This was the pain of my heart truly breaking for the first time in my life.
CHAPTER 49ASHER
I didn’t believe in ghosts. I was superstitious about my pre-match rituals—see: my lucky boots and listening to my playlist in the exact order in which I’d arranged the songs, no skips or replays—but I didn’t believe in the existence of spiritual beings or haunted houses.
I changed my mind after Scarlett broke up with me.
A week had passed since I left her studio, but everywhere I turned, there she was, haunting me. Every little thing reminded me of her—the light strains of classical music piping through a lift, the entire horror movie genre, even the fucking color pink because she’d worn it so much during our trainings.
There were certain rooms I couldn’t even enter, like the screening room and the ballet studio, because she was so present, so there, that stepping into them was akin to reaching inside my chest and tearing my heart in half.
My house had turned into a mausoleum of memories, and I couldn’t stand the sight of it. I couldn’t even use football as an escape because I was benched while I healed from my injuries.
Thankfully, after a week of absolute hell, my doctor gave me the go-ahead to return to training. My exercises had to be modified to account for my sprains and strains, but I was healthy enough to hit the gym while the rest of the team suffered through pain shuttles and alternating box sprints.
It wasn’t much of a distraction, but it was better than nothing.
One.
I tried to focus on counting my dumbbell press reps instead of the echo of Scarlett’s voice. I can’t stand by and watch you self-destruct.
My chest clenched, fraying my concentration.
I gritted my teeth and pushed through it.
Two.
Her tear-streaked face swam past my vision, evidence that our breakup devastated her as much as it did me, and that was what killed me the most.
She was out there somewhere hurting, and I couldn’t comfort her because I was the cause of her hurt. Me and my stupid, selfish, short-sighted actions.
I swallowed a lump of regret in my throat, but another sprang up immediately to take its place.
There was no relief from my guilt, not even in the sanctuary of the gym.
Three.
Sweat poured down my face and stung my eyes. I’d worked out for close to an hour already, but I still hadn’t purged the nausea roiling my stomach.
Four.
The sound of my phone ringing snuck past the music playing on low in my ears. It wasn’t Scarlett; I’d set a different ringtone for her so I’d know if she called. She never did.
It was probably my mother again, fretting over the crash and the tabloids. It might even be my father, calling to scream at me about a host of things. They’d visited me while I was in the hospital, but they hadn’t stayed in London long.
My mother wanted to keep me company until I was fully healed, but I convinced her my injuries were minor (half true) and that she couldn’t take extended time off from her job as a teacher (definitely true).
She must’ve said something to my father before they came to the hospital because he’d held his tongue, though I could see the scathing sentiments swimming in his eyes.
It was why I avoided most of their calls these days. I was already falling apart; I didn’t have the additional mental or emotional energy to argue with them. My mother would want me to talk to my father, and my father…well, he was who he was.
I closed my eyes and let the music drown out my phone.
Ten reps.
Fifteen.
Twenty.
Twenty-five.
I went beyond the planned reps for this set, but I was afraid that if I stopped, I’d be left alone with my thoughts.
So I kept going.
“Donovan.”
Sometime between twenty-five and thirty, a familiar voice interrupted my determined count.
I dropped the dumbbells and paused my music. “Aren’t you supposed to be in training?”
“I’m heading there now. I had to talk to Coach first.” Noah stood in the doorway to the gym, dressed in his practice kit and gloves.
My eyebrows hiked up. Noah always toed the line and never got into trouble. What did he have to talk to Coach about that couldn’t wait until after practice?
His stoic expression didn’t offer any hints, though a touch of sympathy entered his eyes when he jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “He wants to see you next,” he said. “As soon as possible.”
