Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
Lucas
“Come on, Lukie, those glutes aren’t going to squat themselves,” Logan taunts in the weight room Monday morning.
“Your face isn’t going to punch itself, either,” I say, holding a loaded barbell across my shoulders, the cold metal biting through my shirt as my legs tremble under the weight.
Logan grins as he finishes a clean rep and lets the bar thud back onto the rubber mat, rolling his shoulders like every set is rejuvenating him. He’s in an uncharacteristically good mood this morning. I hate it.
He spent all weekend in a good mood, buzzing like he was on a caffeine high when he rarely touches the stuff.
I had a terrible weekend. Not only did Jake post a dozen pictures of him and Scottie, Kayla’s husband’s team came back into town Friday, and they had a home game Saturday in Augusta, so she invited us to watch it in her box.
Scottie was there. So was Jake.
And the worst part is that he wasn’t the worst. Don’t get me wrong, they’re terrible for each other—she was smiling and laughing like her face was broken the whole time, and he couldn’t keep his hands off of her, which made me want to throw him onto the ice in the middle of a brawl.
But he wasn’t a total tool. I don’t know if the media has just played up his most horrible moments or what, but the guy was just … a guy.
A completely clueless guy. He said “bless you” the first time Scottie sneezed, but when she sneezed three times in a row a few minutes later, he didn’t say a thing.
It was as if the first “bless you” did the trick for the whole night.
And she was always getting up to grab him things—another Mountain Dew, ribs, nachos.
All he did was share his churro with her.
The worst worst part, though, is when they were sending short videos back and forth with her brother and his baby, Mateo.
The kid is only a couple of months old, but he was making these cooing, bubble sounds that were cute enough to steal the attention of half the people in the box.
They kept sending videos back where they were practically cheek to cheek, both of them smiling and being silly for him like they were a team.
I can interpret her smiles as wooden and her laughs as overrehearsed all I want. But they have history and family and everything on their side.
And I’ve got coffee.
I’ve cracked the code to the exact drink she wants based on her mood in real time.
Woop-dee-doo.
“That’s more like it,” Logan says, and I realize I’m standing at the bottom of a squat, having stalled out mid-rep while my brain spiraled.
I grunt my way back up, rack the bar, and drop onto the bench, sweat running down my spine as I grab my water bottle and drain half of it in one go, my hands shaking harder than they should.
I finish the workout on autopilot—core work, a short stretch, the bare minimum—then hit the locker room for a fast shower and a change. I’ve got a meeting with Scottie mid-morning and then more all week. PR Boot Camp, according to the color-coded calendar she gave me.
When I get to her office, the lights are off, though. Her chair is pushed in. Her tumbler isn’t here, and there’s no jacket slung over the back of her chair or half drunk cup of coffee on the desk (and no, I didn’t bring her one when her freaking boyfriend’s in town. I’m not that good a friend).
I text her. Wait a couple of minutes. Nothing. The “delivered” checkmark just sits there, mocking me.
Kayla’s out this week—what with her husband in town, and all—so there’s no one to triangulate through. I wander the concourse, pretending I’m not looking for her, until I spot a flash of yellow in the players’ lot.
Jake.
He’s in joggers and a hoodie, earbuds hanging loose around his neck, sneakers untied, like he’s not sure how willing he is to commit to working out.
“Hey,” I say, nodding. “Didn’t know you were still in town.”
“Yeah. Flight’s tonight. Figured I’d get a lift in.”
I hesitate. “Have you seen Scottie?”
“Yeah. She’s pretty sick,” he says, like he’s talking about the weather. “I think it’s the flu, or something. She said she has a crazy fever.”
My chest tightens. I keep my voice level. “Oh. She checked you at the door, huh?”
“Nah, she told me not to come over yesterday. You know how she is. Tough as nails, that chick—my chick. My girl.”
Did he just correct himself? Have to remind himself that they’re dating?
“But you’re … going over there today, right? Grabbing her soup? Meds?”
He tightens his hand on his duffel, and his expression hardens. “No. Like I said, she hates being waited on. She already put in a grocery order.”
“But you’re her boyfriend.”
“Yeah, which means you don’t know her like I do.”
I tense my jaw hard enough to pop a muscle. “Nope. You’re right, I don’t.”
“She’s fine, man. She’s just sick.”
Just sick.
He adjusts his duffel higher. “You seem pretty invested.”
I force a half smile. “Yeah, I am. She’s my player coordinator. We’ve got PR Boot Camp this week.”
He snorts, like he finally gets it.
“She’s good at that,” he says. “Listen to everything she says, even when you don’t want to, and you’ll be fine. I wish I’d learned that lesson twenty years ago. Maybe I wouldn’t be in this spot.”
What spot? I want to ask. The spot where he’s practically a walking pariah in the league because he’s only out for himself?
Jake puts his earbuds back in, and he’s about to walk off when he stops. “Listen, Scot would hate thinking she missed a chance to fit work into her schedule. Her door code’s 0484. Just wear a mask if you risk it.”
“I’ll risk it,” I say.
“Suit yourself. Later, man.”
I look at Jake’s retreating form, and anger builds up in my chest until I’m panting harder than I did in the weight room, my hands clenched.
She’s his girlfriend and he hardly even cares.
Yeah, well, she’s my friend and I do.
I storm over to my truck, toss my bag into the bed, and drive to the nearest pharmacy, where I buy every flu medicine available.
***
I call Scottie when I reach her place.
She doesn’t answer.
I try the door.
Locked.
I punch in the code. 0484.
The lock clicks open with a soft, decisive sound that feels louder than it should, like the house itself is registering that someone new is stepping into a space that doesn’t belong to him.
The air hits me first—dim and stale and metallic in a way that trips something old in my body. Not panic exactly. More like a reflex.
When I was a kid, getting sick meant potentially getting Mom sick.
During her bad stretches, even a cold could mean a hospitalization.
Dad was religious about it—masks, hand washing, keeping out of her room if any of us had even a scratchy throat.
It became second nature: if someone’s sick, you stay far, far away.
I stand in Scottie’s doorway for a second. Two.
Then I step inside.
“Scottie?” I call. “It’s me. Lucas.”
The house is dim, curtains drawn. I squint to see better when something slams into my shin.
“Whoa—”
I stumble forward, catching myself on the wall as a blur of fur darts past my legs like a missile.
Pinto.
The cat zips across the hardwood, jumps on top of an armchair, and immediately starts meowing at me like I’m personally responsible for whatever neglect he’s suffered in the last twelve hours.
“Yeah, okay,” I mutter, heart still pounding. “I’ll get to you, too.”
He doesn’t stop meowing. Not even a little.
“Scottie?” I call again, louder now, starting to feel real panic that something’s wrong.
“I HAVE A TASER AND I’VE CALLED THE COPS,” she yells from down the hall, her voice hoarse and wavering.
“Don’t tase me!” I blurt, hands going up on instinct. “Scottie—it’s me. Lucas. I used the code. I’m sorry.”
There’s a beat.
Then she appears in the doorway.
She’s swaying, wrapped in a fuzzy robe, her face flushed and her eyes glassy, dark circles carved deep under them.
“Lucas?” she croaks.
She takes one step toward me—
—and nearly goes down.
I cross the room in two strides and catch her before she hits the floor, her body burning through the layers, trembling with the effort of standing.
“Easy,” I say, guiding her to the couch, my voice deceptively steady. “I’ve got you.”
Pinto jumps up beside us, still yelling.
“Yeah, yeah,” I murmur, already digging through the pharmacy bag. “You’re next.”
But right now, it’s her.
Always her.
She clutches weakly at my sleeve once she’s settled, her hand hot to the touch.
“You’re going to get sick,” she says. Not a warning. An argument she’s too exhausted to win.
“I never get sick,” I say, which is almost true. “And I’ve already taken Airborne.”
“Lucas—”
“I’m staying, Quinn,” I murmur, gliding the device over her forehead and down her cheek. “Humor me.”
The thermometer beeps. I glance at it. 103.8.
My lungs tighten.
“That’s … high,” I say carefully, calmly, even though panic is pulsing through me.
She tries to shake her head, tries to push me away.
“I’m not going anywhere unless you make me,” I tell her in a soft voice, wiping hair out of her face. “You’re too sick to be alone.”
She makes a small miserable sound and sinks further into the cushions. “Don’t.”
I lean closer. “Don’t? You don’t want help?”
Her eyes flutter, her light lashes hard to see without mascara, especially with no lights on in the house. She’s shivering so hard, her teeth chatter. Her hand curls weakly into the front of my sweatshirt.
“Don’t,” she whispers again, voice breaking.
And then, barely audible—
“Go.”
Don’t, she said. Go, she said.
She doesn’t want me here.
I lean back, looking at her. Jake was right. I thought I knew better, and now I’m the idiot who broke into her house to give her something she doesn’t even want. Disappointment and humiliation wash over me.
Why did I convince myself that I’m special? She doesn’t want her own boyfriend here, someone she has a shared history with, someone she’s known her entire life. She definitely doesn’t want me.