I stay silent, my pulse pounding in my ears.
Carter steps closer, eyes burning into mine. "Drunk you doesn’t lie. Drunk you doesn’t throw up walls, doesn’t put on a fake front to keep people from getting too close. Drunk you is honest."
My throat closes.
"You said you needed him," Carter continues, shaking his head, his voice raw. "And he believed you. Because you did need him. You just couldn’t admit it when you sobered up."
I hate that he’s right.
I hate that it feels like the air has been sucked out of my lungs, that I want to argue, that I want to tell him he’s wrong—but I can’t.
Carter stares at me for another long second, waiting for me to say something, but I don’t. I can’t.
With a bitter shake of his head, he mutters, "Unbelievable." Then, he turns and storms toward the door.
"Carter—" Lyla calls after him, but he’s already yanking it open. Before he steps out, he pauses, glancing back at me one last time.
"You want to pretend like this doesn’t affect you? Fine," he says, his voice low, dripping with frustration. "But at least own up to the fact that it affects him."
And with that, he’s gone. The door slams shut behind him, leaving me standing in the middle of the room, shattered.
Lyla lets out a slow exhale, rubbing her temples before stepping toward me.
I flinch at the movement, taking a step back. I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to feel.
I just want to disappear.
Lyla sees it, I know she does, but instead of pushing, she just sighs, her voice softer now. "Come on, girl. Let’s get you to bed."
I don’t argue. I don’t fight.
I just let her lead me to my room, tuck me under my covers, and turn off the light.
She doesn’t say anything else.
Because she knows, just like I do?—
There’s nothing left to say.
44
JAXON
This is the first time in my life I’ve struggled in class.
Not because the material is too hard, not because I didn’t prepare—but because I can’t focus. I’ve been sitting in lecture halls for the last three months with my pen tapping against the desk, staring at notes I don’t remember writing. I reread the same sentence in my textbooks over and over, and none of it sticks. Every time I try to concentrate, my mind goes straight to her.
Madison.
I used to be able to handle pressure. I thrived under it. Late nights grinding film, early mornings in the gym, midterms stacked on top of practice and workouts and keeping my body healthy—it never felt like too much before.
But now?
Now, I feel like I’m barely keeping my head above water.
And it’s not because of football. It’s not because of the draft looming over me, or the agents calling, or the fact that my life is about to completely change in a few months.
It’s because I’ve never had to do any of this without her—not here, at least.
