20. The Past
Chapter 20
The Past
L0
T hey’ve dragged him out onto the practice field, far from cameras, far from the chaos he just blew open like a grenade. But not far enough from me.
I storm through the security gate, boots thudding over frozen grass, heart hammering in my chest like a war drum. Dad and Jackson both try to keep things calm.
Too late.
“You self-centered asshole!” I scream before anyone can stop me.
Cross turns, startled, like he didn’t think anyone would follow. Like he thought those who love Kolby would stay tucked away.
Wrong.
“You don’t get to do that!” I shout, hands clenched. “You don’t get to explode someone’s life in front of cameras just because you’re hurting!”
He doesn’t say a word. Just stares at me, jaw tight.
“You have any idea what Kolby’s been through?” I keep going, louder now, closing the space between us. “You think you’re the only one who lost something? You think you’re the only one who got hurt?” I shove him.
Jackson grabs my arm immediately, trying to pull me back. Dad steps between us with the same look he gave me when I flipped off a ref in eighth grade while playing field hockey.
“Lo,” he warns, low and sharp. “Enough. He’s not worth it.”
But Cross doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink.
“I’m not scared of him,” I hiss.
“He’s not scared of you, either,” Jackson mutters, grip still firm.
I shrug them both off and jab a finger at Cross’s chest. “You want to know what I see when I look at him?” I say. “I see a man who’s held pain in his soul for years and still finds a way to keep going. Still finds a way to love. Even after everything. Even when people like you try to tear him down.”
His eyes flash. And then … he breaks.
“He left me! ” Cross roars, finally. Voice cracking, raw and sharp like it’s been stuck in his throat since he was a kid. It probably has. “He fucking left me! I had no one. Just him. Just Ryan. And one day, he was gone. Just gone. Like I didn’t matter. Like I was some stray he could ditch when the guilt got too heavy.”
The words slice the air between us.
I freeze. Jackson does, too.
And for the first time … I see him. Not just the anger. Not just the muscle and attitude. The boy underneath. The one Kolby risked his life to protect.
I open my mouth, but a door slams behind us, and I look back.
Kolby.
He steps onto the field, calm but storm-eyed, and walks straight toward us. Doesn’t say a word to me, just catches my hand as he passes, warm and steady, and slows only enough to kiss the back of it.
“I got it,” he says.
I hesitate. “Kolby?—”
“I got it.”
Dad tugs me gently, and I let him.
I follow him to the edge of the practice building, but I don’t go inside. I linger, back against the corner of the brick wall, just close enough to hear.
Kolby stops in front of Cross. Doesn’t cross his arms. Doesn’t puff his chest. Just stands there. Quiet. Still. Present. All Kolby.
“I didn’t leave because I wanted to,” he says. “I left because I had to.”
“You could’ve said something, ” Cross snaps. “One phone call. One letter. Anything. You vanished.”
“I killed my father.”
Silence. No wind. Just those four words dropped like thunder.
“I killed him,” Kolby repeats. “I shot him. I was a kid, scared just like you. They hauled me out in cuffs and locked me up like I was a grown man.”
Cross blinks. Opens his mouth. Shuts it.
“I knew you were safe,” Kolby says. “They told me to forget. Said I’d only hurt you more if I came back.”
“You think I gave a shit about that?” Cross growls. “You were my person.”
“You …” Kolby shakes his head. Silence. Then voice breaking. “I thought you’d hate me. I thought you’d blame me for everything.”
“I did,” Cross whispers.
Kolby nods. Doesn’t fight it. Just takes it.
And me? I’m pressed to the wall, breath caught in my throat, heart aching so loud I can’t hear anything else.
“You need to face what you pulled, talk to Coach D. Kiss your coaches’ asses so they don’t throw you on the practice squad for the rest of your contract. Do not waste this!”
“And then what!”
“Then you never look back. You live, you let people in, you find control, and then, Cross, when you’re good, you let love in. And then, when you’re done tearing me down every time we meet on a field, you and I, we talk and figure it out from there.” He turns and walks away, right toward me.
“You ready to go?”
“Where we going?” I ask.
“We’re going home, Lo.”
* * *
We drive straight to my place, barely speaking, because we don’t need to. Not after everything. His hand stays in mine the entire ride, his thumb brushing slowly across my knuckles like he’s grounding himself, like I’m the only still point in a world that hasn’t stopped spinning since kickoff. I want to tell him it’s doing that for me, too, that inside, I want to go back there and rip Caleb Cross’s life into shreds because he hurt him. He hurt what is mine to love and protect.
I pull into the parking lot of the Brewery. It’s packed, which is not a surprise.
“We need to stop. Need to?—”
I gently squeeze his hand. “They’ll be there next week, too.”
“I’m okay, Lo.”
“I know you are. You just won the Knights the division.”
Head resting against the headrest, he rolls it to the side and looks at me. “There was a whole team doing that.”
“Huh.” I wink. “I only saw you.”
I park right by the porch and hop out, planning to open the door for him, but when I round the Jeep, he’s already out.
Inside, I slip out of my coat and tug his off, too. He moves slow, eyes heavy, body wrecked in that beautiful way that only comes after giving everything on the field.
“I’m going to feed the stove. Sit, please.”
“Lo, I can help.”
“You’re a guest until I’ve worn you down and convince you to move in.”
He sits and asks, “You want me living with you?”
And in me , I think, but I know already if I said that, no matter what shape he’s in, he’d be giving me all he had.
“Yes.” I close the stove and move to the fridge, grabbing him a drink and taking it to him. “Get hydrated. I’m drawing you a bath.”
He doesn’t argue. Just leans close and presses a soft kiss to my cheek. “Never want you to have to fight my battle, but what you said …” He places his hand on his heart.
“You and I”—I kiss the top of his head—“we’ll do that for each other no matter what.”
“Always.”
* * *
I fill the tub hot enough to loosen what aches, with a splash of eucalyptus oil. The room steams around me while I line up fresh towels and light one of the candles he brought when he set up a freaking fairy tale last night for me.
When I call him in, he doesn’t say a word. Just steps into the bathroom, strips down, and climbs into the water with a sound so tired it squeezes my heart.
“What’s that smell?”
“Eucalyptus oil. Mom used to add it to our baths after a rough game.” I dip a washcloth in the water. “Helps relax muscle aches and pains. The scent relieves stress and tension. And it’s anti-inflammatory, so it helps with reducing swelling,” I rub the cloth across his chest.
He moans. “Your touching me counteracts that.”
“You’re in no shape to exert energy.”
He glances at me from out of the corner of his eye.
“I mean, you’re in excellent shape, but you need to rest.”
He closes his eyes, and I can’t help myself.
I whisper, “You need that type of release. I can give you a handy in the tub.”
He leans back and smiles. “Appreciate the offer, but I’d rather not soak in my spooge.”
“But it’s okay to drown my belly button ring in it?”
“Yep.”
Just yep …
He lets me wash him—slow, careful, reverent—like I’m tending to something precious. Kolby and a piece of history he’s done all he can to make go away, and yet. Somehow, it’s still here.
When I finish washing his hair, I stand up. “Soak and let me know if you need something.”
“Everything I need is right here, Lo .”
* * *
We’re tangled in the sheets, his skin warm and damp from the bath, the scent of eucalyptus still lingering faintly in the air. One lamp is on—dim and golden—the kind of light that makes everything feel softer, quieter, easier to say.
Kolby’s breathing has slowed, but I know he’s not asleep. Not yet.
He lies on his side, facing me, one arm tucked under his head, the other lazily resting on my waist like he doesn’t ever plan to let go. His fingers curl there, slow and idle, brushing against the hem of my shirt like it’s important.
I watch his eyes. They’re heavy-lidded, but so true and steady.
“You okay?” I ask softly, threading my fingers into his hair.
He nods once then pauses. “I’m here.”
And somehow, that means more than I’m good or I’m fine. It means he made it. Through the game. Through the noise. Through the past. To this. To me.
I trace the edge of his jaw, still faintly rough from a rushed postgame shave. “I like this version of you.”
“What version’s that?”
“The one who knows he’s allowed to rest.”
He breathes out a quiet laugh, something close to disbelief, then leans forward to press a kiss to my shoulder. “You’re the only one who ever told me that.”
“I mean it.”
Silence stretches for a long beat. A good one. The kind that fills, not frays.
Then, finally, his voice—low, ragged, full of everything he’s still learning to give. “I like your bed better than mine.”
I cup his cheek and pull him close until our foreheads touch. “I like my bed better when you’re in it.”
“Good, ’cause I’m never leaving it.”
* * *
Kolby slept until noon, and after that, we went to his place and packed everything we could in the Jeep, and everything else in boxes to come later.
The back of the Jeep is packed to the roof—boxes, a lamp that I thought was too cool to leave behind, his team duffel, and a rogue cleat that I swear I tossed three times before he finally said that was the only thing he kept from all those years ago.
He drops into the driver’s seat with a satisfied grunt and passes me the last cold bottle of water from the floorboard stash. “Next stop: home,” he says, resting his hand on my thigh.
But then both our phones buzz at once, and we both can’t help but look.
A breaking news alert.
“LIVE: Outriders’ Caleb Cross Speaks Out About On-Field Fight with Kolby Grimes”
I sit straighter. So does he.
He taps the link, and the video opens to Cross, standing outside his team’s training facility. He’s in team-issued gear, hat low, expression unreadable. Cameras flash, reporters cluster.
I look at Kolby. His jaw is tight. That thing behind his eyes—the tension he tries to pretend doesn’t exist—rises like the tide.
Cross takes a breath. “It got heated on the field. And honestly? Yeah, it started because of a girl.”
The press murmurs. Microphones inch closer.
“One we both liked in college,” he continues. “Grimes won. Guess I never really let it go.”
I flinch, but Kolby doesn’t move. Not even a blink.
“You didn’t go to college together.”
“Close enough.” He chuckles.
A reporter jumps in immediately. “So, that’s what the shouting was about? That’s what you meant by ‘he left me?’”
Cross hesitates. And I can see the calculation happening in his head. Then, smooth as anything, he says, “Nah. That was me being dramatic. What I meant was … Kolby walked away after he got the girl. I was mad. We say shit we don’t mean when tempers run hot.” He shrugs, playing it cool. “We’ve patched it up now. Heat of the moment. No real bad blood.”
The reporter nods. “So, it’s settled?”
Cross flashes a wry smile. “It’s football. You hit hard, you forgive harder. That’s the job.”
The video cuts.
I turn to Kolby. “You think that’s for show?”
He exhales, leaning his head back against the headrest. “Part of it. But … that wasn’t just for PR.”
“No,” I agree softly. “That was a favor. The kind you give someone who mattered once.”
He nods.
I reach over, threading my fingers through his. “You okay?”
“I don’t know,” he says honestly. “But I think he just gave me a kind of permission I didn’t know I needed to walk forward without dragging the whole story behind me.”
I squeeze his hand. “You earned that, too.”
He turns to me, eyes clearer now. “Let’s go home.”
I smile. “Let’s.”