Page 39 of Bitter When He Begs

He shakes his head, pushing his glasses up his nose. “It was aspirin, Luca,” he exhales, shifting in his seat. “I have a headache and it’s been a long fucking day. People won’t leave me alone.”

I don’t say anything as I watch him, trying to pick apart his expression, trying to decide if he’s lying. He isn’t, but that doesn’t make me feel any fucking better.

The knot in my chest loosens, but it doesn’t go away. Because I know how this shit starts. It starts with stress. It starts with headaches. It starts with needing just a little relief.

And then before you know it, you need something stronger, something that works faster, and keeps you from feeling anything at all.

Sage tilts his head, smirking slightly, voice teasing now. “What, worried about me?”

I breathe out slowly through my nose, then press my weight onto my palms, leaning in just a little closer. “Don’t take too many,” I murmur. “Not for shit like this. Not just to cope.”

Sage frowns, and I can see the moment the teasing flickers into curiosity.

Confusion.

Maybe even realization.

Then his frown deepens. “It’s just aspirin.”

“Yeah,” I say, smirking, but there’s no humor in it. “For now.”

I push off the table, straighten to my full height, and walk away, leaving him there with his thoughts, with his questions, with the answer I don’t want to give him. Because the moment I saw him tilt his head back and swallow that pill, I felt rage.

Not at him, at the thought of him being where I was. At the thought of him becomingme.

For some reason, the idea of Sage going down the same road as me makes my stomach turn.

And I can’t fucking stand it.

Practice is brutal, just the way I need it to be.

By the time Coach finally calls it, my body is destroyed, my muscles screaming, my lungs raw from the constant push, the relentless drills, the punishment that comes with playing at this level. Sweat drips down my back, my jersey sticks to my skin, and my knuckles are sore from gripping the ball too tightly.

It’s good. It’s the only thing that clears my fucking head, the only thing that drowns out the itch, the only thing that makes me feel real. For two straight hours, there’s no withdrawal, no want, no ache beneath my skin that I can’t fucking satisfy.

Just football.

Just the game.

Just control.

The locker room is a mess of half-dressed bodies, sweat, and exhausted grumbling. The guys filter out in groups, heading to their cars, back to the house, out to grab food; normal post-practice shit. I take my time, stripping out of my gear slower than usual, stretching just a little longer, waiting until the room empties out.

I don’t want company. I don’t want to make small talk, or deal with anyone else’s bullshit right now. I just want a fucking shower in peace.

So I sit at my locker, rolling my shoulders, flexing my fingers, listening as the last of them head out, and when the place is finally empty, I exhale, pushing to my feet.

The water is scalding when I step under the spray, burning down my spine, easing the tension in my shoulders. I tilt my head back, letting it pour over me, letting it wash away the grime, the sweat, and the thoughts I shouldn’t be having.

I can’t let myself care.

Not about him. Not about the way he looked at me today when I told him to be careful. Not about the way his brow furrowed, the way he tilted his head, confused and unsure, or the way he asked if I’m worried about him.

I’m not

I can’t care.

I have just over two more years here, unless I get drafted early, and I don’t want to spend them high as fuck, hiding from reality just so I don’t fucking feel.