My phone buzzes.
For the record: me too. Since before fifteen. Since as long as I can remember wondering how it would feel to kiss you.
I stare at the words until they blur. Read them again. Again.
What a waste.
What a beautiful, terrible waste.
I push off the wall and walk out into the night, feeling like the ground has shifted beneath my feet.
There’s no going back now.
Equipment Failure
Bennett
There’s a moment, right before things really start to unravel, where a person convinces themselves they’re still in control. Same routines. Same plays. Same hands reaching for the same tools they’ve always used to get the job done. And then—well. Sometimes you look down and realize you’re holding something that doesn’t belong to you,doesn’t fit you, and definitely isn’t going to get you where you thought you were going. Now, you can call that distraction. You can call it bad luck. Or you can call it what it usually is—your mind being somewhere else entirely, with someone who’s about to make the rest of your life very interesting.
Playlist: “I Wanna Get Better” by Bleachers
The Slammer’s bus smells like coffee, sweat, and whatever the hell Wolfe’s eating out of a container that probably came with a warning label.
Normal.
Everything about this is normal.
Guys are loud, chirping, arguing about playlists, someone in the back already yelling out fantasy stats. Coach is trying to pretend he has control over it. He doesn’t.
I should fit into this without thinking.
Instead, I stand in the aisle for half a second too long, bag slung over my shoulder, like I forgot how this part works.
“Move, Captain,” Gage grunts behind me, shoving past.
Right. Sit down. Be a person.
I drop into a seat near the middle, shove my bag under my feet, and stare straight ahead hoping that’ll make everything settle.
Every noise feels louder than it should. Every laugh hits a fraction too sharp. My brain keeps trying to pull me somewhereelse—back to a locked equipment room and a decision I didn’t think through.
I drag a hand over my face and focus on my breathing until the seat beside me dips. I don’t have to look to know who it is.
“You look like shit,” he says. “Gisele-related?”
“It’s not anything,” I say.
“You ever notice how you only get like this when it actually matters?”
I say nothing.
“Because wanting something means it can be taken away.” He shrugs, easy, like he’s discussing the weather. “And you’d rather have nothing than risk losing something.”
The bus hits a pothole. Nobody else seems to notice.
“That’s not—” I start.
“The worst part?” He cuts me off, still in that same conversational tone. “Whatever’s got you looking like this? It’s still going to be there when we get back. You can’t road trip your way out of feelings, man. Trust me. I’ve tried.”
