Page 41

I stay at Henderson’s until evening, nursing a bottle of Jack Daniels that burns less than the words Sage threw at me. By the time I drive home, my knuckles have stopped bleeding but the pain in my chest hasn’t subsided.

Her car is in my driveway.

I sit in my car for several minutes, staring at the small Honda that looks so out of place next to my house. Part of me is relieved she’s here—that she didn’t pack up and disappear while I was gone. But a larger part dreads walking through that front door and facing whatever comes next.

The house is quiet when I enter. No TV sounds from the living room, no movement in the kitchen. I stand in the entryway listening for any sign of her, but there’s nothing. Just the hum of the fridge.

I head straight to my room, closing the door behind me. I need a shower, need to wash off the day and the lingering scent of arena sweat and Henderson’s dorm room. But first, I pour myself three fingers of whiskey from the bottle I keep on my dresser.

The alcohol burns going down, but it’s nothing compared to the memory of her voice.

You can’t understand.

She’s right, of course. I can’t understand what it’s like to need a job to survive.

Can’t comprehend the desperation of having nowhere else to go, no safety net to catch you when you fall.

I’ve never had to choose between rent and groceries, never had to smile and take abuse from a boss because unemployment isn’t an option.

But she can’t understand either. Can’t know what it’s like to lose the only person who ever believed in you. Can’t imagine the weight of carrying someone else’s dreams along with your own. She thinks my money makes everything easy, but it’s never bought me the things I actually want.

My brother.

My parents.

Better hips.

Love.

Her.

I down the rest of the whiskey and head for the shower. The hot water pounds against my shoulders, washing away the arena grime but not the image of her face when she realized what I’d done. The panic in her eyes when she understood that her career was collateral damage in my need to possess her.

Maybe she’s right about me. Maybe I am exactly what she thinks. I’m an entitled asshole who destroys everything he touches.

When I get out of the shower, I can hear water running down the hall. She’s in there, probably washing off the day’s disasters, and I have to physically restrain myself from walking down the hall and knocking on that door.

What would I even say? Sorry I threatened your boss? Sorry I can’t control myself around you? Sorry I’m exactly the kind of man your ex probably was—someone who puts his own wants above your needs?

I sit on the edge of my bed in just a towel, listening to the sounds of her moving around. The water shuts off. Footsteps pad across the hallway. Her bedroom door closes with a soft click.

I get dressed and pour another drink, then another. The whiskey makes everything feel muted, like I’m experiencing my life through thick glass.

My phone buzzes, and I grab it quickly, hoping it’s her.

Lexi: Hey. I haven’t heard from you in a while.

Lexi: Tonight?

I shake my head and then block her. There’s no need for her now.

By the time I hear Sage’s bedroom door open again, I’m halfway to drunk and no closer to figuring out how to fix this.

She moves quietly through the house, probably getting water or something to eat. I strain to hear if she’ll pause outside my door, if she’ll knock or call my name. But her footsteps continue past without hesitation.

I guess we’re back to being strangers sharing space.

I must fall asleep eventually because I wake up to sunlight streaming through my windows and a headache that feels like someone took a sledgehammer to my skull. My mouth tastes like bottom-shelf whiskey.

The house is silent again. Either she’s still asleep or she’s doing that thing where she moves like a ghost, avoiding any space I might occupy.

I check my phone. I have three missed calls from Coach, two texts from Henderson asking if I’m alive, and one email from my lawyer about some endorsement deal I couldn’t care less about. But nothing from her .

In the kitchen, I find evidence of her presence. There’s a coffee mug in the sink and a plate with toast crumbs. She’s awake then, probably hiding in her room.

I make my own coffee and stand at the kitchen island thinking about what the hell my problem is. I thought maybe we were building something real.

Then I hear her bedroom door open. Footsteps in the hallway, light and careful. I turn toward the sound just as she appears in the kitchen doorway.

Jesus Christ.

She looks like heaven wrapped in basic clothes—dark jeans that hug her curves, a simple white t-shirt that somehow makes her look both innocent and devastating.

Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail, still damp from her shower, and she smells like that vanilla body wash that’s been driving me insane for days.

I watch her move through my kitchen like she belongs here, reaching for a piece of fruit from the bowl on the counter. For a moment, I let myself imagine this is our normal mornings where she walks around my house looking beautiful and comfortable, where she doesn’t flinch when I look at her.

But when our eyes meet across the kitchen island, there’s nothing but cold indifference in her gaze. She looks right through me like I’m not even here.

She grabs her keys from the counter and heads for the door without a single word.

The silence that follows is deafening. She couldn’t manage a good morning or go to hell or anything that would acknowledge my existence. In my own fucking house.

The rage hits fast and hot, coursing through my veins. I slam my coffee mug down hard enough that it cracks against the granite.

I need something to take the edge off before I do something stupid. Before I chase after her and demand she explain why she’s treating me like I’m invisible.

In my bedroom, I dig through my dresser drawer until I find the small bag of pills I keep for times like this. Oxycodone, saved for when the pain gets too intense to handle. Physical pain, emotional pain—it all responds to the same medicine.

I dry-swallow three pills and wait for the familiar warmth to spread through my system, dulling the sharp edges of everything.

By the time I get to the arena, I’m floating. The pills have taken the bite out of my anger, leaving me feeling detached and untouchable. Perfect for whatever bullshit conversation Coach wants to have.

I knock on his office door and walk in without waiting for permission. Coach Pascal is there, along with the athletic director and some woman I don’t recognize—probably from HR or legal.

“Sit down, Slater,” Coach says, gesturing to the chair across from his desk.

I drop into it, sprawling back with the kind of casual arrogance that I know pisses people off. “What’s this about?”

“I think you know,” the athletic director says. “We need to discuss what happened in the equipment room yesterday.”

I shrug. “What about it?”

“You were caught in a compromising position with a staff member,” the HR woman says, consulting her notes. “And when confronted, you allegedly threatened the supervising physical therapist.”

“Allegedly?” I laugh. “There’s no allegedly about it. I told her to mind her own business.”

Coach leans forward, his expression serious. “Slater, threatening staff members is completely unacceptable. This could have serious consequences for both you and the program.”

“She took it too seriously,” I say, waving my hand dismissively. “She needs to relax. It’s not like I actually threatened her. Jesus Christ, guys.”

“You told her to forget what she saw or there would be legal consequences,” the HR woman reads from her notes. “That constitutes intimidation at minimum.”

“Whatever.” The pills are making everything feel distant, unimportant. “Is that all?”

“No.” Coach’s voice is flat. “The staff member involved—Sage Monroe—submitted her resignation yesterday afternoon.”

The words hit me hard, cutting through the haze. “She resigned?”

“Effective immediately,” the athletic director confirms. “We want to make it clear that this kind of behavior won’t be tolerated. You’re on notice—one more incident like this and you’ll be suspended from the team.”

But I’m barely listening. She quit. She actually fucking quit, didn’t get fired. Jesus Christ.

“We’re serious about this, Slater,” Coach continues. “Your talent, money, or past doesn’t make you untouchable. Clean up your act or face the consequences.”

I nod absently, mumbling something about understanding and it not happening again. But all I can think about is Sage walking out of her job… by choice.

The drive home is a blur. By the time I pull into my driveway, the pills are starting to wear off, leaving me raw and agitated. I need a drink. Need several drinks.

I start with whiskey, then switch to beer when the bottle runs empty. The alcohol mixes with the lingering opiates in my system, creating a pleasant numbness that makes everything feel manageable.

Hours pass. I lose track of time, floating between the couch and the kitchen, refilling my glass whenever it empties. The sun sets. The house grows dark around me.

That’s when I hear her car in the driveway.

By the time she walks through the front door, I’m on the edge of coming down from the high, which makes everything feel sharper, more intense.

I’ve been waiting for her for hours, stewing in my anger and guilt and this desperate need to explain or apologize or make her understand something I can’t even articulate.

“Where the fuck have you been?” The words come out rough, slurred slightly from the alcohol.

She doesn’t answer, just walks past me to the kitchen like I’m not even here. Like my question isn’t worth acknowledging.

I stand, swaying slightly, and follow her. “Where the hell have you been, Sage? I’ve been waiting for you.”

“You don’t need to wait for me.” Her voice is flat, emotionless as she grabs a water bottle from the fridge.