skin. “Hate when you’re not here.”
“Not going anywhere,” I promise, even as the truth of it cracks something open in me. Because I’m not sure what happens next, or where home will be.
I hold him tighter, letting my hand wander up and down his back, tracing the curve of his spine, the soft cotton of my shirt against his skin. I feel him shiver a little, the last of the day’s tension easing out of him.
He presses closer, thigh sliding over mine, all boneless and clingy. His eyes blink open, blue and brown meeting mine in the dark. “You look tired,” he says, and there’s a little smile, a private joke just for me.
“I am tired,” I admit. “But I’d drive a thousand miles for this.”
He smiles wider, the first real one I’ve seen from him in days, and presses a kiss to my jaw. “Did you win?”
I huff a laugh, but I don’t want to talk about the game. I don’t want to talk about anything except this, this quiet moment with nothing in it except the thrum of his heartbeat and the steady pull of his breath. But I answer, anyway. “Yeah. Smashed them.”
He sighs, half-asleep, a smile twitching across his mouth. “Proud of you,” he mumbles, like it’s the simplest, most obvious thing in the world.
A lump rises in my throat. “Thanks, Blue. Means more than you know.”
And it does. There are a hundred things I want to say—about the call, about the draft, about the future that’s suddenly rushing up to meet me.
But he’s falling back into sleep, and I know tonight isn’t the night for big conversations, for what-ifs and maybes.
Tonight is for this—quiet, warm skin, steady.
Still, the questions won’t leave me alone.
What happens now? What if I get picked by a team across the country?
What if this is the moment I always dreamed of, and it means leaving him behind?
My stomach twists at the thought, but I remind myself: not tonight.
He needs me here, now, not already gone in my head.
I lie there, staring at the ceiling, running through every possible scenario—teams, cities, press conferences, contracts, long-distance, starting over. My phone is still in my jeans pocket on the floor, a hundred missed texts and calls from agents, coaches, reporters, all fighting for space.
But I don’t care right now. I care about this—about the boy in my arms, the life I fought so hard to get back.
He’s moving in with my dad and starting therapy; there will be long talks and harder days.
But will I even be there for all of that?
Will I be there, figuring out how to keep him safe, how to keep myself sane while doing it?
There’s no guidebook for this. No play-by-play.
All I know is that I’ll keep showing up, keep loving him as hard as I know how.
The world is moving under our feet faster than I can process. I don’t want to lose this—don’t want to lose him to my own ambition, or the chaos that always follows the kind of success I’ve just been handed.
Tomorrow, I’ll tell him. Tomorrow I’ll say the words, and we’ll figure it out. Tonight, I just hold him, letting the steady rise and fall of his chest anchor me to the only thing that feels solid.
I wake up to Noah lying sprawled between my legs, arms crossed over my chest, and chin propped on his hands.
My first thought is that I’m still dreaming because the boy in my bed—the one looking at me with a grin so bright it practically cracks open the morning—can’t possibly be real.
But then he’s burying his face in my chest, letting out this little huff of contentment, and I know it’s real because nothing in my dreams ever felt this fucking good.
My hands find his back without thinking, fingers tracing lazy lines along the warm skin beneath my shirt—his shirt now, really, because it looks better on him.
I watch him for a while, just letting myself have this.
There’s this look on his face—huge, open-mouthed smile, the kind that makes his cheeks round and his eyes squint, all teeth and happiness. It floors me, honestly.
I stretch under him, muscles popping, and rub the sleep from my eyes. “Morning, Blue.” My voice is a gravel scrape, but I can’t bring myself to care. Not with him looking at me like that. “You been up long?”
He shakes his head, smile not faltering. “No. I woke up, and you were snoring, so I watched you for a bit.” He nudges my chest with his chin teasingly.
I rest my hands on his back, dragging them up beneath the soft cotton of my old shirt, tracing the ridges of his spine.
“What’s with the smile, huh? Not that I’m complaining, but you look like you won the fucking lottery.”
Noah ducks his head, but he can’t hide the happiness—he practically radiates it, as if the sun’s gotten stuck under his skin.
“I just… I don’t know. I feel good. Really good. Happier than I have in… I don’t know, years.” He lets out a shaky breath, the grin faltering just enough to show me the truth underneath. “It scares me a little. Is it stupid that I keep thinking something’s going to come and take it away?”