Page 13

13

JAXON

I don’t go to class.

Instead, I head straight to my car, grab my duffel from the backseat, and make my way to the athletics building.

All I really want to do is crawl into bed, pull the covers over my head, and shut out the world—shut out her —but I know that won’t do me any good.

Running from problems isn’t my thing.

That’s Madison’s move.

So, I do the only thing I know: I hit the gym.

Hard.

My fists slam into the heavy bag, sweat rolling down my back, muscles burning from the nonstop punishment.

I need this—the exhaustion, the sting, the mind-numbing repetition—because the alternative is thinking about her.

Always her.

The way she looked at me this morning, drowning in that oversized sweatshirt like she wished she could disappear inside it.

The way her lips parted slightly when she saw me, her breath catching, hesitation flickering across her face like she didn’t know what the hell to do with me.

Like I was a problem she couldn’t solve.

Like she hadn’t spent days avoiding me after pressing her body against mine, after fitting perfectly in my arms, after whispering my name in that way that still fucking echoes in my head.

My jaw clenches so tight, I taste blood, and I throw another punch, harder this time.

The bag jerks violently, the chain rattling above me.

My knuckles burn beneath the wraps, but I welcome the pain.

Because it’s real.

Unlike whatever game she’s playing.

I don’t know why I let myself think that maybe—just maybe —she’d stop running.

That she’d finally admit this thing between us is real, that I’m not crazy for thinking about her every goddamn minute of every goddamn day.

Instead, she called it a mistake.

A fucking mistake .

Like it was some drunken slip up at a party, not years of history, of tension, of feelings neither of us have been willing to name.

Maybe me coming here was a mistake.

Maybe I should’ve let that voicemail stay buried in my phone.

Sober Madison doesn’t admit how she feels.

Sober Madison builds walls so high, not even she can see over them.

I exhale sharply, shaking out my hands, my knuckles raw.

The gym is empty, the faint hum of a sports channel playing on the mounted TVs the only sound besides my breathing.

I shouldn't be this messed up over a girl.

This isn't high school anymore.

We're not the same people we were back then.

But fuck if I can stop it.

She’s in my head, branded into me like a scar that won’t heal. Madison Blake—the girl who’s been running circles around me since we were seventeen, the girl who looks at me like I’m both the water and the air she needs.

The girl who runs every damn time we get too close.

I grab my water bottle, taking a long drink before slamming it down on the bench. A few drops spill over the edge, spreading across the floor. I watch them pool, thinking about how easy it would be to let go.

To stop chasing her.

To focus on what I came here to do.

But even as the thought crosses my mind, I know it’s a lie.

I’ve never been able to let go of Madison Blake. Not then. Not now.

With a frustrated exhale, I grab my bag and head toward the locker room, my footsteps echoing in the empty hallway. Each step feels heavier than the last, like I’m wading through quicksand, drowning under the weight of everything unsaid.

The scent of sweat, detergent, and old leather fills the air the second I walk in. A few guys are already here, tossing their gear into lockers, stretching out sore muscles. I move to my usual spot, stripping off my hoodie, skin still damp from the workout.

I hear Carter before I see him.

"Look who finally decided to show up," he drawls, swinging around the end of the bench, grinning like the smug asshole he is. He’s always so damn relaxed, like nothing bothers him. Like he wasn’t sitting with her this morning, making her laugh when all she’s given me are cautious, guarded looks.

I grunt, grabbing my cleats. "Not in the mood, Hayes."

"Yeah?" He tilts his head, eyes full of something knowing. "Thought you'd be in a great mood after this morning."

My hands still, tension creeping back into my shoulders like an old friend. I exhale through my nose, shaking my head as I lace up my shoes with more force than necessary. "Not playing this game with you."

Carter chuckles, dropping onto the bench across from me. "Relax, man. Just saying, you looked ready to rip my head off when you saw me sitting with Maddy."

My jaw clenches at Maddy , like they have history. Inside jokes. Like she lets him in when she keeps me at arm’s length.

Carter smirks. "If looks could kill, I’d be six feet under. "

I slam my locker shut and finally meet his gaze. "You done?"

He leans back, arms stretching behind him. "Depends. You gonna stop acting like I'm your competition?"

My stomach tightens. "The hell does that mean?"

Carter studies me for a beat before shaking his head. "Means I don’t know what’s going on in that head of yours, but if you’re worried about me and Madison? Don’t be. "

I freeze as my pulse kicks up. "You sure about that?"

He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah. I am." He pauses. "Look, man, last fall? Yeah, we hooked up, but it literally meant nothing. No strings, no feelings, just blowing off some steam."

Something sharp slices through my chest when I imagine his hands on her, his mouth on hers. I struggle to keep my face neutral.

"But it was never more than that, man," Carter continues. "She never looked at me the way she looks at you."

My gaze swings back to him. "What are you talking about?"

Carter smirks, shaking his head. "Everyone sees it. Hell, I think the two of you are the only ones who don’t." He leans forward. "Or maybe she does, and that’s why she runs. Madison’s always been good at running from things that force her to actually feel."

I don’t respond, but something shifts inside me.

Because I felt it.

That night, when she let me hold her, the way her body pressed into mine like it was made to fit there, I felt something . The way she had to pull back, hiding her true feelings before calling it a mistake.

Because it wasn’t.

No matter how much she tries to convince herself otherwise, I know she felt it too.

Carter’s words still linger between us when the locker room door swings open, and Coach Harding steps inside. "Alright, listen up! "

The chatter dies instantly. Every guy straightens, turning toward him, all business now.

"This weekend's game is gonna be a battle," Coach starts, pacing in front of the lockers. "They’re physical, fast, and looking to take us down." He pauses, letting the words sink in. "Which means we need to be sharper. Stronger. Smarter."

His gaze sweeps over us before landing on me. "Montgomery, I need to see you in my office after practice. Work for you?"

A knot forms in my gut. "Yes, sir."

"Good."

As the guys file out, Carter slaps a hand on my shoulder. "Guess we better get to it, huh?"

I grunt, pulling on my receiver gloves. "Damn right." But his earlier words echo in my head, a whispered promise that maybe, just maybe, I'm not as alone in this as I thought.

Two hours later, my muscles are sore, my jersey damp with sweat, but the burn from practice is exactly what I needed. For two hours, I didn't have to think about Madison, didn't have to think about anything except running my routes, catching every damn ball thrown my way, and making sure I stayed sharp.

I'm just about to head to the showers when I hear Coach's voice behind me. "Montgomery, my office."

I glance over my shoulder, nodding. "Yes, Coach."

I tug off my practice jersey and grab a towel from my locker before heading down the hall to Coach's office. The door is already cracked, so I push inside, a familiar nervousness settling in my stomach. Despite years of accolades and praise, there's still something about being called into the coach's office that makes me feel like I'm in trouble.

Coach is leaning back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, studying his laptop screen. When he looks up, he gestures for me to sit. "Relax, kid. You're not in trouble. "

I huff out a breath, sinking into the chair across from him. "That's good to hear." My shoulders drop a fraction, the tension easing.

He shuts his laptop and steeples his fingers, eyeing me with that calculating look he gets when he's sizing up a situation. "Just that time of the semester when we do little check-ins with everyone, grades and all that. Yours look great so far. Any classes you're concerned about?"

I straighten a little. I knew this conversation would come eventually. It always does, the reminder I'm not just here to catch footballs.

There's more at stake.

"No, sir," I say, shaking my head. "Just trying to keep everything in check." Balance. That's what I've always been good at. Football, school, life. It's only recently that the scales have tipped, weighted down by thoughts of her.

Coach leans forward, resting his elbows on his desk.

"That's what I like to hear. Look, Jaxon, I know this transition wasn't easy—new school, new system, new expectations. But you've handled it like a damn professional. I just want you to know that. Keep it up."

I meet his gaze, feeling the weight of his words. He doesn't have to say it outright, but I know what's at stake. My draft stock is high, but slipping up academically would tank my chances. Scouts look at everything, not just how fast you can run a forty.

"I will," I say, voice firm. A promise to him, to myself.

Coach nods, a slight smile breaking through his usually stern expression. "Good. Because I'm damn happy to have you on this team. You've brought something special to this offense, and you've got a bright future. Don't let anything—on or off the field—derail that. You hear me?"

On or off the field. The words hit harder than they should, like he knows, like he can see Madison written all over me, a distraction I can't afford.

I nod again, swallowing the knot in my throat. "I hear you, Coach. "

He watches me for a beat, then leans back with a satisfied look. "Alright. Go shower, get some rest. I'll see you on the bus tomorrow."

I push up from the chair, nodding once before heading out, his words trailing after me like shadows. I make my way back to the locker room, now mostly empty, guys having cleared out for dinner or study sessions.

And even though I should be feeling good after that talk—the praise, the acknowledgment of my hard work—the words "on or off the field" stick in my head like a warning.

A warning about Madison, about the way she might make me lose focus, makes me question my priorities, makes me want things I shouldn't be thinking about. With only East Coast teams interested in me so far, it’s a big risk getting involved with her, but I’ll have to make it work somehow. The hardest part, I’m sure, will be convincing her it’ll be worth it.

That we are worth it.