Page 124 of Bitter When He Begs

And sure enough, the second I walk into the hotel room I’m sharing with Eli and drop onto the edge of the bed, my phone lights up.

I stare at the screen, every muscle in my body going taut. It rings twice. My thumb hovers over the screen like it might disappear if I wait long enough.

Three times.

I answer before it can hit four.

“Don’t talk,” my father snaps, his voice a venom-laced snarl before I can even get a full breath out. “Don’t you dare say a fucking word until I’m done.”

I freeze, spine locked straight, my heart lurching like I just got hit again at the fifty-yard line.

“That,” he growls, “was fucking embarrassing. In your owncity?In front of your own crowd? Your name was on every screen. The hometown golden boy. The fucking Devereaux legacy.”

He spits my last name like it disgusts him.

I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

“I had people in the box who came out to see you,” he continues, voice louder now, venom building. “Do you have any idea how many of them told me afterward that your line looked gassed? That you weren’t commanding like you used to? That you let some scrub team with a fucking community college quarterback beat you on your own goddamn field?”

My jaw clenches so tight I taste blood.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but if this is what I can expect going forward, I’d rather not waste another goddamn dollar coming to see you humiliate yourself again. You’re a disappointment to your fucking last name, Luca.”

The words land sharper than a cleat to the chest.

Then the line goes dead.

Just like that.

No goodbye.

No room for me to defend myself.

Not that I would’ve been able to. Not with my throat sealed shut like this.

I sit there, breathing hard through my nose, the phone still clutched in my hand, but I can’t feel it anymore. My fingers are numb. My face is hot. The room’s too quiet, and the pressure in my skull won’t quit.

I drop the phone on the comforter and brace my elbows on my knees, hands locking behind my head. I sit like that for a long fucking time, hunched, shaking, breathing shallow. My body’s tired, but it’s my brain that’s buzzing now, high on adrenaline with nowhere to go.

And that old itch kicks in.

The one I haven’t felt in eight months.

Not this bad.

Not likethis.

It’s subtle at first. Just a whisper in the back of my skull. The memory of a fix. The way everything used to go quiet after I popped three. The way the pressure would bleed out of my system. The world would stop spinning. I wouldn’t feel the weight of my name, my legacy, or my dad.

That craving crawls under my skin like a parasite. I grip the edge of the mattress so hard my knuckles crack.

No.

I’m not doing that. Not after all this time, not after everything I’ve fucking earned by staying clean.

But it’s hard.

Harder than it’s been in months. All I want is for the noise to stop. To not hear his voice echoing in my head on repeat.Disappointment. Waste of a name.