Page 165 of Breakaway Hearts

I shudder because that is exactly the kind of rich and entitled thing Trevor would do. And Owen isn’t. Possibly for that very reason.

Chapter Seventy-Five

Owen

Just as bad

The house looks exactly like the pictures designers showed my mom, before she asked for something that wasn’t so cold and staged, as if no one actually lives in it. The woman who let me in, Mrs. Pruitt, I presume, was friendly, but why would someone wear heels and pearls in their own home when they aren’t expecting visitors, as she told me sternly. I think she only let me in because she misunderstood that I was on Devon’s hockey team, rather than the player who injured him.

“What do you want?” Devon asks, coming into the living room on crutches that make me feel like even more of a jerk. The family resemblance is unmistakable without his helmet.

“Is it broken?”

“Sprained. What do you want?”

“To apologize.” He scoffs. “I shouldn’t have lost my temper, and I’m sorry you were caught in the crossfire.”

“You tracked down my address to apologize?”

“I never meant for you to get hurt and I feel bad. I know this doesn’t fix your leg, but it wasn’t your fault, and I’m sorry you paid the consequence.”

“So you wouldn’t be tracking Trevor down if he’d been hurt?”

“Fuck no.” I’m not sure if honesty is the best policy here, but it’s what I give him. He almost laughs, but then he sees I’m not joking. Guess I’m not good at hiding my hatred for the guy.

“This isn’t about the game.” It’s not a question, but he’s waiting for me to elaborate, like he knows and wants me to confirm it.

“Would you feel bad if it had been him?” I ask.

“He’s my teammate,” he gives a non-answer.

“I get that our teammates are like our brothers. I’d die for those guys or kill for them, no questions asked, and they’d do the same for me. But if your teammates are assholes who don’t deserve your loyalty, then having their backs and watching as it happens over and over again, when you could be doing something to stop it…that’s just as bad as participating.”

Chapter Seventy-Six

Madison

The cost of silence

“Coach Benson?” I ask, knocking on his door Monday morning. “I’m not sure if you remember me, I’m⁠—”

“Madison Finch. It’s nice to see you again.” He motions to the seat across from him. “How can I help you?”

I clasp my hands together so they stop shaking and take a deep breath.

“I’d like to explain to you what happened Saturday night.” I swallow. “And then if you could convey that information to whoever is responsible at the NCAA, or any contacts you have with LA…I would appreciate that.”

He looks at me for a really long time, with that apologetic sort of pity that is the very reason I waited so long to tell my own mother. Then he sighs.

“I will listen to anything you would like to tell me, but it won’t change anything.”

“The why has to matter,” I argue.

“It does,” he agrees. “I damn near begged your boyfriend to tell me what happened. Threatened him with real and exaggerated consequences, but he refused.”

“He did that for me. He didn’t want to betray my confidence, but I would much rather tell you than have him sit on a bench and miss out on his dream.”

He smiles, a sad one, but it’s still something Owen says he doesn’t do.