Tiago
A punchâhard and roughâquivers through my body.
But I feel nothing. The pain is numb, my mind shielded from it by a thick, viscous guilt.
I see him getting on top of me, but no other punch comes. Instead, he grabs my hand, yanking me back to my feet.
"Bloody hell, kid, you're off today."
Dad doesn't sound like he cares, and I sure as hell don't want him to. His eyes graze my lips, and instinctively, I touch them, feeling the warm stream running down my jaw.
"Ruby's gonna kill me for this," he clicks his tongue.
Red. Red on my fingers looks so familiar I can't stop staring at it.
"What's going on?"
It's not a question. It's an orderâto give him all my cards, to let him take a look at everything in my head.
To obey. To surrender.
"Nothing," I reply, rubbing the blood off my face.
Somehow, I end up with both hands covered in it, and now I can't unsee it.
Because this is too recent to be forgotten.
"Yeah, nah, not buying that." Dad shakes his head, pushing his hair out of his face.
He missed his haircutâit's the longest I've ever seen it. Now that it's grown past the buzz cut and I can clearly see his dark hair, we look more alike. Too much for me to handle.
Same surname. Same eyes. Same face.
The only difference is the deep scar slicing through his brow, running down to his cheekbone.
"I told you," I force myself to speak, standing still in front of him, refusing to move. "It's nothing."
A shove to my chest sends me swinging back, but I stay on the ground, staring anywhere but at him as his voice rises.
"Then quit acting like a sook and throw a bloody punch!" His arms cross over his chest. "You think anyone's gonna give a shit about your problems when they're tryna knock your ass out?"
Shut up.
I want to tell him to shut up.
His military shit means nothing to me, and he knows it. That's why he's always so cranky, so pissed off at me.
"No."
"I can't hear you." His tone is sharp.
"No."
I expect him to do somethingâto throw a punch I'm not ready for, to shove me again, to start yelling about how I need to speak clearer.
Instead, he sighs.
And then, under his breath, barely audible.
"Bloody hopeless."
It's quiet, but I know the way his lips move when he says that fucking word.
It makes my blood burn. The red on my handsâI feel it spreading, crawling up my forearms, filling every butterfly inked onto my skin.
"Lock in, Santiago." Nothing but orders. "First game's tomorrow, so whatever's wrong with you, you need to suck it up. Now."
I know I do. I know I can't keep this up. But how am I supposed to when the only thing spinning in my head is the way she looked at me?
At my butterflies.
Her hazel eyesâalways sly and mischievousâwidening when she heard Selena's name.
I feel so bad I want Dad to hit me again. To bust my lip worse than it already is. To break my jaw so I'll never say this nonsense again.
I was given an ultimatum, and I chose the team.
I could've had her, but I chose the teamâonly to realize I don't care about it if it's not with her.
"Come on, we're not done until you do this kick just like I taught you." Dad steps back, adjusting into position.
So all I can do is suck it up.
Lick my busted lip, tasting the familiar copper on my tongue.
And prepare myself for another hour in this gym, smelling like heat, sweat, and metal.
Until I perform like he needs me to.
Until he finally says, after dozens of tries:
"Not so hopeless after all."
Only for me to feel like I'm still spiraling on this carousel of guilt and regret as I leave the gym, climbing the stairs to my room.
The shower is cold, but not cold enough to soothe my conscience.
I watch the water turn pink as it runs down my forearms, swirling toward the drain.
The sight is so familiar, I can't stop watching.
Hopeless.
I really amâbecause somehow, I mess up everything I touch. Even something as impossible, as contradictory, as Yannik.
It's funny. She's afraid of hurting me, yet I can do it perfectly fine myself.
More so when this thick, suffocating feeling I'm used to spreads through my chest as I grab my phone after my shower.
Cormac: So you told her to call me?
Cormac: You made the right choice, QB.
Fuck me dead.
My fingers tighten around the phone, a sharp breath stabbing my lungs. My head tilts back as I take a step, then another, pacing circles in my room.
I want to throw the fucking phone away. To smash it against the wall so hard I'll never see these messages again.
My heartbeat spikes, hammering in my skull. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing a deep breath to fix everything.
It doesn't.
I still feel like I'm losing everything I ever gained.
I don't care about the team anymore. Bench me, suspend me, kick me the hell outâI don't care.
Not if it means I get just another minute in her control.
"It's ten p.m."
My hair is still damp as I bump into Mum in the kitchen. She's preparing a meal for Charity when I crouchâonly for Char to knock me over and climb on top of me, trying to lick every inch of my face.
It was so stupid for my parents to get a Cane Corso thinking she'd be some fierce protector. She isâbut she'd also sell her dog soul for a slice of beef liver and a belly rub.
"That's right," I say.
"It's Thursday," she insists.
"Indeed," I mutter, the keys jingling treacherously in my hand as I try to push the massive dog off me.
"Am I supposed to let you go out now?" Mum asks, turning around with a plate of raw meat.
Then she sees me.
Her eyes widen, and she doesn't even care about Char desperately trying to get to the food.
"God, baby, what happened?"
I try to play dumb as I stand up, stepping in front of her and taking the plate from her hands to set it down for Char.
"I fellâ" I lie, unconsciously licking the wound on my lip. "At football practice."
"Didn't you wear a helmet?" she frowns, tilting my chin up to get a better look.
"I did, it's justâ" I gently take her hands off me. "It's not a big deal, Mum, really."
She doesn't fully believe me.
I know that because she saw my face after practiceâstorming straight to my room after giving Yannik a ride home.
Shit. Yannik.
It's been almost two hours since Cormac's texts. Is she home now?
Or did she go with him?
"I gotta go." I step back, already desperate to get to the garage and into my car.
"Have fun, baby!" Mum calls after me as I leave the kitchen. "And be home before midnight!"
"Can't, gonna do crack in my creepy felon friend's basement," I smirk, hearing Mum chuckle at my words.
The night breeze is sharp, cooling my skin as I get into the car. My fingers tremble slightly as I start the engine.
The drive to Yannik's neighborhood feels longer than usual. With every turn, every street pulling me closer to her house, I fight the urge to turn back.
But I don't want to spend the whole night poisoning myself with guilt.
Not when Yannik is too proud to answer a call. Too stubborn to even read a text.
So I park a block away, stepping out into the quiet street.
I don't have an exact plan.
I just remember how to climb the tree near her garage.
There's no car in the drivewayâBardot's not home. But neither is Yannik, since the lights in the pink room are off.
Still, I slide the window open.
I don't care if I'm being a maniacâI can't stand another second without her scent filling my lungs. If she's with him, I'll just kill time breathing her in, my mind spiraling as I inevitably imagine her under him.
But thenâ
A sound.
A sob.