“You won’t,” Luke says gently. “You know the difference now.”
Pippa squeezes my hand. “And no matter what, you’re not doing it alone.”
41
bottled it
DUST BOWL DANCE BY MUMFORD & SONS
I’ve been dreading this day since that smug little motherfucker got here. Today’s my scheduled end-of-the-season interview for the documentary. I have to sit in a room with Matt for hours, watching back highlights and narrating the season for the final cut of the documentary. I have to sit here and pretend I don’t want to kill him. I have to answer his questions, giving him parts of me he doesn’t deserve.
It’s stifling in here, and sweat gathers at the back of my neck, but I don’t know if it’s the lights or my swelling rage. I tug a little at the collar of my training top, wishing I could rip it clean off. Matt sits across from me, a smug smile twisting his mouth, his clipboard in hand like he’s got some fucking authority.
I hate this.
“Ready?” he says casually, like he has no recollection of what happened in the hotel lobby with Addison. Now that he’s in front of his crew again, he wears his mask of phony charisma. He’s got an image to uphold.
I grind my teeth and nod once. Let’s get this over with.
The first few questions are easy. Addison prepped me for them. All about the season, the team, and the fans, like he cares about any of those things. I answer automatically, walking him through each highlight, my gaze focused past the camera.
“Talk to me about the pressure,” Matt says, leaning forward with fake interest. “Promotion is a few games away. A bottom of the ninth, bases-loaded situation. What’s thatreallylike for you?”
I clench my jaw so tightly that it aches.
“It’s a lot of pressure,” I say, keeping it simple. “But we have a good group. You can’t do it alone, and there’s no one I’d rather win with than these people.”
Matt hums, like he’s considering probing further. His eyes gleam, and I know he’s gearing up for something.
“You’re a very intense player, Oliver.”
“Yeah,” I say, nodding.
“Where does that come from?” he asks, starting casual. “You’ve got an edge to your game. So much determination and drive. Is that about football—or guilt?”
My mouth goes dry.
“What?”
“Your brother, Henry,” he says lightly, like it’s just some trivia fact about me and not a real goddamn person. “Do you think you play harder because you’re trying to make up for something you couldn’t fix?”
Henry.
I hate that he says his name so easily, like it doesn’t cost anything. Like it’s not the sharpest, deepest wound I’ve got. Like he doesn’t matter.
My chest tightens, something hot and suffocating crawling up my throat.
He’s not here to defend himself.
He’s not here to tell his own story.
And somehow, even now—evendead—I can’t fucking protect him.
Matt gets to say his name. Twist it. Package it up into something ugly and sellable. Turn him into a footnote in my story instead of the person he actually was.
The guilt hits me all over again, sharp and brutal. Not just that I couldn’t save him—
but that I can’t even keep him safe from this.
