Unofficial House Arrest
Cohen
I don’t know if you can technically call it an escape, but my version of an “exit” consists of avoiding Sloane, this tiny fucking town, and retreating to Dominic Voss’s house.
Welcome to Elm Hollow: the town where everyone knows everything, except how to mind their own damn business.
And if they were to find out that a player from one of the county’s major soccer teams is hanging around here… I’d be swamped by the nightmare of gossip again.
So I head back to Dominic’s house, hooded as always, and ready to disappear.
Now more than ever.
I find him sitting on the sofa, a cup of coffee in hand, his laptop never leaving his side.
He gives me a slow look, without moving a single muscle.
One eyebrow lifts, then drops.
Nothing else.
The man of great speeches.
“Don’t ask,” I say, taking off my jacket.
He takes a sip, stares at the screen, and murmurs, “I wasn’t going to.”
That’s why I love him.
No questions, no judgment, no scolding.
Just sacred silence.
The least empathetic guy on the planet, with the expressiveness of a wooden table and the patience of a cactus.
I disappear down the hallway, take the stairs with my gym bag over my shoulder, and my brain in short circuit.
As soon as I enter the room, I close the door, flop onto the bed, and just lie there, staring at the ceiling.
I just want to unplug.
Empty my mind.
Breathe without every detail of her coming back to me.
But of course not.
The mind is a sadistic bitch.
And mine even more so.
Sloane Heart, the “professional-matchmaker-with-kissable-lips” version, is burned into my memory. Directly alongside Sloane Heart, the tempting-angel-cupid-fucking-hot version.
Every time I close my eyes, I see her.
I feel her.
The way I feel when I’m near her.
The sound that escapes her when I make her feel good.
And that damned scent burned into my nostrils.
Christ.
I need sleep, or a lobotomy.
I turn over on the bed, run a hand through my hair, breathe deeply.
Stop thinking about her.
Stop thinking about the sex, the kiss, her disinterest, and the fucking speed dating.
I close my eyes.
And of course, the phone vibrates.
Bzzz.
Ignore.
Bzzz.
Ignore again.
Bzzz.
“Jesus Christ,” I mumble, reaching out to grab the phone from the nightstand.
Nate.
No, universe, please.
Nate: Answer, idiot.
Nate: Don’t play dead.
Nate: Julian and I want to talk to you. Right now. Urgent.
Nate: Like, immediately.
I roll my eyes.
I put the phone on my stomach, staring at the ceiling.
I have zero desire to see them.
Julian Heart the man who would probably kill me if he knew I kissed his daughter. Or that… I spent one wonderfully unforgettable night with her.
And Nate, my manager and best friend, who has the extraordinary ability to bust my balls with Olympic enthusiasm.
I finally reply to the text, just to get rid of them.
Me: I’m about to sleep.
Nate: False.
Me: Dead, then.
Nate: We want you downstairs in five minutes.
Nate: Don’t joke around. Julian is here.
Me: Ah, fantastic. The dream team.
Nate: You better move.
Me: …
I put the phone back on my chest and close my eyes.
Five minutes.
Five fucking minutes of peace.
Is that too much to ask?
Dominic disappears into his office as soon as he senses the arrival of Nate and Coach Heart.
He’s a man with bat instincts: lights off, absolute silence, zero human contact.
I wish I could imitate him, but I can’t: they’re waiting for me in the living room.
I reluctantly walk down the stairs, and the first thing I see is Nate standing there, looking like an insurance salesman who just signed a million-dollar contract. His brown hair is a little longer but always neat.
Next to him, sitting, is Julian Heart.
My coach.
The father of the woman I can’t get out of my head.
And that look he’s giving me is a solid reminder that I might already be dead without knowing it.
“Becker,” Heart says.
“Coach,” I reply, trying not to look guilty.
“Sit down.”
Nate opens his laptop, all enthusiastic, as if he’s about to show me the trailer for my own personal disaster.
“Okay, quick program update. The first few weeks are going great, the press is interested, the public is reacting well to the idea of the reintegration project.”
“Reintegration?” I repeat, frowning.
Julian leans forward slightly. “We spoke with management, and there’s a chance for reinstatement.”
This is the only thing that can make me shut up for more than three seconds.
Reinstatement.
The word I wasn't expecting to hear for months.
There’s a moment of silence.
I feel my heart drop halfway to my stomach.
The field.
The jersey.
The roar of the crowd.
I miss them more than I want to admit.
“Go on,” I murmur.
Nate nods. “If you agree to take one small step forward, we might secure temporary reinstatement. Only for the important games, the ones where your presence is indispensable. The rest of the time you stay here, in Elm Hollow, training and continuing with the program with Sloane.”
I look at him without speaking.
I wait for the part that smells like a catch.
Julian doesn't need to be prompted. “That step forward consists of releasing an official statement.”
Ah. There it is.
The bomb.
“A statement,” I repeat slowly, “like ‘I’m sorry, I promise I’ll be a better guy’?”
Nate looks up from the laptop. “More or less. Something that says you’re committed, that you’re participating in the personal growth program, and that you believe in the charity reality project. People love a redemption arc.”
I’m not stupid.
I know what this means: they’re trying to get me back on the field because the team needs me, and in the meantime, I have to play the role of the idiot.
I swallow.
Nate tries to sweeten the blow. “Think practically: you could be back on the team for the decisive games. They’d see you as the athlete who gets back on his feet, who works on himself, who supports a charitable cause.
The sponsor loves these stories. And if you look good on the reality show, the signing becomes automatic. ”
Right…
Heart leans forward. “This is a deal, Becker. We’re asking you to play the game for a few weeks. To collaborate with Sloane, to participate, to say two public sentences without insulting anyone. If you do that, you’re back on the field. And if you do it well, you’re back to winning.”
I scratch my jaw, staring at the wood of the table.
I sigh.
God, I hate all of this. Seriously.
I hate having to jump through these stupid hoops.
But… at the end of the day… why do I even care so much about what I say? All I have to do is bite my tongue and do what they ask for once in my damn life.
Everyone thinks I’m some spoiled brat… but when I snap at interviews, or lose my temper, or screw up, I do it because of my own moral code.
Going out there and saying I’ll be a good boy, that I’ll look for the woman of my dreams, that I’ll take part in some stupid Valentine’s Day show…
Yeah. None of that fits any of my moral principles.
Heart studies me. Maybe he’s reading my inner struggle. “Becker, I’m not asking you to pretend to be someone else. I’m asking you to prove that you are not the man everyone thinks you are.”
He’s never said that to me before. Is this his new tactic to make me say yes? Playing the coach who sees something more in me?
I know he hates me. That he would gladly do without my presence.
His blue eyes are fixed on me. They’re the same color as Sloane’s eyes… damn it.
Maybe I just want to wrap this up quickly. Get back on the field and forget all this crap I’ve gotten myself into.
I find myself nodding as if in a trance. “When?”
Nate and Heart look at each other, and I see them smile in sync.
Yeah, they won.
Nate claps me on the arm. “We’ll get you the details, man.”
Then they stand up and leave, closing the door softly.
I’m left alone in the kitchen, with the hum of the refrigerator as a soundtrack.
I look at the beer in front of me, open it, and take a long sip.
Release a statement.
Play the good guy.
Play the game.
All while pretending my matchmaking coach doesn’t still taste like the best damn thing in the world.
I take another sip.
The bottle hits the table with a dull thud.
“Yeah, sure,” I murmur, staring at the ceiling. “What could possibly go wrong?”
I don’t hear Dominic approach while I’m lost in my thoughts.
Maybe that’s why I almost jump out of my skin when he reaches out for a beer.
He doesn’t say anything, as usual.
He just sets a flash drive on the table.
I look up at him. We take a drink at the same time.
“You keep it, just in case you need it.”
I blink, confused… though I’m sure this makes sense somehow. “What is it?”
He rolls his eyes, annoyed that I can’t magically read his mind. “Your sister’s turning eighteen. You’re not required to…” He sighs—annoyed by the number of words he’s being forced to use—then finishes, “You’re not required to keep doing this anymore.”
I open my mouth. Close it again.
I have no idea what the hell to think.
I stare at him, and I swear I’d be more shocked if I didn’t already know that Dominic Voss is always ten steps ahead of everyone, even when he doesn’t say a thing.
And I don’t even need to ask what’s on that flash drive. I can already guess.
My freedom.
I swear, I could throw myself at him and squeeze him until he cracks. But… I try to behave in the way that I know will annoy him the least. My version of a thank-you.
I nod, curling my fingers around that tiny object that burns like fire in my fist.
The protective shadow of the most guarded, dangerous, and powerful man I know settles over me.
And he’s just handed me an escape route in case everything goes to hell.