Chapter 9
Donovan
There are quiet sounds of birds chirping in the background as I watch Stella’s taillights disappear around the corner. I shove my hands into my pockets, standing in the rising heat of the morning, listening to the last faint rumble of her engine fade out.
Two weeks. It’s nothing. I’ve done worse. But now, after everything that’s happened… It feels like too long.
I slide into my car and turn the ignition. Warm air hums through the vents, and I rest my hands on the steering wheel and take a few deep, grounding breaths.
Lavender and eucalyptus still lingers on my skin, flooding my senses, reminding me exactly how her body moved under mine. How she whispered my name when I—
I scrub a hand down my face. Don’t start. Not now. I can’t kick off my day with a tent in my pants and Stella on a plane to Virginia. There’s so much I should be doing. Getting to class, replying to emails, acting like the world hasn’t shifted again. But it has.
She said she loved me, that her heart’s been mine since high school. That should be enough to carry me through this.
God, I hope it is.
I barely survived my first class of the day. Now I’m back in my office, a glorified coat closet with peeling walls and a desk that groans when I breathe near it.
I dig my phone out like some lovesick idiot who can’t survive ninety minutes of silence. (I am.)
One new message.
Mi Bella: I made it through security and on to the plane just in the nick of time. I will text you as soon as I land at home in Virginia.
My stomach knots the second I read it.
“Back home in Virginia.”
Why does her calling it home make me want to hurl?
Like I’m the layover. Not the destination.
I shove the feeling down, take a steadying breath, and type out a reply. Fast. I won't make her wait an hour this time. Not again.
Me: You’re flying over Tennessee, and I’m here trying to pretend I don’t miss you like hell already.
I pocket my phone just as my next class saunters in. While I move through the motions of basketball drills, all I can think about is Stella.
Finally, I’m in the last class of the school day. I raise my hands, signaling the student with the ball that I’m ready for the pass.
Bzzzz. Bzzzz.
The text alert shakes against my leg.
I reach for it just as the ball leaves his fingertips.
My phone’s in my palm, open to the home screen. I'm mid-glance when the ball smacks me square in the face, hard enough that I feel it before I hear the sharp thud of rubber against skin.
The entire class goes quiet. The only sounds that can be heard in the gym are the air conditioner and the slow, mocking bounce of the ball across the gym floor.
My phone is on the ground, and my thumb and index finger are pinching the soft flesh just below the bridge of my nose in an attempt to get the blood to stop spewing out.
“Oh shit, oh shit, Mr. D’Angelo. I am so sorry; I didn’t. I didn’t mean to hit you with the ball.” Miles Clarke panics and runs towards me.
I close my eyes, willing the pain to stop radiating through my face.
“Miles, calm down. Dude, it was my fault.” My voice is muffled behind my hand. “This is why phones are not allowed to be out during class. Safety issues. Please go get Nurse Ellington and tell her I have a nosebleed.”
She arrives quickly with supplies, wiping the blood off my face and making sure the bleeding has stopped before she leaves me with an ice pack and strict instructions: ten minutes on the nose.
I grab my phone off the gym floor and see that the screen is shattered.
Of course it is.
I have football practice today. I doubt the phone store’s even open that late. I head toward the locker room, pissed off and tired, and change into my practice gear: basketball shorts, a football shirt, and running shoes.
Slamming the office door behind me, I jog toward the team. “Let’s go, boys! We’re running laps today.”
Four miles total. Full gear, minus helmets. The sun is ruthless, turning the field into a furnace. The turf radiates heat like it has a vendetta.
By the final lap, the guys are groaning, half-collapsing in search of shade or any hint of cool air. The team manager hands out water bottles. In 105-degree weather, hydration is a matter of survival.
“Good practice, team. Go shower, change, and get out of here. Enjoy your weekend. Next week’s the last one before Friday night lights!” They grab their helmets and head toward the locker room.
Coach Riggins joins me at the edge of the field, hands on his hips in his usual ‘disappointed dad’ stance.
“Coach D’Angelo, that was… rough today. Everything okay, son?”
“Yup. Yeah. Everything’s great,” I lie as we walk.
He gives me a long side-eye. “Look, son. I heard about the basketball incident. I also noticed Stella isn’t here. Life gets rough sometimes. You’re leading boys who think you hung the moon. You can’t let your heart fumble the play.”
He pats my back and disappears into his office.
Fuck.
He’s right. 105 is far too hot for full-lap punishment. I let my frustration win today.
Quickly, I change and dash to my car, hoping to hell the phone store stays open late on Fridays.