Page 18

SEVENTEEN

JAXON

The bar was loud. Too loud. Bass-heavy music pulsed through the walls, making the floor vibrate beneath my feet. Bodies packed the dance floor, moving like one chaotic, drunk organism. Lights flickered overhead, catching on the cheap glitter someone had probably spilled an hour ago.

I stood off to the side, wedged between Kirby and Dan, who were in the middle of some half-assed debate about whether a bottle girl was checking Kirby out or just doing her job. Normally, I’d have thrown in a jab and teased Kirby until he got flustered and doubled down like he always did.

But tonight, it just didn’t come.

I nursed my beer and let the conversation swirl past me.

Mom’s words kept echoing back. You don’t have to fix yourself all at once . I wasn’t even sure where to start.

Kirby slapped Dan on the chest, laughing at something I hadn’t caught. Both of them looked like they belonged here—relaxed, loose, unburdened. And me? I just felt like an outsider wearing the right colors but speaking the wrong language.

I let my eyes wander through the crowd. Same routine. Same chaos. Same parties Ronan used to drag me to when I was a teenager, wide-eyed and desperate to follow.

Ronan had been a legend back then. Not just for the records he set on the field, but for the way he owned every room he stepped into. He could outdrink anyone, outfight anyone, outfuck anyone, and everyone adored him for it.

Until they didn’t.

Until it all caught up to him and the headlines read fallen star instead of unstoppable force .

And now, here I was. Different bar, different city, same blueprint.

I took a long pull from the bottle and leaned back against the wall, watching Kirby stumble through another story about some girl who “definitely” remembered him from last year.

It hit me then—soft but undeniable.

I was never going to outrun the shadow Ronan cast. People would always whisper Mercer, and they’d mean him first. Maybe forever. But I didn’t have to walk the same path. I could stand here and let Kirby and Dan believe I was just another Mercer throwing punches on the field and laughing it off after, but I didn’t have to become the headline.

I could want. I could ache. I could break.

I didn’t have to burn.

Not the way Ronan did.

Not the way Elio did, either.

Maybe I wouldn’t get the story I wanted. Maybe I’d already fucked it all up beyond repair.

But I could still choose to survive it.

And maybe—just maybe—that would have to be enough.

I blinked out of it when Kirby nudged me with his elbow. “Earth to Mercer,” he said, grinning. “You dead or just zoning out?”

“Zoning,” I said, managing the smallest smirk. “Go easy on her, man. She’s probably just working.”

Dan howled. Kirby flipped me off.

I let the noise happen around me. The crowd swelled, another rush of bodies pouring through the door, and I didn’t think much of it—until I saw them.

Patrick, scowling at nothing. Easton, right behind him, already halfway to frowning. And then, Elio.

My stomach dropped before I could stop it. He looked exactly the same and somehow completely different. A little more tired, maybe. Tense around the shoulders like someone had wound him too tight. His eyes flicked through the bar like he was trying to spot an exit before he even settled in.

Classic Elio, always hating parties. I didn’t know why I thought that would’ve changed.

I felt the sting, sharp and instant. And just as fast, the wall slammed into place, clean and practiced.

Don’t flinch. Don’t look too long. Don’t let them see it.

I straightened up and leaned casually into Kirby’s shoulder as if I hadn’t even noticed them. As if I hadn’t just felt every hair on my arms stand on end.

“Who the hell invited the Saints?” Kirby grumbled, tracking them with the same low-level rivalry we all had for the hockey team.

Dan chuckled, but I could feel Kirby watching me. Maybe not understanding but sensing something shift anyway.

Elio’s eyes swept the room and, for the briefest second, landed on me. His gaze snapped away too quickly, like he hadn’t meant to look at all. A ripple of something unreadable came over his face.

Good.

I told myself it was good.

I tightened my grip around the neck of my beer bottle and forced my attention back to Kirby and Dan, nodding at whatever nonsense they were laughing about.

The music shifted.

It wasn’t subtle, either. The kind of shift that makes the whole bar falter for a second, drinks halfway to mouths, conversations pausing mid-sentence. The chaotic thump of the usual playlist gave way to something slower, deeper—still pulsing, but with purpose.

I frowned. It wasn’t the kind of song people threw on at parties. It wasn’t made for the dance floor, but it sure as hell was meant for attention.

Kirby raised a brow. “Who the hell changed the playlist?”

No one answered. But I knew. Because I saw him.

Elio was cutting through the crowd, deliberate and calm, eyes locked on me like we were the only two people in the room.

The walls I’d thrown up were paper-thin now. My throat tightened as I watched him move—shoulders squared, chest rising and falling like he was trying to work up to something. He wasn’t hiding tonight. He wasn’t stiff or guarded or panicked.

No.

He was glowing.

And he wasn’t alone. Patrick trailed a few steps behind, amused, while Easton stood posted against the bar.

I caught that and winced. I shouldn’t have been surprised. Of course, they’d patched things up. They always would. Elio’s real friends. His real family.

When Elio finally reached me, the weight in my chest doubled.

I leaned against the wall, forcing something like a smirk. “So,” I said, voice sharp, desperate to hold ground. “Looks like you got your friend back. I’m so happy for you guys.”

Elio didn’t flinch.

Didn’t even blink.

Just watched me with a crooked smile, soft at the edges, like I hadn’t just tried to punch him below the ribs.

And fuck, it was worse than anger. It was affection.

Like he was looking at me and not seeing the walls, the resentment, the bitterness—I didn’t know what he was seeing, but it terrified me. It infuriated me.

I straightened up, pushing off the wall, searching for something sharper. “What?” I demanded. “No clever comeback? No apology? Nothing to say now that you’ve got Easton back on your side?”

His eyes didn’t leave me.

The bar blurred at the edges. It was just him and me.

And then…

“Dance with me, Jax,” he said. Soft. Unshakable. Like he wasn’t asking.

Like he already knew the answer.

“What?” I huffed.

He extended his arm, tips of his fingers almost brushing against my torso. “Let’s dance. You and me.”

Then it hit me, almost shattered me. The cover of “Stand By Me” by Florence + the Machine. The song that was playing two years ago. The song that was pulsing softly through the door of my bedroom, where only Elio and I existed.

“You remember,” I mouthed.

Elio stepped forward, his arm sliding under mine, his foot landing between my feet, his torso nearly bumping into mine. “I’ll never forget it, Jax.”

The music swelled around us like a tide lifting the shabby little raft we held on to. “What are we doing, El?” I asked, my hands rising, palms landing softly on Elio’s chest. I shook my head. “I can’t…I just can’t keep sneaking around until we’re caught.”

Elio smiled, his attention so strong and constant that I felt like the only person that existed in this bar. “Does this look like sneaking around, Jax?”

I swallowed, unable to answer.

He pulled me in closer, pressing our bodies together so bluntly that nobody could miss the meaning. “I should have done this years ago,” he said. “And I should have done it weeks ago again. But I am a slow learner, Jax, and it’s just something you’ll have to live with. I’ll always get there in the end if you hit me with it enough times. I promise.”

Live with? I’d played house with Elio in my imagination when I was a teenager. I’d pictured our home, our cat, our dog, our little front lawn so many times that it was an easy image to pull back from the past.

“I love you, Jaxon,” he said.

A couple of wolf whistles sounded under the rising sweep of the song. I ignored them. Neither Kirby nor Dad gave a shit about my sexuality, and both were well aware of it. In fact, the entire team had been cool with it, even the ones who picked at me for being a Mercer. It was Elio’s team that was the problem. His team, his friends, his family, his expectations.

But he trampled them all, pressing us together and saying the words again. “I mean it, Jax. I love you. I’ve always loved you one way or another. You’re all I want.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I am?”

“I understand why you’d have to ask,” Elio said. “But I’ll fix it. I know I can.”

I let out a breath, shaky and uneven. “Elio,” I whispered. “You’re killing me here.”

He just grinned. Not smug. Not cocky. Just himself. Open and warm in a way I hadn’t seen in years. “Then stop fighting me.”

I did.

I leaned in, resting my forehead against his, feeling the heat of him, the smell of his soap and cologne and the October air still clinging to his clothes.

And then, without ceremony, without thinking about the people watching or the music swelling around us, I kissed him.

I kissed him like I meant it. Like I’d never stopped.

Because I hadn’t.

The bar erupted—some cheers, some laughter, some shocked whistles—but I barely heard it. It was nothing compared to the soft noise Elio made when I slid my hands up to the back of his neck and deepened the kiss.

When we broke apart, he was smiling so hard that his face was about to split.

“You’re all I want, too,” I said, the words spilling out before I could stop them. “You always have been.”

Elio’s eyes burned like he’d been holding back tears he didn’t think he was allowed to cry.

“Yeah?” he asked, hopeful and disbelieving all at once. “You love me, Jax?”

“Yeah. Yeah, El, I love you,” I said, the words so natural on my lips.

And when he kissed me again—this time soft, slow, deliberate—I knew the room could watch, the team could watch, hell, the whole fucking world could watch.