Page 164 of Bitter When He Begs

He’s not clapping.

He’s not smiling.

He’s not anything.

Just standing there, arms crossed, eyes locked on me like I’m some science project that didn’t blow up big enough.

And I realize—I don’t care.

I don’t care that he didn’t cheer. I don’t care that he didn’t show up with a sign or a smile or a pat on the back. I don’t care if I ever earn his approval because tonight, I earned something better.

I earned mine.

“Alright, alright, let’s hit the locker room before they drag you off for interviews,” Coach calls out, cutting through the celebration. “Good fucking work, boys.”

The team cheers, hands slapping my back as we head toward the tunnel, the energy electric. But even as I walk, I can’t help but steal one last glance toward the stands only to find Sage already moving, slipping through the crowd, heading toward the stadium exit.

My chest tightens.

He’s coming to me.

The locker room’s chaos has finally ebbed, the thunder of cleats against tiles and the rumble of victory settling into something quieter—fatigue-laced laughter, the hiss of showers, and trainers yelling over the hum of energy that still hasn’t completely died. My ribs are wrecked. Every movement lights a fuse along myside, and my body’s screaming for something to take the edge off, but I know the drill. I’ve been here before—just not like this.

In the medic’s room, the trainer is a woman in her forties with no time for bullshit and the kind of eyes that clock everything.

“You’re gonna need something,” she says after palpating the damage, fingers efficient and not unkind. “You’re walking around like someone slammed a crowbar into your ribs.”

I nod once, jaw tight. “I can’t take anything narcotic.”

She pauses, and tilts her head slightly like she already knows. “Allergies?”

“Recovery,” I say, meeting her eyes. “Vicodin. I was on it for years. I’ve been clean for ten months.”

Something flickers across her face—not pity, not judgment. Just this quiet sort of acknowledgment like she’s seen enough to know how big that is.

“Alright,” she says after a beat, scribbling something on a chart. “We’ll go with anti-inflammatories and ice. No pressure to tough it out, but you’ve got options that won’t compromise your sobriety.”

I breathe out slowly. “Thanks.”

“Proud of you,” she adds, her voice firm and not performative. “Most guys wouldn’t admit that out loud in a place like this.”

I shrug one shoulder. “It’s not a secret. Not anymore.”

“Still,” she says, “you didn’t have to say it. But you did.”

After getting seen to, I shower quickly, avoiding the mirror. There’s something about seeing the bruises forming that makes everything feel more real, and right now, I need to hold on to the adrenaline. I’ve still got cameras waiting, and a dozen miked-up reporters with questions I’ve answered a hundred times and will answer a hundred more.

I do the interviews, say the right things—give credit to the team, talk about strategy, and praise the coaching staff. I deflect the personal ones, smile for the camera, and play the role.

And then I see him.

Across the chaos of the press line, Sage’s hair catches the light. He’s not trying to push forward or make a scene, he’s just standing there with his arms folded. He’s in my hoodie again, sleeves pushed up, expression impossible to read until our eyes meet and it softens just for me again.

I walk straight off the line without giving a shit, ignoring the calls of reporters asking if I’ll give one more soundbite, and head for him like the fucking stadium doesn’t exist. I scoop him up the second I reach him, arms locking around his waist even though it sends a jolt of white-hot pain through my ribs.

He makes a surprised sound and then wraps his arms around my neck, fingers fisting the collar of my damp shirt. Cameras flash behind us—some intern with a phone already has this on TikTok, I know it—but I don’t care. I bury my face in his neck, breathing him in, the scent of peppermint grounding me like nothing else can.

“You idiot,” Sage murmurs in my ear. “You’re hurt. Put me down.”