Page 46 of Don’t Go Breaking My Heart (Houston Baddies #3)

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T he sound of clanging weights and bad rap music fills the air—both things I normally find cathartic. Today? They're just background noise to the chaos in my head.

I rack the barbell, drop down onto the bench, and exhale through my nose like I’m not secretly using these reps to work out some unresolved Poppy-related tension.

It’s been three days.

Three since she replied to my last message. Since she hit me with that “somewhere between feral and functional” line that made me laugh in the middle of the cereal aisle.

And then—nothing.

Radio silence.

No memes. No sarcastic insults.

Maybe she realized she doesn’t want this.

Doesn’t want me .

I roll my neck, trying to shake it off. Grab the bar again. Push through another set even though my shoulders are burning and my head’s not in it. I’m usually good at this—burning off stress, letting my brain zone out and my body take over.

But today?

Today I’m reracking my own spiraling thoughts.

Luca wanders over, tosses a towel across my shoulder, and gives me a look like I’m the human equivalent of a wet sock. “Okay, seriously, bro. You’re working out like someone took a massive dump on your birthday cake.”

Nice metaphor. “I’m fine.”

“That’s what people say when they’re not fine.” He grabs a kettle bell and begins swinging it. “You’ve got sad energy. Like Eeyore, but jacked.”

“I am at peak health.”

Luca eyes me as he sets the kettle bell on the floor. “You know what you need?”

Here we go again…

“No,” I say flatly. “But I have a feeling I’m about to find out.”

“You need to get laid. Like—urgently. For the sake of everyone around you.”

“I have gotten laid.” He knows this. “I’m literally pressing three hundred pounds, climb down off my nuts.”

“You haven’t been in a good mood since she moved out.”

My jaw tics.

And there it is; the thing he’s been dying to say.

“Luca,” I warn.

He holds up both hands in mock surrender. “Hey, I get it. She was cool. Cute. But it’s been weeks. She moved out and ghosted you. You need to move on. ”

He softens his tone slightly, but not by much. Luca Babineaux has never been one to pull punches. “I’m not saying jump into a rebound. But you’ve got to stop orbiting this girl. She’s gone, bruh. Whatever it was between you—didn’t stick.”

I feel the need to defend my mood swings by saying, “Just because I haven’t heard from her in three days doesn’t mean she ghosted me, asshole.”

Luca snorts. “Maybe, maybe not. Not to be the bearer of bad news, but she’s been sick. According to Nova she’s been barfing her guts out and sleeping around the clock.”

I stare at him.

“You fucker. You knew this and still gave me the whole ‘she’s gone, bruh’ speech?”

“Yeah, cause you’re fucking depressing. I was trying to get you to snap out of it, not load you with more guilt. Jeez, cut me some slack.” He pauses. “Bruh.”

I almost laugh at him, because he’s being funny.

Almost.

Instead, I mutter, “Why didn’t she tell me she was sick?”

Luca gives me a look. “Uh, probably because you’re not her boy friend?”

He doesn’t have to say it in that tone. Dick.

Luca shrugs. Like the label ‘boyfriend’ draws a line in the sand between who gets informed and who doesn’t.

He rolls his eyes when I have nothing more to say. “She used to live with you and steal your hoodies. Things change, man. Doesn’t mean she doesn’t want to keep chatting—just means she’s been barfing and a limited social battery—and you’re not the first line of contact.”

He’s making way too much sense of the situation it’s starting to get annoying.

“Anyway!” he chirps cheerfully as he switches gears. “Are you skating tomorrow? I know coach bumped practice back, but I heard he’s bringing in a scout.”

I nod without thinking about it.

“Maybe for defense, too,” he adds. “If you keep flailing like a rookie beyotch.” He pauses. “You’re annoying—are you listening? I’m giving clarity and you’re giving me grunts. Cool. Love that for me.”

I shrug one shoulder.

Because I’m already back in my own head.

Back on the couch where she used to hog the remote. Back in the kitchen where she once spilled cereal and muttered a four-minute apology. Back in the driveway where she left that night with her boxes and her stupid cactus lamp.

And now I know she’s sick. Miserable. Probably curled in a nest of blankets with a bucket and no appetite.

The worst part? I didn’t know.

I pull out my phone again and stare at our message thread.

Still nothing from her.

Me: Nova told Luca you’re sick. Are you okay? Want me to bring you anything? I’m good at soup delivery. Great at not making it weird.

I stare at the blinking cursor for a beat before hitting send.

Three dots appear.

Then vanish.

Then reappear.

Then vanish again.

Jesus Christ . I’ve never wanted to throw my phone and projectile vomit at the same fucking time.

I swallow hard, pressing the heel of my palm to my sternum like I can shove the ache back down where it belongs.

Still nothing.

I check again.

And then, finally?—

Poppy: I’m okay. Just gross and exhausted. Thanks for checking. I don’t need anything.

It’s polite. Distant. All the warmth I remember, scrubbed out of her words as if we were only roommates and not something more.

Well shit.

This can’t be good.

Seriously though, what the hell was I expecting? More emotion? A longer message? A voice memo of her coughing followed by, “Please bring soup and maybe if I’m feeling better, we and fuck for old times’ sake?”

I rub a hand over my face and exhale.

She’s setting a boundary.

I start typing a response. Delete it.

Type again. Delete that one, too.

Eventually, I settle on: Okay. Let me know if you change your mind.

I hit send.

Stare at my screen.

“—and then she tells me I’m being distant.” Luca’s voice cuts in to my thoughts. “Like that’s even a thing. Me, distant? I cried during Crazy Rich Asians , Skaggs.”

I blink. “What?”

Oh my god, why is he still talking?

“But she was just messing around. Things are actually really good. Great, actually. We’re synced up on everything—groceries, chores. I unload the dishwasher, she folds laundry. We’ve had sex on every surface in her apartment.”

Awesome.

“We’ve been talking about kids a lot lately, now that she has a niece and a nephew, her ovaries are like—exploding. Her words, not mine.” He goes quiet a few moments. “And obviously raising kids in an apartment is not ideal. I mean, Nova likes my house but it’s not her house—it’s mine. So…”

He trails off for dramatic effect. I already don’t like where this is going.

“I might sell the house.”

I stare at him. “Your house?”

That I live in.

That I’ve lived in for the past five years.

Luca shrugs, like he just announced he’s switching toothpaste brands.

No big deal. “Yeah. We’ve been looking at listings.

Nova is obsessed with finding something in a gated community.

With a home gym. I realize we could remodel or whatever, but she’s really into that clean girl aesthetic now and it makes more sense to buy a new build. ”

He laughs.

Meanwhile, I’m doing the mental math on how long it takes to pack up half a decade of stuff but also wondering: does any of my furniture actually belong to me?

“You’re selling the house ,” I say again, to hear the sentence out loud.

He nods, totally unfazed. “Unless you want to buy it?”

Buy his McMansion in the suburbs?

A subdivision I wouldn’t choose, but live there for convenience, because it was with buddies?

I blink. “I’m a professional hockey player, not a goddamn hedge fund.”

He laughs again. “Give me a break, you have the money.”

Not the point.

“Nova just wants something that feels more like a home, you know?” Luca says, like this is a casual conversation and not a wrecking ball to my week. “Her apartment’s too cold. Too much marble and tile and not enough warmth.”

“She doesn’t want to raise kids eighteen stories up where they can’t even see a tree unless it’s through a window. Says it’d be like raising babies in a museum.”

I force a nod. My jaw is so tight it’s giving me a headache.

“She wants dirt and grass and backyard birthday parties,” Luca continues, dreamy as hell. “I get where she’s coming from.”

“You have a yard with dirt and trees and grass.” Not to mention a huge pool and patio, and outdoor kitchen.

“Yeah, but it’s mine . Not ours.”

That word hits me like a slap. Ours.

Hers and his.

Ours.

“She says she wants a house that feels like hers from the beginning,” Luca goes on, and my stomach does this weird, slow-turning flip. “Not some place that’s full of someone else’s history.”

My history.

Like the kitchen where I saw Poppy for the first time, half naked. Or the first time we had sex. Or flirted in the pool during Cash’s party, then snuck inside to fuck.

I nod again. I have to. What are my options?

“Makes sense,” I say voice flat.

Luca beams, relieved. “Right? I knew you’d get it.”

I get it. Nova wants more and she deserves more.

But it doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck to hear it.

Luca claps me on the back like he just gave me a stock tip. “You’ll land somewhere great, man.”

“How much time are we talking, here?”

“Months? Six, seven? We’re still talking about it, but I’ll let you know cause obviously we have to do a walk-through. Fix some things up. Maybe paint. Plus I have to let Cash know—not that he’ll give a shit, either.”

No, Cash won’t give a shit.

He’ll take his dog, his Xbox, and crash on someone’s couch like he always does. That’s the lifestyle he’s used to—transient, unbothered, perfectly content living out of a duffel bag and calling it freedom.

But me?

I’m settled . I’ve built routines.

This place is one steady thing in a career full of constant motion. Exhausting road trips. The threat of trades always looming. Noise and pressure and media and stress.

This house is quiet.

And now my room is on the chopping block because someone else’s ovaries are exploding .

Luca is still chattering, something about paint samples and market comps and maybe replacing all the mirrors in the bathrooms because “Nova hates the frames,” and all I can think is: How did I become the guy on the sidelines of his own life?