Page 30 of Tyler (Bummerset Shore University #2)

THIRTEEN

I fumbled.

I fucking fumbled.

I slam the front door shut so hard it damn near rattles the frame, drop my duffle just inside of the entrance, and stomp up the stairs two at a time. My helmet’s still on. Hell, I didn’t even bother to get the damn thing off before I stormed out of there like the fucking mess I am today.

I yank it off once I reach the top, throwing it onto my bed without looking.

It bounces once and thuds to the floor, just like my mood, just like my chances of keeping that game in our hands.

My palms are still sticky with sweat and the phantom feel of the ball slipping through my fingers clings to me like a goddamn ghost.

I fumbled. On third and long.

And to be honest, even before that.

And I never fucking fumble.

Coach pulled me before the final quarter even started.

He put Rafa in, said I was “clearly not in the game” and just…

fucking pulled me. He wasn’t wrong, and that’s the worst part.

I wasn’t present. I wasn’t sharp. I wasn’t me.

He damn well had every right to pull me.

Shit, I would’ve done the same if I were him.

In fact, I told him to do it before—plenty of times. Told him to pull guys when they’re off. When they’re a liability. When they’re not giving it their all.

Today, that guy was me .

So now I’m home, stripping out of my stupid pads, since I was out of there as soon as I could go, and am completely drowning in the shame of letting my team down.

Letting myself down.

Because yup. I know exactly why this shit happened. We’ve only got eight days left of the tour. Which sounds like a fucking breeze compared to how long we’re apart. I should count down the minutes until he’s back in my arms.

But instead, I’m falling apart like some lovesick fool because I, in all my brilliance, read a full-blown article last night about Mick and Jace. Speculation, pictures, videos, and all, and couldn’t sleep for shit after.

I strip out of the rest of my damp gear and stomp across the hall to the shared shower, buck-ass naked and grumbling.

It’s not like there’s anyone home to see me.

Everyone’s still at the stadium, since I skipped the post-game interviews and decided to shower at home.

And even if they weren’t, well… they’ve all seen me naked hundreds of times.

It hits me when I step under the spray and set the temperature to hot: Jace’s probably not done yet with the pre-concert interviews he has today.

I wanted to call him after my shower and complain…

or not even complain, really. Just hearing his voice would’ve made everything a hundred times better.

I’d probably have forgotten my issues the second he picked up.

But that’ll have to wait.

I let my head fall back with a grunt, eyes closed as the hot water hits my skin. Shit, I’ll regret skipping the usual post-game ice bath tomorrow, but I need the soothing heat tonight.

I try to breathe. In through my nose, out through my mouth. Just try to chill and fucking think about the game and my actions, reflect and come up with a logical solution for my own damn stupidity.

Yeah… I fumbled since I barely slept after that stupid article. First came the images of another guy touching Jace, of Mick touching Jace, which I just couldn’t get out of my head, then I was doomscrolling through thirsty fan comments and taking screenshots and notes of all the shitty ones.

I swear I’m not actively looking for it anymore; I try to keep Ava’s comments in mind. Trust security. Trust their team. Let them do the job which the label pays them to do.

But I just stumbled into it and couldn’t fucking stop.

So of course I overslept, big time, and got stuck in the massive orange-packed, pre-game crowd outside of the stadium.

That was the cherry on the damn cake, since I don’t do crowds well, never have. Especially not when all that noise and attention suddenly shifts to me the second they spot me when I tried to get to the player’s entrance. Just thinking back to how they swarmed me makes my skin crawl.

I sigh as I quickly rinse off before getting out of the shower.

Yeah, I’m fucking relaxed all right. Worked like a charm.

I scoff, dry myself in record-speed, change into a fresh set of running gear, and know exactly where I need to go to get rid of this last lingering tension of this horrible game.

Bouncing down the stairs, I scrub a hand through my damp hair and try to shake off the weight still clinging to my shoulders.

Yeah, Jace really was my anchor last year. My shield. My personal crowd-control unit. When he got here, the spotlight shifted to him—superstar that he already was becoming—and I liked it that way. I really did.

But now that he’s gone? The noise is back. The pressure. The constant eyes.

I’m sort of used to it. Being a semi-professional athlete for a while now forces you to be, but that doesn’t mean I fucking like it. It’s exhausting having to talk to everyone who wants a piece of the captain, the quarterback, the poster boy for the Summerset Tigers.

Sometimes I just need to get away from it all, and barging right into the chaos this morning after I had a shitty night definitely didn’t help get my head in the game.

So that’s what I do; I get away. I need some solitude. Some quiet. A little time alone before my roommates barge back in here after the game, all loud and obnoxious and probably hyped as shit for the afterparty tonight at the other football house.

Yeah, I’m not staying to watch them pre-drink and hype themselves up. Even though I’m always happy to hang out with my friends, tonight I’ll pass.

I’ve got other plans.

I grab my phone from my duffle, strap it into my armband, and pop in my AirPods.

I know I just played more than half a game, but I skipped cooldown, and there’s still too much frustration buzzing under my skin.

The shower didn’t help. Apparently, the adrenaline from the game didn’t cut it this time either.

So… option three it is.

I head to my favorite spot in the whole damn town, hell, in the whole damn world.

We live a little way from the stadium, on the edge of campus, closer to Summerset, and it’s quieter here.

Which I’m fucking glad about right now, not nearly in any mental state to deal with the post-game crowd, or lingering fans who didn’t have tickets and opted for tailgating or bars instead.

Nope. I need the ocean, the vast, endless space . Nothing soothes me more than that place, so I’m jogging there at an easy, slow pace, I let my feet find their rhythm with the music droning in my ears.

Of course, it’s Encore’s album playing in my ears, Jace’s deep rumble curling around me like a damn safety net, grounding me, steadying me, as my feet tap-tap-tap against the pavement.

The sky is already turning that soft, golden orange.

Sunset’s on its way, brushing everything in warm light like it’s trying to soothe the world, trying to soothe me.

And with every step, I see that ocean loom closer in the distance.

With every lyric that spills from the man that means the world to me, I feel the stress bleed out of me.

Finally, my shoulders drop.

Finally, I feel my muscles loosen.

Finally, I can fucking breathe again.

Jace. The answer is always Jace.

I let his voice wrap around me like the balm it’s always been, and it doesn’t take long before I reach the trail that hugs the beach and spot the thing that always puts an instant smile on my face.

I drop onto the weathered bench, our bench, the salty breeze cool on my heated skin, and my fingers immediately find the rough edge of the Jace loves Ty carving, scratched into the wood with his keys the day before he left.

The day he vowed to me—vowed to the sand, the sea, and the sun—that we’d be okay.

That we could handle this. That long distance wouldn’t break us.

And somehow, we could and it didn’t.

Don’t ask me how, but we fucking survived. So far, at least. Yes, there were hurdles, there still are . Besides Mick, there’s still the pending deportation, but it’s been pretty quiet about that the last couple of weeks, and I feel it in my very gut that we’ll survive that, too.

The most important thing is, that right now, we’re still together, we’re still us.

I’ll see him soon. Eight days. That’s all that’s left of our nine-week stretch apart since I visited him. Eight measly days feel like nothing compared to the eight months that have passed since he started touring.

Eight. Fucking. Months.

Shit, don’t we have our first anniversary coming up or something? I don’t even know what date we first kissed or started dating, or when it was official. Am I being a terrible partner now? Isn’t this something I’m supposed to know?

Fuck me, I know all the dates from that stupid History of Modern Economics course, but I can’t remember when we got together last year?

I grab my phone out of my armband, kicking my sneakers out and lounging back as I fire off a message, hoping he’s done with interviews.

Me: Quick, when is our one-year anniversary?

The typing bubble pops up right away, and the corners of my mouth pull up.

Jace: Did you seriously forget?

The smile vanishes in an instant.

Me : Fuck, I’m so sorry. I just can’t remember when exactly it was. Thanksgiving? Or before that?

Jace: I can’t believe you forgot our anniversary…

Shit. I cringe. I thought he’d be cool about it, but…

Me: I swear I remember the vibe , just not the date.

Jace: I’m messing with you. I have no fucking clue, babe.

Me: Dude. Fuck you.

There’s a pause before his next message lands.

Jace: I ’d love to. Eight more days, babe, before I’ve got you back inside me. Or me inside you. Or we could just use the clones again. Properly, this time.

I bite my bottom lip, grinning like a fool, cheeks heating as I glance around the quiet beach. Not that anyone’s here to see me blush like some lovesick teenager, but still…