Pain screamed through my chest, and when I woke up in the hospital, everything was different.
My ribs were bruised, my body sore, scars I would have forever covering my left shoulder, but I was alive.
My dad was in handcuffs, and I was alone.
Until the Montgomerys stepped in.
Jaxon’s parents took me in, gave me a roof over my head, a home to heal in. They fed me, helped me piece my life back together, helped me finish high school when I wasn’t sure I could even keep going.
And Jaxon? Jaxon was the only reason I survived those years.
He was my best friend. My comfort. My constant.
But he was also the person I never wanted to hurt, which is why I pushed him away.
Why I ran the second I knew he wanted something more than friendship.
Why I put so much distance between us for three years.
And now?
Now, I don’t know if there’s anything left to run back to.
Lyla shifts next to me, adjusting her position on the hard stadium seat, pulling her coat tighter around herself. "I still don’t get why we’re sitting all the way up here," she mutters, leaning closer so I can hear her over the roar of the crowd.
I keep my eyes trained on the field, tiny, fast-moving figures shifting and colliding under the bright stadium lights.
"Because," I say quietly, "I didn’t want him to see me."
Lyla sighs. "Maddy…"
I know what she wants to say—that it’s not fair, that I should at least talk to him. That Jaxon deserves more than what I’ve given him.
But she doesn’t say it. She knows I already know. Instead, she just shakes her head, pulling her scarf up higher over her chin.
I focus on the game, trying to pretend I’m just another fan in the crowd, trying to pretend my stomach doesn’t twist every time Jaxon touches the ball, every time he moves across the field with so much confidence, so much purpose.
Like this is his moment.
Like this is what he was made for.
The crowd surges when he makes a catch, the entire stadium shaking with the sheer volume. I watch as he pulls himself upfrom the turf and flips the ball to a ref, barely taking a second to celebrate before jogging back to the huddle.
My chest aches.
Because he’s still him.
The boy I grew up with. The boy I pushed away.
The boy I love.
The thought slams into me so hard, I have to clench my hands into fists and press them against my thighs to keep myself from shaking.
I love him.
I think I always have.
I don’t know how to be loved by someone like Jaxon Montgomery, someone who doesn’t just say things—he proves them, every single time.
