Lost in Overtime (Why Choose)

Prologue

Vesper

My parents measured life in summers as if it were a religion. That’s hockey for you—everything in seasons, everything in cycles.

Dad used to live under arena lights. Even now, he moves like he still hears skates cutting into ice—shoulders back, jaw set, that old-fashioned confidence that makes strangers assume he’s in charge.

He’s the guy hauling boxes of donated helmets out of the trunk like they’re sacred objects, barking at twelve-year-olds about hydration with the same intensity other dads save for playoff overtime.

Mom ran a summer camp like it was her empire.

Clipboards. Schedules. A whistle that could slice straight through any conversation and make grown men stand up a little straighter.

She didn’t ask for attention. My petite mother took it.

She was kindness and command wrapped into one woman who refuses to let anyone show up unprepared.

Me?

I measure life in departures—flights, drives, the miles between one version of me and the next.

While growing up, it was different. It was the drive from Portland to Juniper Ridge, a small town where orchards started just beyond the last stop sign, the river ran bright and cold beside the road, and the wind carried that clean, sharp scent that made you believe you could start over.

Juniper Ridge was never a straight shot. You didn’t arrive. You were taken to a magical place that separated the extraordinary from the ordinary.

By the time the first handmade sign appeared—advertising fresh berries, cider, honey—Dad’s tapping had turned into something softer, almost absent-minded. Mom smiled for a reason she wouldn’t admit.

My brothers—because yes, of course I have brothers—treated the backseat like their personal locker room. They talked in stats and chirps. They argued about who would’ve made varsity earlier if the coach hadn’t been “an idiot.” They tossed insults like they were confetti.

They were destined for rinks.

Not me, though.

My parents never said You won’t be a hockey player, but they never encouraged me either.

They loved me like I was a miracle they didn’t know they needed.

But the world? The world made sure I understood the difference between a girl who skates and a boy who belongs.

The difference between cute and good. The difference between being cheered and being feared.

So I learned early on how to be loud. How to take up space. How to bite first so no one can bite me harder.

Summer was a promise I could taste.

I waited for it the way some people wait for miracles, the way people press their palms together and make bargains with the universe.

Because up there, tucked between peaks in a made-up slice of Oregon that felt more real than anywhere else I’ve ever lived, the camp waited for us.

Our camp.

Mom’s kingdom.

My refuge.

There’s a rink that always smelled like cold metal and Zamboni fuel and old hockey tape—like every hockey dream that’s ever been sweated into existence.

Kids arrived with duffel bags and nervous excitement, eyes too wide, voices too bright.

Parents waved and pretended they weren’t terrified of letting their babies go.

Coaches shouted names and ran line drills like soldiers.

And I grew up learning that a summer can hold an entire lifetime if you let it.

Also, that’s where I met them.

I still remember it as if it were yesterday . . . no, as if I were just meeting them now. If I close my eyes, I can see it all in real time.

I’m fifteen.

They’re sixteen.

And the moment they step out of their vehicles, something in me shifts, like my story has been waiting for them to arrive.

Callaway Livingston Harrington Winthrop shows up first, and he does it like he’s walking onto a stage.

He’s all grin and swagger and perfectly lopsided charm, like the universe handed him a script and he decided he’d improvise anyway.

Loud. Magnetic. The sort of boy who makes shy kids laugh without mocking them, the sort of boy who makes coaches sigh like they’re exhausted by him and secretly thrilled he exists.

Silver spoon kid, sure—his last name is basically a trust fund—but he wears it like it’s irrelevant. Like he’s determined to prove he can earn love without buying it.

He sees me staring and winks like we’re already in on the same joke.

I hate him immediately—I love him even faster.

Then Monty arrives.

Alberto Montoya Navarro Wade doesn’t announce himself.

He doesn’t need to. He moves through the world like he expects it to bruise him if he missteps.

Quiet. Watchful. A goalie’s posture—always ready, always braced, always reading what everyone else misses.

His gaze lands on people, and they lower their voices without understanding why, as if his silence is louder than their noise.

He looks like a storm that never makes it to the sky because it learned to stay trapped behind someone’s ribs.

And when his eyes hit mine, it’s not flirtation.

It’s recognition.

Like he’s been waiting too, and he hates that he had to.

And me?

I’m the camp kid. The one who belongs to this place so completely, I think nothing can touch me here.

I’m sunshine with a mouth—sweet until provoked, and then I’m teeth.

I skate hard. I laugh louder. I talk back to my brothers.

I talk back to coaches. I talk back to boys who assume I’m a decoration.

I don’t know what to do with two sixteen-year-olds who look at me like I’m not a girl trying to be heard, but a person worth listening to.

Three summers pass in a blur of rink time and bonfires and stolen candy from the mess hall. Of late-night dares and early-morning practices. Of Cally’s laugh ringing through cabins, of Monty’s silence sitting beside me on dock planks while the lake breathes in the dark.

They become my friends first.

My best friends.

My whole damn heart.

And then the last summer comes—the one my brain tries to smooth over, like if it dulls enough details, the pain will finally get bored and leave me alone.

It doesn’t.

That summer tastes like sun-warmed skin, melted popsicles, and adrenaline. It tastes like risk.

It starts innocently—if anything about us is innocent by then.

Shoulder bumps that linger a beat too long, like they “accidentally” forget how to move away.

Callaway’s laugh hits my ear as his mouth grazes my cheek—barely a kiss, more like a promise he thinks he can tuck inside a joke. Easy to deny. Easy to shrug off with a grin and a “what?” if anyone clocks it.

Except my skin doesn’t shrug it off.

It holds on like it’s keeping score.

Other times, he leans in, lips brushing my cheekbone, and my whole body reacts like it’s been trained. Like I’m waiting for it.

Like I’m going to beg for it.

A hand at my waist when someone shoves past. Except his palm doesn’t leave when the crowd moves on. It stays. Fingers spread. Pressure just firm enough to say mine without a single word. I try to laugh it off because if I acknowledge it, I’ll have to admit how badly I want him to keep doing it.

Callaway sits too close to the bonfire, knee pressed to mine like he’s daring me to notice, daring me to flinch.

And when I don’t, when I hold still like I’m not secretly lighting up from the contact, he shifts—just slightly—until our thighs line up, heat to heat, and his shoulder knocks into mine again.

Lazy. Possessive. Like he belongs there.

Sometimes his mouth finds the corner of my lips.

Not a real kiss.

It lasts half a second, and it wrecks me for the rest of the night.

My pulse jumps so hard I feel it in my throat. My breath catches—annoying, traitorous—and I hate myself for how fast I want more. How fast my mind starts stacking moments like evidence. He did that. He meant that. He’s doing this on purpose.

Then there’s Monty.

Monty watches it happen with that stare he never wastes.

Quiet. Still. Controlled in a way that makes my nerves hum.

His jaw flexes like he’s biting down on words he refuses to give away.

His eyes track Callaway’s hand at my waist, the brush of lips, the way my body betrays me by leaning in even when I pretend I’m not.

And when Monty finally moves, it’s small.

He steps in behind me in the food line, close enough that my back almost meets his chest. Close enough that my breathing turns into something I have to manage. I can feel him shift when I shift, like we’re connected by a thread neither of us is willing to name.

His fingers skim my elbow as he reaches past me for a plate—barely there, a casual sweep that shouldn’t mean anything.

It means everything.

I’m mid-sentence, halfway through some dumb joke, and the words die in my throat like they’ve been cut. My brain blanks. My body goes alert in a way that makes me furious, because it’s him. He doesn’t even have to try.

A second later, his knuckles graze my cheek as he “fixes” a strand of hair caught in my hoodie string. It’s careful in the way that tells me he’s fighting himself. It’s soft in the way that makes me want to grab his wrist and demand he stop being careful.

His thumb drifts near my mouth.

Not touching.

Almost.

My lips part on instinct, and I hate that my first reaction is yes—a silent, pathetic yes my pride never would’ve approved.

Then Monty leans in and kisses me.

It’s never a full kiss.

Just a quick, casual press to the corner of my mouth, like he’s done it a hundred times and it’s no big deal. Like he’s saying hello. Like he’s saying goodnight. Like he’s saying this is ours while pretending it’s nothing at all.

And then he pulls back, calm as sin, and reaches for his plate like he didn’t just ruin me in front of everyone.

Like he didn’t just leave my lips tingling and my stomach flipping and my whole body screaming for more.

I’m not desperate.

I’m not.

Except I am—so badly it makes my eyes sting, so badly I swallow hard and pretend I’m irritated when really I’m one second away from turning around and begging him, out loud, to do it again. This time take my mouth and everything he can.

Monty doesn’t look at me as he steps away.

He drops his hand like he’s fine.

Like he didn’t feel my reaction.

Like he isn’t counting on it.

Callaway smiles like he noticed everything.

And I stand there between them—trying to breathe normally, trying to act like my entire life isn’t balancing on the edge of one more almost-kiss.

I tell myself we’re just close.

We’ve always been close.

But closeness turns into hunger so slowly I don’t realize I’m starving until I’m already shaking from it.

We cross a line on a night that feels written by fate and hormones and every secret we’ve ever swallowed.

There’s a party near the cabins—music too loud, laughter too bright, someone passing around cheap beer like they’re handing out courage.

My brothers are somewhere, probably getting into trouble.

They’re now assisting the coaches so they can do almost whatever they want.

My parents have turned in for the night.

And I’m with Callaway and Monty, my whole world narrowed down to the space between their bodies and mine.

Callaway’s gaze keeps dropping to my mouth like it’s a dare. Like he’s thinking, Say the word, and I’ll ruin you.

Monty doesn’t touch me at first. He just watches. Tracks every breath I take. Every time I swallow. Every time I pretend I’m fine.

I’m not fine.

I’m a live wire next to a tank of gasoline, and it takes only one spark.

It’s Callaway who moves first—because of course it is. He cups my face like he’s done it a thousand times in his head, and when he kisses me, it’s not gentle. It’s not careful. It’s a claim and a confession and a bad decision wrapped together.

I should push him away.

I should remember rules and consequences, and the way my mother would end me if she knew.

Instead, I grab his shirt like I’m afraid he’ll disappear if I let go.

And then Monty’s hand closes around my wrist—firm, hot, grounding—and I flinch like I’ve been caught.

But he isn’t stopping me.

He’s pulling me closer.

His mouth finds my throat, and I make a sound I don’t recognize, something wrecked and needy and terrifyingly honest.

And right there, right then, I understand something that makes my stomach drop.

Want can be bigger than every rule you’ve ever lived by.

Want can be bigger than safety.

Want can make you brave and stupid at the same time.

Want can make you say fuck it and mean it with your whole soul.

They love me.

I love them.

It should be simple.

It’s not.

Because when the sun comes up, reality comes with it. Guilt. Fear. The ugliness of what it means to want two people at once when the world insists love must be neat and singular and easy to explain.

Callaway tries to turn it into a joke at first—his defense, his charm, his way of grabbing control before anyone can hurt him. Monty turns quiet in a way that scares me, like he’s locking something inside himself and throwing away the key.

And me?

I stand between them with my heart split wide open and no idea how to stitch it back together.

We don’t know what to do with what we wake up holding.

So we do what scared teenagers do when they’ve found something too big for their hands—we ruin it.

They learn to hate each other.

I’m pretty sure that they learn to hate me—even when they claim to love me.

Maybe what they have for me is worse than hate. It’s love with nowhere to go.

I tell myself I can live without them.

I can’t.

I tell myself I can pick one.

I won’t.

So I become a girl who survives on scraps—on texts that come too late at night, on half-apologies, on summers that feel shorter every year. On stolen moments when we manage to be friends again for ten minutes before it all collapses.

I live for the little time I can get with the two boys who taught me what it means to be seen.

And I hate myself for it.

Because I’m not just missing them.

I’m missing who I was before them.

Before I learned that love can be a wound you keep touching, just to prove it still hurts.