Chapter 27
Reece
Coach offered to come with me. He said he’d sit beside me and run interference if I needed it, especially if things got messy with my old man. I told him I’d handle it.
Now I’m sitting here wondering if I fucked that up, too.
The house is silent. The TV is muted, displaying a news anchor on the screen. It’s quiet enough to hear every second pass. I’m slumped on the couch, phone in hand, watching the screen, hoping that this time it will light up and she will reply to one of my texts.
I already know it’s a waste of time.
The last ten messages are still there—bubbles lined up in a row, each one a version of me trying and failing to get her back.
The last one said:
Reece: I’m sorry. I miss you.
Three days before that:
Reece: Please talk to me, Red. It’s not what you think. Fuck, Red, please let me explain.
I gave up trying two days ago.
Not because I wanted to, but because I had to. Watching my messages sit there unanswered started feeling worse than being told to fuck off.
I don’t know if she blocked me. My phone still delivers the texts, but there’s no response. It feels final, as if she erased me without ever pressing a button.
It’s not the knowing that kills me. It’s the empty space where she used to be. The silence that stretches endlessly until it settles in my chest and makes a home there. I wake up reaching for my phone. I go to sleep staring at it. Every quiet second reminds me she’s out there choosing to avoid me.
And the cruel part is I’m still fucking in love with her. Nothing shut that off. Not the shame or the regret over what I did. Or the way she looked at me when Jace said the words.
I throw the phone onto the couch cushions and press the heels of my hands into my eyes until sparks flash behind my eyelids. I should be riding the high right now. A scout from Mayfair wants me. I played the best game of my life. Coach has my back.
This is everything I’ve been chasing since I was a kid.
And all I feel is nothing. Nothing at all.
My chest is empty, hollow as hell. There’s no rush or victory lap. Just this dull ache that won’t go away no matter how hard I try to ignore it, because football isn’t the only thing I want anymore.
I want her too.
The front door creaks open and then slams shut so hard it rattles the frame. Heavy boots thud across the floorboards. I smell the alcohol on him before I even lay eyes on him.
My father, carrying a six-pack.
He doesn’t look at me as he drops his keys into the bowl on the bench or when he shrugs out of his jacket, muttering shit under his breath as if the world had personally wronged him on the way home.
I push myself up from the couch, throat dry, heart already bracing for impact.
“I heard you spoke to Coach,” I say.
He grunts and keeps moving, not stopping until he drops into the recliner. He places the six-pack on the floor beside him and pulls out a bottle.
“Yeah,” he says. “I did. So what? You’re back on the team and you couldn’t fucking tell me?”
“I was going to,” I say. My voice comes out tight, clipped. “I didn’t think you’d care.”
That grabs his attention.
His eyes flick to me—bloodshot, sharp, and evaluating. “Of course I fucking care. You think I put up with your shit all these years because I didn’t believe you could do something with that talent?”
My fists curl at my sides. Nails bite into skin. “You mean football.”
“What else is there?” he snorts, flicks the cap across the room, before taking a long pull from his beer.
The words hit hard. Familiar. Brutal in how normal they sound.
And in that, the truth resides—always lingering between us, decaying in the space we never discuss. The only version of me he’s ever bothered to see.
“Jesus,” I mutter, dragging a hand through my hair. “You only gave a fuck about me when I was flattening guys on the field.”
His laugh’s sharp, mean, soaked in whatever he’s already knocked back. “I pushed you because you had talent. You needed someone to beat the weakness out of you.”
“You mean discipline,” I snap, stepping in. “You mean turning me into some fucking machine so you could brag to your work buddies that your boy was going pro. You tied my worth to tackles and bruises. You only saw me when I was bleeding for the team.”
“And so what, now you’re crying over it?” He shrugs and takes another swig. “You had the shot, hero, then pissed it all away. That’s on you.”
“I was fucking drowning,” I shoot back. “But you never saw that. You didn’t see me unless I was wearing shoulder pads and lighting up the scoreboard.”
“You whine now, but you had it. You could have made it.” He snorts, not even flinching.
“I still can,” I say, quieter this time. “Mayfair wants me. The scout called Coach. They’re setting up a meeting. I need you there.”
That sobers him up. For a beat, he just stares in silence. Then his mouth shifts. Not a smile or anything soft, just that slow curl of pride. The kind he only ever reserves for wins and stats.
“Well, shit,” he mutters. “Mayfair. That’s big.”
“I know.”
He nods and brings the bottle to his lips. “Alright. I’ll come.”
I don’t thank him. I’m not fucking stupid. That nod wasn’t meant for me. It was for the jersey. For the kid who hits hard and keeps his mouth shut.
I walk out before he can utter another goddamn word.
I go to my room, close the door, and flop onto my bed, pressing my knuckles into my forehead as if I can force the thoughts out of my skull.
My head’s a fucking warzone. Words I didn’t say.
Ones he’ll never hear. That hollow, rotten ache where something close to love should’ve been.
My phone buzzes beside me.
Hope flickers quickly and fiercely in my chest. I reach for it before the screen lights up completely, praying with all my heart that it’s her. That she finally gave in. That maybe, just maybe, she wants to hear me out.
But it’s not her.
It’s Noah.
Noah: Party at Ryan’s. Aubs and I might hit it. You should come. Could do you some good to get out for a bit.
I don’t answer. I just toss the phone back onto the bed and lean back, staring up at the ceiling.
The party’s already a mess when I arrive. Beer-soaked air fills the place and couples are pressed against the walls as if their hormones could burn the house down. Someone’s already puked in the hydrangeas out front.
The place is crowded. Sweat, perfume, cologne, bad decisions—it’s all here. Some guy I don’t know shoulder checks me with a “Yo, man” and keeps walking. I don’t bother responding.
Noah’s in the corner, arm draped around Aubrey, both of them grinning at something on her phone. She nudges him with her shoulder, and he pulls her in closer. They’re crazy in love. It should annoy me. Instead, it just reminds me of what I fucked up.
Lola’s on the dance floor, grinding with a girl from the year below, her dark curls bouncing, a half-laugh caught in her throat. Her drink sloshes dangerously, but she owns the chaos. Some guy tries to cut in. She pushes him away with a smirk, winks at him, and keeps dancing.
But none of them are who I’m here for.
I scan the room, eyes piercing through the bodies, the crowd, and the noise. I exhale slowly when I don’t see her. I scan the room again, just to be certain.
Red’s not here.
No flame-bright hair in the corner. No sharp eyes watching me across the room, as if she’s already read every dirty thought I’ve ever had and still dares me to come closer.
My gaze drifts toward the corner near the back wall, and there he is, Jace. Smug prick with his mouth pressed to some blonde I’ve never seen before. She seems older, could be college age. Fake tan, white nails. Tight dress, too much lip gloss.
He catches me looking, pulls back with a slick grin, and flashes me a peace sign as if we’re good. As if I never laid him flat on his ass and told him to keep Sam’s name out of his fucking mouth.
For a second, I consider walking over and telling him the things I haven’t said out loud—that it wasn’t all on him. I was the one who made the bet, but what he said was low.
But I came here tonight to forget. I thought that if I drank enough, I’d drown the ache of missing the only girl I have ever loved. I figured it’d be easy. Shot of tequila. Some girl whispering bullshit in my ear. Her hands on my chest. My hands wherever I needed them to be.
But as I glance around, I know it’s not working for me; none of it is.
Every girl here is wrong.
They’re too loud, laughing at shit that’s not funny. Too fucking confident in all the ways Sam never needed to be. They pout on purpose. Twirl their hair as if they’ve practiced it. They press to close, tits up, grabbing guys’ attention.
And all I can think is she never had to try.
Sam walked in, and the whole room seemed to bend around her. She didn’t need a short dress, a fake laugh, or to grip my arm like she was staking a claim. She just looked at me, and that was it.
So yeah, I might have come here to forget. But all I see is everything she’s not. And every time someone leans in too close or licks her lips, I want to scream because it isn’t Sam. And no amount of alcohol can pretend it is.
I leave the party without saying a word. I simply slip out, the cold hitting me harder than I expect. Music still thumps behind me. Laughter echoes. Glass breaks. Someone shouts out a dare. I don’t look back.
I just walk.
I have no idea where I’m going. No plan. Just taking it one step at a time, hoping the distance will wear away something.
I pass a diner. Inside, a couple shares a basket of fries. She’s laughing at something he said, while he’s looking at her like he’d rather starve than see her stop smiling.
I feel the ache as I recall that night after my first game back on the team, her sitting across from me, smirking as she stole fries from my plate. I didn’t care. I would’ve given her every last one if it meant she stayed with me a little longer that night.
I don’t even realize where I’m going until my feet stop moving. Her street. Her house. I stand there before my mind catches up, heart already pounding as if it’s been waiting for this.
I don’t go to the door. I don’t have the balls for that. Instead, I stay across the street, half-swallowed by the dark, hands shoved deep in my pockets. After a while, I sink down onto the curb, elbows braced on my knees, head tipped back as I stare up at her window.
Her bedroom light is on.
I picture her inside, brushing that bright red hair, sitting on her bed with her knees pulled up, chewing her lip as she pretends to read something, with music playing softly in the background.
I lose track of time. Minutes blur into something heavier. I keep waiting for something stupid. A curtain to twitch. A light to flick off. Some kind of sign that I’m not a complete fucking idiot for sitting out here in the cold.
My spine starts to ache. My legs go numb. And for a dangerous second, I almost convince myself to do it. To cross the street. To climb up to her window and beg. To tell her I’m sorry again. To promise her everything.
But I don’t.
I stay exactly where I am because wanting her doesn’t give me the right to hurt her again. Loving her doesn’t mean she owes me forgiveness.
So I sit in the dark, staring at the light she hasn’t turned off yet, and let the ache settle into my bones.
I finally push myself to get up and move because staying still feels dangerous.
When I get home, the house is dead quiet. My father is either already asleep or passed out on the couch.
I head straight to my room, grab my backpack from the corner and flip it upside down, everything spills out in a mess of crumpled papers, pens, and a half-crushed protein bar I forgot was in there.
And then the assignment lands last. That stupid, messed-up assignment we were supposed to be working on. The one we ditched for bathroom make-outs, my mouth on hers and deadlines forgotten.
I stare at the stack for a moment too long.
Then I spread it across my bed. Pages crinkle under my hands, some still marked up in her handwriting.
Her notes curl into the corners, little arrows, underlines, and the occasional sarcastic comment written in the margins that made me smirk the first time.
There’s one sheet—our rough outline—where her writing becomes sloppy halfway through.
I remember that night clearly. She sat cross-legged next to me, biting her lip, twirling the pen between her fingers, distracted.
I kept bumping her knee on purpose, and she kept leaning in.
The closer we got, the worse her handwriting became.
I take a breath, sit on the edge of the bed, and pick up my pen.
And I work.
Not because I give a shit about the grade. But because she does.
So I write.
Hard.
Fast.
Focused.
I fill in every gap, organize each bullet point, and clean up her sections without changing her voice. I review our references, cross-check every source, and tighten each sentence.
But I don’t stop. I refuse to.
I work until the sky begins to bleed into morning and the first stubborn birds start making noise as if they’ve got something worth singing about. There’s ink on my fingers, a dull ache in my back, and a burning sensation behind my eyes that won’t go away.
But I finish it. The whole fucking thing.
Every word. Every carefully stitched-together sentence we planned when we still couldn’t keep our hands off each other.
I make sure it’s clean and polished. Better than anything we could have put together in class and what she expected from me because this is for her.
For us.
Even if there’s no us anymore. Even if she never talks to me again.
I open the email draft, attach the document, type her name in the recipient box, and stare at the blinking cursor for a minute. My fingers hover over the keyboard, eager to type something else—something more.
But there’s nothing left to say that she hasn’t already ignored. Nothing I could write that would make this right.
So I hit send.
And then I just sit there.
Staring at the screen long after it disappears from view, long after the little whoosh tells me it’s gone. I sit in silence, amid everything we were, hoping that maybe this one thing will matter.
That she’ll see it.
That she’ll know I still give a fuck.
Even if it’s too late.