CHAPTER NINE
PAYBACK
Grant
I slept like shit.
Three hours. Maybe four. I spent most of the night staring at my ceiling, listening to Elise move around in the room next to mine. Listening to her laugh with Jordie in the kitchen after I stormed out like a coward.
My neck’s fucked. There’s a crick in it that makes turning my head feel like someone’s driving a knife between my vertebrae.
Good.
Physical pain I can handle. It’s clean. Simple. You ice it, stretch it out, push through it.
Not like the other kind. The kind that sits in your chest and makes it hard to breathe. The kind that comes from watching Jordie Dickson announce at the fucking dinner table that he wants to fuck Elise.
Who does that?
Who sits there eating pasta and just says it? Out loud? Like it’s normal? Like she’s not my—
She’s not mine.
That’s the problem.
She’s not mine, and I made damn sure of that two years ago when I kissed her and then ran. When I chose guilt over wanting her. Chose Mason’s memory over the first real thing I’d felt since he died.
Smart choice, Wilder. Real fucking smart.
Now I get to live with her. Watch Jordie flirt with her. Watch Wyatt look at her like she’s water and he’s been dying of thirst.
And I get to pretend I don’t care.
I’m so tired of pretending.
Practice is at six AM, which means I’m on the ice at five-thirty.
The rink is empty. Cold. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting everything in harsh white. I love it like this. Just me and the ice and the burn in my muscles.
I skate hard. Push myself until my thighs scream and my lungs feel like they’re shredding.
It doesn’t help.
Because all I can see is Jordie leaning into Elise in the kitchen. All I can hear is him saying those words: I want to fuck Elise.
I want to hit him.
Want to slam him into the boards so hard he sees stars. Want to make him hurt the way I’m hurting.
Which is fucked up because I’m the one who walked away. I’m the one who ghosted her for two years. I’m the one who lost the right to be jealous.
Doesn’t stop me from feeling it anyway.
The team starts filtering in around five-forty-five. Joking, chirping, the usual pre-practice energy.
Jordie’s one of the first. Because of course he is. Golden boy doesn’t do late.
He sees me. His smile falters for half a second.
Good. He should be nervous.
“Morning, Cap,” he says. Careful. Testing.
I don’t respond. Just skate past him to center ice.
Coach Patterson shows up at six on the dot. Blows his whistle. “Line up. We’re running drills.”
We do. Passing drills. Shooting drills. Defensive positioning.
I push them. Push myself harder.
But it’s not enough.
The anger is still there. Simmering. Building.
When Coach calls a water break, I don’t take one.
“Grant.” His voice cuts across the ice. “A word.”
I skate over. He’s looking at me with those sharp eyes that see too much.
“You good?”
“Fine.”
“You don’t look fine. You look like you want to murder someone.”
“I’m fine,” I repeat.
He studies me. Then nods. “Alright. But whatever’s eating you? Leave it off my ice. We’ve got a game Saturday.”
“Yes, sir.”
He skates away. Leaves me standing there with all this rage and nowhere to put it.
Then Jordie laughs at something one of the guys said. Loud. Easy. Like last night didn’t happen.
Something inside me snaps.
“Line up,” I call out. My voice is cold. Flat. “We’re running suicides.”
The team groans. But they line up anyway. Because I’m captain and they listen.
“First one to the blue line and back. Then red line. Then far blue line. Then all the way down and back. Go!”
They go.
I watch them sprint. Watch them push. Watch their legs start to shake halfway through.
“Again,” I say when they finish.
“Cap—” someone starts.
“Again.”
They go again.
By the third round, two guys are bent over at the boards. One’s dry-heaving. The other’s just trying to breathe.
“Again.”
“Grant.” Jordie’s breathing hard. Face flushed. “Come on, man.”
“You got something to say, Dickson?”
He looks at me. Really looks. And I see the moment he understands.
This is payback.
“Is this about last night?” he asks.
The rest of the team perks up. Suddenly interested.
“What happened last night?” Bryce asks.
“Nothing,” I say.
“Didn’t seem like nothing,” Jordie says. He’s still looking at me. Challenging. “Seemed like you got pretty pissed about—”
“Shut up.”
“About me saying I want to fuck—”
“Shut the fuck up, Dickson.”
But it’s too late. The damage is done.
“Wait, what?” Devon is grinning now. “Who do you want to fuck?”
“Our roommate,” Jordie says, still watching me. “Elise.”
The team explodes—whooping, laughing, chirping Jordie about getting some.
My hands curl into fists.
“And apparently Cap has a problem with it,” Jordie continues.
“Oh shit,” someone says.
“You into her, Cap?” Bryce asks. “Is that why you’ve been extra psycho lately?”
“I’m not into her.”
“Bullshit,” Jordie says, quiet and certain. “You’ve been into her since she moved in.”
“Fuck you.”
“Just fuck her instead,” Devon calls out. “Seriously, Cap. Get her out of your system. Stop taking it out on us.”
The team murmurs agreement—exhausted and desperate and completely missing the point.
Like it’s that simple. Like I can just fuck her and move on. Like she’s not Teddy’s little sister. Like I didn’t kiss her two years ago and ruin everything.
Like it would be nothing. The last person I loved died. Letting myself feel things isn’t exactly a strong suit anymore.
“Please,” Bryce begs. “My legs are dead. Just bang your roommate so we can have normal practices again.”
“Yeah, Cap,” someone else says. “Dick her down. For the team.”
They’re all laughing now, like this is funny. Like my life is a joke they get to be entertained by.
Jordie’s not laughing. He’s still watching me with those too-perceptive blue eyes.
“Not happening,” I say. My voice cuts through the noise. “I’m not fucking Elise. And neither is anyone on this team. Especially not you, Dickson.”
“Why not?” Jordie asks, a genuine question. Not challenging—just asking.
Because she’s mine. Because I kissed her first. Because the thought of you touching her makes me want to break something.
“Because she’s our roommate,” I say instead. “And we’re not animals.”
“Speak for yourself,” Devon mutters.
I ignore him and blow my whistle. “Two more rounds. Then we’re done.”
The team groans, but they line up.
Jordie skates up next to me while they’re getting ready—close enough that only I can hear.
“You know this is fucked up, right?” His voice is low. “Using the team to work out whatever issues you have with Elise?”
“I don’t have issues with Elise.”
“Right. That’s why you stormed out of dinner last night. That’s why you’re running us into the ground this morning.” He shakes his head. “You want her. Just admit it.”
“I don’t—”
“You do. And that’s fine. But don’t punish everyone else because you’re too chickenshit to do something about it.”
The words hit like a punch.
“Fuck off, Dickson.”
“I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking.” He pushes off, skates to the line, and looks back at me. “Figure your shit out, Cap. Before someone else does it for you.”
The threat is clear.
He’s going after her. For real this time.
And there’s nothing I can do to stop him.
Practice ends twenty minutes later. The team drags themselves off the ice, exhausted, pissed at me but too tired to say anything.
Good. Let them be pissed.
I stay on the ice after everyone leaves, skating until my legs are rubber and my lungs are burning and I can’t think about anything except breathing.
But it doesn’t work.
Because Jordie’s words are stuck in my head. You want her. Just admit it.
I do want her.
But wanting her and having her are different things.
Having her means dealing with Teddy. It means explaining why I ghosted her. It means opening up about Mason and the guilt and all the shit I’ve spent two years trying to bury.
It means risking losing someone again.
I can’t do it.
Won’t do it.
So I’ll watch Jordie flirt with her. Watch him make her laugh in ways I can’t anymore. Watch him be everything I’m too fucked up to be.
And I’ll pretend it doesn’t kill me.
I’m good at pretending.
Had two years of practice.
I get back to the townhouse at nine. Elise is in the kitchen making coffee. She’s wearing those sleep shorts again and an oversized Crestmont hoodie.
My hoodie.
The one I thought I’d misplaced.
She stole my hoodie.
Something in my chest clenches.
“Morning,” she says, not looking at me. “Coffee?”
“Yeah.”
She pours me a cup. Black. No sugar. Exactly how I take it.
She knows how I take my coffee.
“Thanks.”
“Sure.”
We stand there, six feet apart, an ocean of unspoken shit between us.
“Jordie told me about practice,” she says finally.
Of course he did.
“It was fine.”
“He said you ran them into the ground. Said two guys puked.”
“They’re hockey players. They can handle it.”
“He said it was because of dinner last night.” Now she does look at me, those hazel eyes searching. “Because of what he said.”
“Jordie talks too much.”
“Is it true?”
“Is what true?”
“That you’re pissed about—” She stops. Regroups. “About him wanting to… you know.”
“Fuck you?” The words come out harsh. “Yeah. That’s what he said. At the dinner table. Like it was normal.”
Her cheeks flush. “He’s very direct.”
“He’s very stupid.”
“Why do you care?”
The question hangs there. Simple. Impossible.
“I don’t.”
“Liar.”
“Elise—”
“You do care. I can see it. Everyone can see it except maybe you.” She sets her mug down. “What I don’t understand is why you care now. You didn’t care two years ago.”
The hit lands clean. Right in the solar plexus.
“That’s not fair.”
“None of this is fair, Grant.” Her voice is quiet. Tired. “You kissed me. You made me feel like maybe I wasn’t crazy for wanting you. Then you disappeared. Two years of nothing. And now I’m here, and you’re acting like I’m the problem.”
“You’re not the problem.”
“Then what is?”
Everything. Me. Mason. The guilt. The fear that if I let myself have you, the universe will take you away too.
“It’s complicated,” I say.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have.”
She stares at me for a long moment. Then shakes her head.
“You know what? Do whatever you want. Be pissed at Jordie. Run your team into the ground. Punish everyone around you for feelings you won’t admit to having.” She grabs her mug. Heads for the stairs. “But leave me out of it.”
“Elise—”
She stops. Doesn’t turn around.
“For what it’s worth?” Her voice cracks just slightly. “I wish you’d cared this much two years ago. Would’ve saved us both a lot of trouble.”
Then she’s gone.
I stand in the kitchen alone with my coffee going cold and her words echoing in my head.
She’s right.
I should’ve cared two years ago. Should’ve texted her back. Called her. Explained why I ran.
But I was too busy drowning in grief and guilt to see that she was drowning too.
And now Jordie’s there. Offering her everything I’m too chickenshit to give.
I down my coffee in three swallows and head to the shower.
I stand under water hot enough to hurt.
But it doesn’t wash away the image of her in my hoodie. Or the memory of her voice cracking when she said she wished I’d cared.
I did care.
I cared so much it terrified me.
Still does.
Which is why I’ll watch Jordie take what I’m too scared to claim.
Watch Wyatt get closer while I push her away.
Watch her slip through my fingers because I’m too fucked up to hold on.
It’s what I deserve.
So I’ll keep pretending I don’t care.
Keep punishing my team and myself.
Keep watching from the sidelines while other people get to touch her.
It’s safer this way.
For everyone.
Even if it’s killing me.