CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
brEAKING POINT
Grant
I hear Wyatt grunt through the ceiling and I know exactly what it means.
I’m standing in the kitchen with a beer I’m not drinking, staring at the wall like it holds answers, and upstairs my teammates are making the girl I love fall apart.
The girl I pushed away. The girl I kissed and called a mistake. The girl who’s moved on because I was too much of a coward to fight for her.
Another sound. Muffled. Jordie’s voice saying her name like a prayer.
My hand tightens around the beer bottle so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter.
I should leave. Should get in my car and drive until this feeling in my chest stops threatening to crack me open. But I can’t make my feet move, can’t stop listening to the sounds of them together, torturing myself with what I threw away.
The sounds quiet eventually and I set the beer down. Walk upstairs on autopilot, my body moving before my brain catches up.
I stand outside Jordie’s door and I can hear them. Not the words, just the low murmur of voices, the sound of Jordie being sweet and attentive the way he always is, Wyatt’s quieter responses, Elise’s soft laugh.
They sound happy. Content. Like a unit.
Without me.
My hand is on the doorknob before I realize what I’m doing. I could turn it. Could walk in there and—what? Demand they stop? Tell them they’re violating the housing contract? Threaten to report them to fucking Carol?
Make them choose between this and their future?
My fingers tighten on the knob.
I could do it. Could blow this whole thing up. We signed that contract. All of us. Carol explicitly forbade exactly what’s happening in that room. One call to housing and they’re all fucked—evicted, possibly losing scholarships, definitely facing disciplinary action.
I could end this right now.
Make them hurt the way I’m hurting.
The thought sits there. Bitter. Tempting.
Then I hear Elise laugh again. Soft. Genuinely happy.
And I drop my hand.
Because I’m a lot of things—jealous, angry, emotionally constipated according to Jordie—but I’m not that much of a bastard. I won’t destroy her future because I’m too fucked up to deal with mine.
I turn away from the door. Walk downstairs and grab my keys.
The rink is empty at midnight on a Tuesday. I use my captain’s key to get in, flip on enough lights to see, and lace up my skates with hands that are shaking from rage or grief or both.
I hit the ice hard.
Skate until my thighs are screaming. Until my lungs are burning. Until the image of Elise between them, happy and satisfied and not thinking about me at all, starts to blur at the edges.
It doesn’t work.
I can still hear Wyatt saying her name. Can still picture Jordie’s hands on her the way mine should be. Can still see the way she looked at both of them in the kitchen yesterday morning—soft and affectionate and everything she used to look at me with before I destroyed it.
I skate harder. Faster. Pushing my body past its limits because physical pain is easier than this.
I make it two hours before I puke in the trash can by the bench.
Then I keep skating.
By the time I finally drag myself off the ice, it’s the middle of the night. My legs are jelly. My chest is tight. And I’ve solved exactly nothing.
I sit in the locker room for twenty minutes, staring at my locker nameplate like it’s going to tell me what to do.
WILDER.
Mason’s was right next to mine through high school. We played together from the time we could hold sticks. He was better than me—faster, more instinctive, the one scouts watched at games. I was the grinder, the one who worked twice as hard for half the talent.
Then he died and I got his spot. His future. His life.
And I’ve been trying to earn it ever since, punishing myself for surviving when he didn’t, keeping everyone at arm’s length because wanting things feels like a betrayal of the brother who can’t want anything anymore.
But Mason wouldn’t want this. Wouldn’t want me skating until I puke because I’m too scared to fight for what I actually want.
He’d tell me to stop being a chickenshit and go after her.
The thought sits in my chest, heavy and true.
I shower. Change. Drive home in the pitch black stillness of night.
I sit in my car in the driveway for fifteen minutes, engine off, staring at the house.
She’s in there. Probably still in Jordie’s bed, wrapped up in both of them, exactly where she wants to be.
I lost her. It’s my fault. I deserve this.
But.
The word hangs there. Small but significant.
But I can’t let her go without telling her the truth. Can’t let her think I don’t want her when wanting her has been the only thing keeping me sane for two years.
I might be too late. Probably am too late. She’s got two guys who worship her, who don’t come with my baggage and guilt and emotional wreckage.
But I have to try. Have to tell her about Mason and the guilt and the fear that wanting anything means it’ll be taken away. Have to let her decide with all the information instead of just my cowardice.
Even if she chooses them. Even if telling her changes nothing. At least she’ll know.
At least I’ll have fought for her once instead of just running.
I get out of the car. Walk toward the house with purpose I haven’t felt in months.
The front door is unlocked. The house is quiet in that early morning way, everything still and waiting.
I take the stairs slowly, my heart hammering against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.
Jordie’s door is closed. I stand outside it for a long moment, listening. Nothing. They’re asleep.
I should wait. Should let them rest. Should plan what I’m going to say instead of barging in exhausted and desperate.
But I’ve wasted two years on should. On doing the safe thing. On protecting myself instead of risking anything real.
I knock. Three times. Loud enough to wake them but not aggressive.
Movement inside. Muffled voices. Then footsteps.
The door opens and Jordie’s standing there in sweatpants, hair fucked up, eyes still heavy with sleep. He looks at me and his expression shifts from confused to guarded in half a second.
“Grant.” His voice is careful. “It’s four in the morning.”
“I know.”
“Did you just get home?”
“Yeah.”
We stare at each other. He knows why I’m here. I can see it in the way he’s blocking the doorway, protective, ready to shut me out if I’m here to cause problems.
“I need to talk to her,” I say quietly.
“She’s sleeping.”
“I know. But I need—” My voice cracks. I clear my throat. Try again. “I need to talk to all of you. Please.”
Something in my tone must get through to him because his expression softens slightly. “Grant—”
“I’m not here to threaten anyone. I’m not reporting anything to housing. I just—” I run a hand through my hair. “I need to tell her the truth. Tell all of you the truth. And then if she wants me to leave her alone, I will. But I can’t do that without trying first.”
Jordie studies me for a long moment. Then he nods. “Give us ten minutes.”
He closes the door and I lean against the hallway wall, trying to breathe through the anxiety that’s threatening to choke me.
This is it. No more running. No more pretending I don’t care. No more protecting myself at the expense of everything else.
I’m going to lay it all out. The guilt. The fear. The love I’ve been trying to bury for two years.
And then she’s going to choose.
Maybe she chooses them. Maybe this changes nothing.
But maybe she gives me a chance. Maybe knowing why I ran makes a difference. Maybe I’m not too late.
The door opens again. This time all three of them are there. Elise is wearing Jordie’s shirt, hair messy from sleep and sex, standing between them like she belongs there.
She looks at me and I see everything in her eyes. Confusion. Wariness. A hint of the hurt I put there.
But also something else. Something that might be hope if I’m not imagining it.
“Grant.” Her voice is soft. “What’s going on?”
I look at all three of them. At the life she’s building without me. At what I could have had if I hadn’t been such a coward.
Then I take a breath and tell them the truth.
“I’m in love with you,” I say to Elise, my voice rough but steady. “I have been since you were nineteen. And I’m done pretending I’m not.”
The hallway goes silent. Nobody moves.
Then I keep going. Because I’m already all in. Might as well burn it all down.
“Two and a half years ago my twin brother died in a car accident I was driving in. I walked away. He didn’t. And every day since then I’ve been trying to figure out how to live with that. How to want things. How to be happy when he can’t be.”
Wyatt’s expression shifts. Understanding. He knows about loss. About guilt.
“Six months after Mason died, Elise kissed me at a bonfire and it was the first time since the accident that I felt anything besides grief. She made me want to live instead of just survive. And that terrified me.”
Elise’s eyes are bright. Not quite tears but close.
“So I ran. I ghosted her for two years because feeling that much scared me. Because wanting her felt like betraying Mason. Because if I let myself have her and lost her too—” My voice breaks. “I couldn’t survive losing someone else I love.”
Jordie’s arm tightens around Elise’s shoulders. Protective. But he’s listening.
“I’ve spent two years watching you from a distance. Two years telling myself I made the right choice. That keeping you at arm’s length was protecting both of us.” I look directly at Elise now. “But I was just protecting myself. And hurting you in the process.”
A tear slips down her cheek. I want to reach out, wipe it away, but I don’t have that right anymore.
“Last night I heard you. With them. And I wanted to break down that door and—” I stop. Take a breath. “I wanted to report all of you to housing. Make you choose between this and your future. Blow it all up because I was hurting.”
“Grant—” Elise starts.
“But I didn’t. Because I’m done letting my fear dictate my life. I’m done punishing myself for surviving. I’m done pushing away the one person who makes me want to be better.”
I look at Jordie and Wyatt now. “You make her happy. I can see that. And maybe that’s enough. Maybe I’ve lost my chance and this is just me getting to say what I should have said two years ago.”
“But if there’s any part of you—” I focus on Elise again, pouring everything I have into this “—that still wants me. That can forgive me for being a coward. Then I’m here. I’m all in. I’m done running.”
The silence stretches. Heavy. Loaded.
Then Elise steps forward, extracting herself from Jordie and Wyatt, and stands in front of me with her arms crossed.
“You’re an asshole,” she says quietly.
“I know.”
“You broke my heart. Twice.”
“I know.”
“You called me a mistake. You slut-shamed me. You made me feel like wanting you was something to be ashamed of.”
Each word is a knife but I take it. Deserve it. “I know. And I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, Elise.”
She’s looking at me with those hazel eyes that see everything. Then: “Why now? Why tell me this now instead of two years ago? Or two weeks ago?”
“Because I thought I could watch you move on. Thought I could handle it.” I laugh, bitter. “Turns out I can’t. Turns out watching you be happy without me is worse than any guilt I’ve been carrying.”
“That’s not a good enough reason.”
“You’re right. It’s not.” I step closer. Close enough to touch her but I don’t. “The real reason is Mason. If he were here, he’d tell me I’m being an idiot. He’d tell me life’s too short to waste on fear. He’d tell me to stop using his death as an excuse to not live my own life.”
My voice drops lower. “He’d tell me that the girl I love is standing right in front of me and if I don’t fight for her, I’m the dumbest son of a bitch who ever lived.”
Elise’s breath catches.
“So that’s what I’m doing. Fighting for you. Even if I’m too late. Even if you choose them and not me. At least you’ll know. At least I’ll have tried.”
She’s staring at me. Not speaking. Just staring.
Jordie and Wyatt haven’t moved. They’re watching this play out with careful neutrality, letting Elise take the lead.
“I don’t know what to say,” she finally whispers.
“You don’t have to say anything right now.” I step back. Give her space. “Think about it. Take your time. I’ll be here. And if you decide you don’t want me, I’ll accept that. But I needed you to know the truth first.”
I turn to leave, my chest tight with everything unsaid, my hands shaking with adrenaline and exhaustion and fear.
Then her hand catches mine.
“Grant.”
I stop. Turn back.
She’s looking at me with an expression I can’t read. Hurt and hope tangled together.
“I need time,” she says. “To process this. To figure out what I want.”
“I know.”
“But—” She squeezes my hand. “Thank you. For telling me. For being honest.”
It’s not forgiveness. It’s not acceptance. But it’s not a no either.
And right now, that’s enough.
I squeeze back once, then let go. Walk to my room on legs that barely hold me.
Close the door. Lean against it.
And finally let myself fall apart.