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JAXON

T his is the first time in my life I’ve struggled in class.

Not because the material is too hard, not because I didn’t prepare—but because I can’t focus.

I’ve been sitting in lecture halls for the last three months with my pen tapping against the desk, staring at notes I don’t remember writing.

I reread the same sentence in my textbooks over and over, and none of it sticks.

Every time I try to concentrate, my mind goes straight to her.

Madison.

I used to be able to handle pressure.

I thrived under it. Late nights grinding film, early mornings in the gym, midterms stacked on top of practice and workouts and keeping my body healthy—it never felt like too much before.

But now?

Now, I feel like I’m barely keeping my head above water.

And it’s not because of football.

It’s not because of the draft looming over me, or the agents calling, or the fact that my life is about to completely change in a few months.

It’s because I’ve never had to do any of this without her—not here, at least.

She’s everywhere.

Every time I walk onto campus, every time I pass a place we used to sit together, every time I breathe—it’s just Madison.

The way she used to pull her sleeves over her hands when she was cold.

The way her forehead would crease when she was concentrating on something too hard.

The way she’d tuck her feet under my thigh on the couch like she belonged there, like we were always meant to fit that way.

And the way she looked at me the last time I saw her—like she was already mourning something that wasn’t even gone yet.

But it is now.

She is.

And I’m so fucking miserable without her.

I sigh, rubbing a hand down my face, staring at the half-filled page in front of me.

I was supposed to be studying for my last final, but I’ve been sitting in the library for over an hour, and I haven’t written down a single useful thing.

My head is pounding, my stomach feels like it’s tied in knots, and all I can think about is how Madison is probably off somewhere right now, doing exactly what I am—pretending to be fine when we both know we’re not.

Except the difference is, she’s better at pretending than I am.

I snap my textbook shut, tossing my pen onto the table before standing.

I’m done. It’s not like another hour staring at these notes is going to help me anyway.

Grabbing my bag, I sling it over my shoulder and head toward the exit, pushing through the heavy doors and stepping out into the crisp spring air.

The second the sun hits my face, I inhale deeply, trying to clear my mind, but it doesn’t work.

Nothing fucking works.

I check my phone—no messages.

I don’t even know why I look.

Madison hasn’t reached out since that night, since I told her I wouldn’t chase her anymore.

The thought makes my jaw clench as I shove my phone back in my pocket and start walking toward my last midterm of the semester .

I should be relieved it’s almost spring break.

I won’t have to fake my way through any more classes, won’t have to sit in the back of lectures trying to avoid looking at the seat she used to take next to me.

But all it does is remind me I have nothing else to distract me.

That for the next week, it’s just me and my own damn thoughts.

And Madison?

She’s still not mine, and I’m starting to think she never will be.

My test is a blur.

I put my name on the paper, answered every question the best I could, and turned it in without a second glance.

Whether I passed or failed, I honestly don’t care.

Because none of it matters when my head still isn’t here, when I’m still stuck somewhere between missing her and knowing I have to move forward.

By the time I get back to the football house, my body is drained, exhaustion pressing down on my shoulders.

I push open the door, letting it slam shut behind me as I drop my bag near the entrance.

The place is quiet, the rest of the guys either still at their last exams or already checked out for spring break.

I head straight for the kitchen, tugging the fridge open and grabbing a cold water bottle.

The crack of the seal echoes in the silence as I twist off the cap and take a long drink, letting the cold liquid settle in my stomach.

I hear footsteps and turn to see Carter step into the kitchen, running a hand through his already messy hair before plopping down onto one of the barstools at the counter.

He studies me for a second, then raises a brow.

"How’d finals go?"

I shrug, leaning against the fridge.

"Fine. "

He snorts.

"Fine, huh? You say that like you even remember what the hell was on the test."

I let out a humorless chuckle.

"Yeah.”

Carter shakes his head, watching me a little too closely. "You good, man?

"

I roll my shoulders back, forcing a smirk. "Why wouldn’t I be?

"

He doesn’t buy it, not for a second.

"You know why," he says, bracing his arms on the counter. "And before you start feeding me some bullshit about being fine, let me just remind you, I’ve seen you when you’re actually fine.

And this? This ain’t it.

"

I exhale slowly, gripping the edge of the counter as I stare down at the granite. I should’ve known Carter would push this, that he wouldn’t just let it slide.

He never does.

"It’s nothing," I mutter.

"Bullfuckingshit.

"

I rub a hand over my face, sighing. "What do you want me to say, Carter?

That I feel like I’m losing my mind?

That every single day feels like I’m playing a game I already lost?

" I shake my head. "I told her I wouldn’t chase her anymore, and I meant it, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t fucking hurt.

"

Carter watches me carefully, then nods, like he was waiting for me to finally admit it.

"Look," he says, his voice calmer now. "I get it.

Losing someone you love—that shit sucks.

But you gotta get your head straight, man.

You should be hyped about Pro Day, about the draft, about everything coming up.

Instead, you’re walking around like you don’t even care anymore.

"

I clench my jaw. "I do care.

"

"Then start acting like it.

"

His words hit me like a punch to the gut.

Because he’s right. I should be thinking about my future—about Pro Day, about the teams watching me, about the life I’ve been working for since I was a kid .

But all I can think about is her.

I press the water bottle against my forehead, letting the coolness ground me before I speak again.

"I think I’m gonna head home for a few days," I say finally, lowering the bottle. "Clear my head before pro day and all that.

"

Carter nods slowly, considering. "Probably a good idea.

You could use the reset.

"

"Yeah."

A reset.

I don’t know if it’ll actually help, if anything will really help at this point. But maybe, just maybe, getting away for a few days will remind me who the hell I was before I let myself fall so hard for someone who won’t let herself love me back.

And if that doesn’t work? Then I have no idea what the hell I’m supposed to do next.

I push off the counter, barely acknowledging Carter’s knowing look as I head upstairs.

That’s what I need. Just a few days back home, away from campus, away from everything that reminds me of her. Maybe then, I’ll be able to think again. Maybe then, I won’t feel like I’m coming apart at the seams every time I close my eyes.

I step into my room, the familiar scent of my detergent and the lingering hint of Madison’s lavender shampoo—shit, how does it still smell like her in here?—hitting me as I move to grab my duffel from the closet.

The second I yank it down, something slips free and lands on the floor with a quiet thud.

My stomach tightens. I don’t even have to look to know what it is.

I bend down slowly, fingers brushing against the worn edges of the photograph, and flip it over.

It’s us.

It’s a picture I thought I had taken down, one that must have been shoved in the back of my closet, only to find its way back to me now, like some cruel joke .

Madison is smiling up at me, her nose scrunched slightly, her eyes shining with something I hadn’t let myself see before, something I’d convinced myself wasn’t there. It’s right fucking there—the way she looks at me, like I’m everything, like I’m the one thing in the world she’s sure about.

I squeeze my eyes shut, exhaling harshly, my grip on the photo tightening.

She loved me.

Maybe she never said it. Maybe she was too scared, too stuck in her own head, too convinced she wasn’t capable of love—but this? This proves what I’ve always known deep down.

She felt it.

I let out a bitter laugh, shaking my head. "So what the hell happened, Mads?

" I whisper, my voice raw, cracking under the weight of everything I’m trying not to feel.

She looks so damn happy in this picture. We both do.

Now, I don’t even know if I’ll ever see her look at me like this again.

I force myself to shove the picture into my duffel, gripping the zipper so tight, my knuckles turn white as I zip it shut.

Because no matter how badly I want to hold onto this—onto her—I can’t.

She made her choice.

And now, I have to live with mine.

Mile after mile of empty road, my music turned up just loud enough to drown out the noise in my head—but not enough to erase the weight in my chest, to keep me from thinking about that damn photo sitting in my duffel bag.

I should’ve left it behind.

I should’ve burned it.

But I couldn’t.

Because no matter how much I tell myself I need to move on, that image—the way she looked at me—feels like a tether I can’t quite cut.

The sky is dark by the time I pull into my parents’ driveway, the porch light casting a warm glow against the familiar coastal house. The waves are quiet tonight, a soft hum in the background as I throw my truck into park and scrub a hand down my face.

It’s been weeks since I’ve been home, but everything feels exactly the same, like the world kept moving even while I felt stuck.

I grab my duffel from the passenger seat, slamming the door shut behind me before making my way up the steps. The second I push the front door open, the scent of my mom’s cooking—something buttery and warm—wraps around me like a damn hug.

For the first time in a long time, my shoulders ease. I set my bag down by the entryway and call out, “Mom?”

I barely get the word out before I hear her voice echo down the hall. “In the kitchen, sweetheart!”

As soon as I walk into the kitchen, my mom swoops in, wrapping her arms around me in a tight hug, her head barely reaching my chest.

“My boy,” she murmurs, squeezing me like she hasn’t seen me in years instead of just a few weeks. “I missed you, Jaxon.”

I let out a slow breath, some of the tension I’ve been carrying finally easing as I hug her back. “Missed you too, Ma.”

She pulls away just enough to study my face, her warm brown eyes narrowing slightly. “You look exhausted.”

I huff out a laugh, rubbing the back of my neck. “Long semester.”

Her lips press into a thin line, like she knows that’s only half the story, but she doesn’t push. Not yet.

Instead, she pats my cheek and motions to the kitchen table. “Sit, sit! Let me get you something to eat.”

I don’t argue. I drop into one of the chairs, leaning back as I take in the familiar space. The kitchen looks exactly the same— fridge covered in pictures, little notes scribbled on the calendar, the scent of something baking still lingering in the air.

Home.

Even if I don’t feel like myself right now, this place does.

Mom hums as she moves around the kitchen, pulling a plate from the fridge before setting it in front of me. A sandwich, some chips, and a tall glass of sweet iced tea.

I shake my head with a small smile. “You always have something ready, huh?”

She winks, ruffling my hair like I’m still ten. “Mamas always know when their boys need to eat.”

I take a long sip of the tea, the cold sweetness hitting just right after the long drive, before digging into the sandwich.

Mom settles across from me, resting her chin in her palm, watching me a little too closely.

I know that look. She’s waiting.

She’s always been patient—always given me the space to talk when I’m ready—but I also know if I don’t say something, she’s going to start asking questions.

And I don’t know if I have the answers.