Chapter 51 - Donovan
Donovan
The locker room smells like sweat and disinfectant, the scent that’s been my life longer than I can remember. I’m leaning against the doorframe to the coach’s office, arms folded, watching him shuffle papers that don’t really need shuffling.
“I’m not re-signing,” I say. “Contract’s up in two weeks. I’m going home to Arizona.”
He looks up, like he already knew but hoped I’d say something different. “College offers are still quiet?”
I give a small shrug. “A couple of interviews. Nothing that stuck.”
The truth is, they didn’t go well. The fit wasn’t right. Or maybe I wasn’t.
“I’ll line up something in Arizona,” I tell him. “Closer to Stella. We’ve done the long-distance thing long enough.”
It’s not a lie. But it’s not the whole truth either.
I didn't tell him she left. Don’t tell him the last time we spoke without it turning into a fight was months ago.
Don’t tell him that going home isn’t about closing the distance; it’s about clawing my way back into something I’m not sure still wants me.
We talk about schedules and last games, and I shake his hand before heading out. The late afternoon sun hits me hard when I step outside, hot even in the fall.
The drive home is quiet. No music. Just the hum of the road and the weight of two weeks pressing down. My apartment smells faintly of stale beer and takeout. I lock the door behind me and stand there for a second, looking around like it’s a place I’ve already started saying goodbye to.
The duffel bag comes out of the closet first. I toss in clothes I won’t need until Agave Hills—hoodies, jeans, and the navy suit I wore to her parents’ funeral. I fold the rest slower, as if the right order might make the rest of it easier.
On the counter, there’s a half-empty bottle of bourbon. I stare at it for a beat, then twist off the cap and pour it down the sink. The smell hits me sharply; I almost change my mind, but I let it run out until the last drop is gone.
I toss the bottle into the trash and go back to the bag. The apartment feels even emptier now, but maybe that’s the point.
When I’m done, I sit at the kitchen table. The manila envelope is still there where I left it, the edges curling from being handled too many times. I pull out the papers, lay them flat, and smooth the creases with my palm.
Her ring sits on top, catching the low light. I pick it up, rolling the band between my fingers, the cool metal warming against my skin.
Two more weeks. Then I’m home for good.
And maybe, if I can just get there fast enough, I can stop the rest of it from falling apart.