Page 16

FIFTEEN

JAXON

The hit wasn’t clean, but it felt good.

I sent one of the linebackers to the ground and didn’t bother offering a hand when he scrambled back up, glaring. Coach whistled and barked something about control, but he wasn’t actually pissed. If anything, he sounded pleased.

They all were.

“Mercer’s a beast today,” someone muttered from the sidelines, loud enough for me to catch.

Beast. Animal. Machine. I’d heard it all.

I didn’t care.

Helmet on. Mouth guard in. Rage loaded like a fucking cannon.

We reset the play, and I tore through it again—fast, brutal, relentless. The crack of pads echoed sharply against the cold afternoon air, but I didn’t flinch. Couldn’t flinch. Every second I kept moving, hitting, and grinding was a second I didn’t have to think.

The more vicious I got, the more the guys cheered me on like I was some kind of hero.

I wasn’t.

I was just trying to outrun something I couldn’t.

When Coach called a water break, I yanked my helmet off, sucking down air like I’d been drowning all week. Shouldn’t time have healed some of this goddamn wound?

But time wasn’t dulling anything. If anything, it was worse.

I thought I’d feel lighter. Like I’d finally cut the rope and walked away from something rotten. I thought telling Elio no would be the thing that freed me.

It wasn’t.

I felt like I was still caught under him somehow. Like I’d said the words but left pieces of myself behind.

And I hated it.

I hated that I still wanted to check my phone after every practice. I hated that every hockey update made my stomach twist. I hated that no matter how much I tore through bodies on the field, it didn’t scratch the itch under my skin.

I wasn’t free.

Not even close.

After, the locker room emptied out faster than usual. Guys filed out with the usual chatter, slapping backs and rehashing the practice like it was just another win in the making. For them, it probably was.

For me, it wasn’t.

I sat on the bench, helmet between my knees, elbows digging into my thighs. The sweat dried on my skin uncomfortably, but I made no move to shower. Just sat there, staring down at the concrete floor like it might give me an answer.

It didn’t.

I kept expecting to feel proud. Coach had practically drooled over me today. The guys threw around words like unstoppable, aggressive, relentless, like they meant it as a compliment. Like they weren’t just describing someone who was one wrong hit away from snapping.

And wasn’t that just the Mercer legacy?

For a second, I swore I could hear Ronan’s voice. Not in reality, but in that cruel little corner of my head where he’d always lived. Telling me how to shove, how to keep my head down, how to take what I wanted without worrying about the wreckage left behind. As a kid, I thought it sounded like strength.

Now, it just sounded like weakness.

I blew out a shaky breath and leaned back against the cool metal locker behind me, shutting my eyes. All I’d done was trade one addiction for another. I couldn’t get high off Elio anymore, so I took it out on the field. Different arena, same empty reward.

Was this what Ronan had felt, too? Scraping for control wherever he could get it, bending until he broke, then pretending the breaking wasn’t his own doing?

My stomach churned.

I’d spent years swearing I wasn’t like him. I wasn’t going to be the Mercer who left a trail of bodies and regrets. I wasn’t going to be the one who couldn’t tell the difference between love and punishment.

But sitting there alone, too raw to move, I wasn’t sure I could still make that promise. And worse—I wasn’t sure if I wanted to. Because maybe, deep down, part of me liked it. The chaos. The sting. The control. Maybe I’d let Elio keep pulling me under because I wanted to be pulled under.

And now I was standing in the aftermath, pretending that walking away had somehow cleansed me.

I scrubbed my hands down my face, gritting my teeth so hard it made my jaw ache.

“Fuck,” I whispered, but it echoed louder than I meant it to.

I stayed there long after the room went still, realizing I wasn’t just angry at Elio.

I was angry at myself.

Because I’d been playing Ronan’s game all along.

By the time I made it back to my dorm, the hallways were quiet, save for the hum of the vending machine near the stairwell. My muscles ached in the satisfying way only brutal practice could give, but it didn’t dull anything else.

I kicked the door shut behind me and leaned against it, staring into the mess I’d left behind. A water bottle rolled off my desk and clattered to the floor. My bed was unmade, sheets still tangled from the last night I actually slept. Laundry was piled in the corner, the way I always let it pile when I didn’t want to deal with anything real.

And there it was. Half-buried under a hoodie and some crumpled-up practice jerseys.

Elio’s gray beanie.

It was stupid. Insignificant. Something he’d left behind without noticing, probably. But the second I spotted it, the air left the room like someone had punctured it.

I walked over slowly, like it might bite me if I moved too fast, and picked it up.

The second my fingers curled around the soft wool, the familiar scent hit me.

Elio.

That mixture of cheap soap and expensive cologne he swore he didn’t use and the crisp bite of winter air clinging to the fabric. It was still him, still alive in the threads, like he’d just pulled it off an hour ago and tossed it there without a care.

I sank onto the bed without meaning to, pressing the beanie to my face. My chest heaved once, sharp and uncontrolled, before I could lock it down.

It wasn’t enough that he was under my skin—he was still in my room, too. Still here, when I was the one who’d said no, who’d told him I couldn’t keep doing this, who walked out like it was supposed to save me.

But it didn’t.

It just left me sitting there like a goddamn kid holding scraps of something that wasn’t coming back.

I pressed the beanie harder against my face, trying to smother the heat prickling behind my eyes, but it was no good. My throat burned. My arms shook. I could still feel him—the weight of him, the taste of him, the goddamn gravity he carried every time he said my name like a prayer.

I should’ve thrown it.

I should’ve tossed it out the window and kept pretending like I wasn’t still in this deep.

But I didn’t.

I curled around it instead, like it might be enough for tonight.

And hated myself for it.

The next day dragged on with nothing to distract me until the late afternoon when Mom called. I almost didn’t pick up. I stared at her name flashing on the screen, thumb hovering over the reject button, but guilt won out like it always did. I swiped to answer and forced something like a greeting past the lump in my throat. “Hey, Mom.”

“Jaxon,” she said, soft with just enough concern to make me want to hang up immediately. “I was just checking in. You sound tired.”

“I’m fine,” I said automatically. The words came so easily now I barely noticed I was lying.

There was a pause. The kind that made it obvious she didn’t believe me, but she wasn’t going to push.

“I talked to Ronan earlier,” she said carefully. Too carefully. “He wanted to know how you’re doing. I didn’t know what to tell him.”

The rock behind my ribs sank lower.

Ronan. Of course.

I closed my eyes, tilting my head back against the wall like it could knock some sense into me. “You could’ve told him I’m killing it,” I said, trying for humor but landing somewhere closer to bitter. “Star player, coach’s golden boy, all that.”

Mom sighed softly. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

Yeah. I knew.

I also knew that if I told her the truth—about Elio, about how I hadn’t really left him behind two years ago, about how I still woke up smelling him like he was pressed up against me—she’d just say we all make mistakes, like that fixed anything.

So I swallowed it down, just like I always did. “I’m fine,” I repeated. “Really.”

Mom didn’t argue. Maybe she was used to it.

“It’s just…” And my words faltered. I’d kept Elio a secret from them. After what had happened that night, my parents had a wary way of speaking of sexuality and relationships. Worse still, if I told them Elio was still the only person on this planet I wanted, I would lose the little respect I’d held on to all these years. “Ah, nothing,” I said.

“No, honey,” Mom said. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong. Not really,” I said. “Or maybe it’s always been wrong, and I’m just now seeing it.”

“Jaxon, you’re worrying me, darling,” Mom said softly.

I wanted to scoff, to claw at my neck and dig up the lump stuck in my throat, to thrash on the floor until all this frustration evaporated. “I never moved on,” I said, my voice small and underwhelming. “I saw him. I knew I would.” They all knew it, too. “And I just…I can’t move on.”

Mom’s silence went on for ages. Waiting. Giving me a chance to go on. I didn’t, so she had to. “And he? What is he like?”

“A mess,” I snorted. “He…I don’t know. I shouldn’t even talk about it, Mom. Especially to you, you know? But he’s so torn by guilt and fear that he’s a total mess. It can’t work.”

“Darling,” Mom said, gentle but steadying. “I won’t pretend to understand this infatuation after everything that’s happened.”

My heart cracked. Why would she? Why would anyone except a lovesick puppy with self-hatred issues?

“But even I can see that it’s more than just a teenage crush,” she said, her voice warm. “You’ve always been stubborn, but you’ve never held on to something this long without a reason.”

I swallowed hard, pressing the heel of my hand to my eye like it would stop whatever was rising behind it. “It’s not healthy, Mom.”

“No,” she agreed, without hesitation. “It sounds like it’s not. And I’m not telling you to run back into something that hurts you. But—” She paused, and I could almost hear her weighing the words. “—I’ve never known you to give a damn about anything that didn’t matter.”

I couldn’t speak. I just stared at the beanie sitting at the foot of my bed like it was mocking me.

“You don’t have to fix him,” she added, quieter now. “But maybe you don’t have to fix yourself all at once, either.”

It shouldn’t have helped. It shouldn’t have. But somehow, it did.

Not enough to patch the mess I was in. Not enough to lift the weight pressing down on me like a boulder. But enough to breathe.

“Yeah,” I whispered, voice thin. “Okay.”

“Good,” Mom said, and I could hear the smile she was trying to hold back. “And, Jaxon?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m here. You’re not alone.”

The line went quiet after that, but she didn’t hang up.

She just waited, like she knew I needed the silence just as much as the words.

And for the first time in days, I sat there and let it fill the room without trying to run from it.

When the call ended, I sat there, staring at the dark screen of my phone, listening to the quiet hum of the heater and the distant noise of someone slamming a door down the hall.

My gaze drifted to the beanie still sitting where I’d dropped it at the foot of the bed.

I should’ve thrown it out the second I saw it.

Instead, I reached for it slowly, turning it over in my hands like it might disintegrate if I held it too tight. The scent was fainter now. Fading. Or maybe I was just imagining it.

For a second, I pressed it to my chest, squeezing my eyes shut like some pathetic part of me still thought Elio might be on the other side of it.

Then I got up.

I didn’t throw it away. I didn’t hide it at the bottom of the trash like I swore I would. I folded it, careful, almost reverent, and tucked it into the top drawer of my desk. Out of sight. Out of reach. Like the hoodie before it.

But not gone.

Never really gone.

And when I shut the drawer, I realized my hands were still shaking.