Chapter 21 Jamie
Jamie
The game ends ugly.
Miles takes his anger out on the ice, leaving the rink carved up and steaming. He’s faster, meaner, sharper than I’ve ever seen him—like he’s trying to bleed something out through his skates. Coach keeps yelling at him to rein it in, but Miles doesn’t even look up. He just goes.
The final whistle cuts through the air, and he slams his stick against the boards hard enough to splinter it. Everyone goes silent. He doesn’t apologize, doesn’t even look back. Just storms off toward the locker room, helmet dangling from his hand.
I let him go.
Our friendship’s hanging by a thread as it is. Every time I try to talk, we circle back to the same unspoken name. Chloe.
By the time we hit the bar that night—half the team squeezed into a booth, pitchers of beer sweating on the table—Miles is already three drinks deep and laughing too loud. The mask is back on. The ruthless, charming version of him that never cracks. The guys love it.
I don’t. I just sit there, watching him pour whiskey like water, watching the light die a little more in his eyes.
We won the game, so the mood’s high. It doesn’t matter to the rest of the team that we won by just a few points.
The sound system’s too loud, some girl’s sitting in Miles’s lap, and the room smells like sweat and fried food and victory.
But all I can think is—this isn’t how it’s supposed to feel.
Miles leaves after a while, no goodbye, just that empty glass spinning on the table.
I’m halfway through my drink when my phone buzzes.
Dad.
Dad: Shipment tonight. Be here by 10. Big one.
The air in my lungs turns to smoke. I slide out of the booth, mumble an excuse about work, and head for the car.
The Crest looks different late at night. Quieter, meaner. The old neon sign flickers over the alleyway, and the parking lot’s packed with trucks that don’t belong to locals. Inside, the air’s thick with cigar smoke and the metallic tang of money changing hands.
Dad’s in his usual corner, gray suit sharp enough to cut glass. “Kyle’s behind the bar,” he says without looking up from his ledger. “Keep your eyes open. We’ve got cartel buyers tonight. They’re not here for small talk.”
“Got it.”
He doesn’t ask about school. He doesn’t ask about the team or the game. He never does.
I take my post by the bar, scanning faces.
The crates come in steady—unmarked boxes, all “kitchen supplies” on paper.
Inside it’s military-grade rifles wrapped in plastic.
Kyle handles the pour and the cash. I handle the eyes and the guns.
It’s business. Dirty but clean enough to pass inspection if you don’t look too hard.
Everything goes smooth. For once. The buyers come and go, handshakes, coded words, thin smiles. No one raises their voice. No one bleeds.
By midnight, I’m ready to call it a good night.
Then she walks in.
Chloe.
She’s holding a cardboard box, rain dripping from her hair, eyes too bright for this place.
The whole bar blurs around her. She looks out of place—too soft, too human. And she shouldn’t be here. Not tonight.
I move fast. “Chloe.”
Heads turn when I say her name. I force a smile, stepping between her and the bar before anyone can get curious.
“What are you doing here?” I keep my voice low, careful. “You can’t—this isn’t a good time.”
“I know.” She hugs the box tighter. “I just… I needed to see you.”
I glance over my shoulder. Two cartel guys are watching her, half-interested, half-bored. My pulse spikes. “We can talk outside.”
She nods.
I steer her toward the back door, keeping my body between her and everyone else. Once we’re out in the alley, I exhale.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, not unkindly. “You shouldn’t be anywhere near this place tonight.”
“Why?”
“Private party!” I lie.
“I didn’t know,” she says, voice small. “I just had to drop these off.” She sets the box down, nudging it toward me with her shoe. “Some of your stuff. Shirts. A hoodie. The book you left on my nightstand.”
I stare at the box. It feels heavier than it looks. “You could’ve tossed it.”
“I know.” Her laugh is brittle. “But I didn’t want to. Not without seeing you.”
Something in my chest twists. “You withdrew from school.”
She nods. “I couldn’t stay.”
“Why?”
She just looks at me.
I whisper, “Why?”
“Because… I was drowning, Jamie. And every time I thought I could breathe again, I saw you. Or Miles. Or both of you.” She rubs her arms. “I’m leaving for Paris. I have to sort out my visa, but… my mom said I could stay with her for a while.”
Paris.
It shouldn’t hit as hard as it does, but it feels like the ground’s been pulled out from under me. “You’re actually leaving?”
“I need to.”
The rain starts up again—light, cold, relentless. I drag a hand through my hair, searching for something smart to say, something steady, but all I can manage is, “You could’ve just texted.”
“I know,” she whispers. “I just didn’t want to leave with you thinking I was a coward. Or that I didn’t care.”
“You slept with him,” I say quietly.
She flinches.
“Then you accused us of making a game out of it when the truth of the matter is, I had no idea he had slept with you that day in the dorm, not until after the fact. I was shocked. Surprised even. And you made it seem like it was this preplanned thing we had going on…”
“I know I messed up. I should’ve told you. I should’ve told you everything before it got this bad.” Her eyes shine in the streetlight. “I don’t want to leave thinking you hate me.”
I stare at her. “I could never hate you.”
Her breath catches. She looks up at me, rain glistening on her lashes. I reach out without thinking and brush my thumb over her bottom lip. The tremor that runs through her hits me straight in the chest.
“Do you care about him?” I ask.
She starts to shake her head, but I tilt her chin up. “Tell me the truth, Chloe.”
“Please don’t make me say it.”
“Baby,” I murmur, the word slipping out before I can stop it. “Just tell me.”
Her lips part. “He was nice to me,” she says softly. “And before you—before any of this—I thought maybe he liked me.”
“He does like you.” The words come out low, honest, surprising even me. “Probably more than he wants to admit.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters,” I say. “It matters because we keep lying—to each other, to ourselves—and pretending it doesn’t.”
She frowns. “What are you saying?”
I don’t answer. I just kiss her.
It’s not desperate this time, not even angry. It’s slow. Careful. The kind of kiss that feels like it could fix something if you let it. Her mouth is warm against mine, her hands trembling where they rest on my chest.
When we break apart, she’s breathing unevenly, eyes glazed, lips bruised. “Jamie…”
“You’re staying at your old apartment?”
She nods.
“I’ve got a long night here,” I say, voice rough. “But maybe I can come by after. We can talk.”
“Okay.”
I press another kiss to her mouth, because I can’t not. Then I rest my forehead against hers. “Keep the box,” I whisper.
She nods again, and I watch her walk back to her car, hair plastered to her cheeks, taillights glowing red through the rain.
When she’s gone, I stand there for a long time, the smell of her shampoo still clinging to my hands.
Then I go back inside.
The room hasn’t changed—same smoke, same money, same tired men—but I feel different. Kyle gives me a look from behind the bar, like he can tell something shifted.
“You good?” he asks.
“Yeah. Just finish up the last order.”
He nods and gets back to work.
I grab my phone, step into the storage room, and text Miles.
Me: We need to talk.
No punctuation, no explanation. Just that.
Because if Chloe’s leaving—if this whole mess is finally catching up to us—I’m done letting it rot in silence.
I pocket the phone, take one last breath, and head back out to finish the night.