Part 14 ( Ellie )

The second I wake up, I regret everything.

My head is pounding like someone's taken a hammer to my skull. My mouth is dry, my body feels like dead weight, and my stomach twists in that awful way that only comes from a bad hangover.

I groan, rolling onto my back, my hand draping over my face as I blink against the obnoxious amount of sunlight streaming in through the windows.

Fuck.

I don't remember getting home. I barely remember getting in bed.

Shit—what time is it?

I reach blindly for my phone, fumbling on the nightstand until my fingers finally close around it. I squint at the screen.

1:07 PM.

Okay. Not terrible.

Still got four hours before practice. Enough time to recover, shower, and get my shit together.

I let out a slow breath, forcing myself up into a semi-sitting position. The room tilts slightly.

Fucking whiskey.

I rub a hand down my face, blinking against the haze still clinging to my mind.

The Hollow.

Mia, Luke, Aiden.

Shots.

Dancing.

More shots.

And then...

Nothing.

I frown. There's a chunk of the night missing. A gap in my memory, like the alcohol wiped something out.

I shake my head, reaching for the water bottle on my nightstand. I take a long sip, trying to push through the cloudiness.

Doesn't matter. It was a good night. I needed it.

I exhale, tossing the sheets off my body, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. The marble floor is cold against my feet as I push myself up, stretching out the tension in my muscles. Everything is quiet. The kind of quiet that feels too fucking loud in a house this big. I grab my phone again, scrolling through my texts.

Mia: You alive?

Luke: Let me know if you need a ride to practice.

Aiden: You're still a lightweight btw.

I smirk slightly at the last one, shaking my head before typing out quick replies.

Me (to Mia): barely.

Me (to Luke): Nah, I'm good. I'll come by your place in a bit.

Me (to Aiden): Go fuck yourself.

I set the phone down, rolling my shoulders.

Time to get my shit together.

Shower. Hydrate. Eat. Move.

That's the plan.

I head to the massive en-suite bathroom, turning the water on scalding hot. Steam fills the space almost instantly, fogging up the mirror.

I step under the spray, exhaling as the heat digs into my sore muscles, washing away the last remnants of sleep.

I finish quickly, wrapping a towel around my waist as I step out, wiping a hand across the mirror to clear the fog.

My reflection stares back at me, tired, hazy, still a little out of it. I exhale, running my fingers through my damp hair before heading back into the bedroom.

I throw on black sweatpants, a hoodie, nothing fancy, and make my way to the kitchen.

The fridge is stocked, but nothing looks appealing. I grab a protein shake instead, chugging half of it as I lean against the counter, my free hand drumming against the marble.

Something is nagging at me. Something from last night. I can't place it, but it's there.

Like a shadow just out of reach.

I sigh, grabbing my phone again, scrolling through my photos.

Nothing new.

Then, I check my call log.

Texts. Nothing weird. I frown. If something happened, someone would've texted me about it, right?

Right?

I shake my head, pushing off the counter.

Doesn't matter. I have practice in four hours. That's all I need to focus on. I toss the empty bottle into the trash, stretching out my arms.

1

The afternoon sun casts long shadows across the perfectly manicured lawns as I make my way across the driveway toward Luke's house. The walk is short, our houses practically mirroring each other in size and luxury.

I take the porch steps two at a time, knocking on the door before shoving my hands into my hoodie pockets. My body still feels a little off, the lingering weight of last night settling somewhere behind my ribs, but I push it down.

The door swings open. Luke stands there, arms crossed over his chest, brows raised as he gives me a once-over.

"You look better than you're supposed to."

I snort, stepping past him into the house. "Gee, thanks."

The door shuts behind me as I kick off my sneakers, stretching out my sore limbs.

Luke follows me into the living room, plopping down onto the couch. "No, seriously. Considering how much you drank last night, I expected you to look like absolute shit."

I smirk, flopping down onto the couch beside him. "Disappointed?"

"Honestly? A little." He grins, leaning back against the cushions. "It would've made my morning." I roll my eyes, reaching for the remote and flicking on the TV, some random sports channel playing in the background. Familiar, easy, normal.

Luke watches me for a second before tilting his head. "Alright, what's up?"

I glance at him. "What do you mean?"

He lifts a brow. "You're never this nice to me without an ulterior motive."

I scoff, shaking my head. "Wow. So much faith in me."

He smirks. "You're my best friend, Crawford. I know you." I hesitate, tapping my fingers against my knee before finally exhaling.

"Alright, fine." I turn to face him fully, my voice more serious now. "I got you a spot at the JETS."

Luke freezes. His smirk vanishes in an instant, his entire body going still.

"What?"

I nod, keeping my tone even. "You're playing at practice today. If you look good, if you play good, the manager might offer you a real shot."

Luke blinks. Once. Twice.

Then, slowly, his expression shifts. Realization. Disbelief. Then, pure fucking gratitude.

"Ellie..." His voice is quiet, too quiet for Luke.

I shrug. Like this is not the biggest news for him.

For a second, he doesn't move. Doesn't say anything.

Then, all at once, he grabs me and pulls me into a hug. It's not like Luke to be this affectionate—he's not the type. This is real. This is everything.

He pulls back after a few seconds, shaking his head like he still can't believe it. "Are you fucking serious?"

I smirk. "No, Luke, I'm lying because I enjoy messing with your emotions."

He laughs, shaking his head. "Holy shit."

I nod. "Yeah."

He exhales, running a hand through his hair. "Fuck."

I chuckle, stretching out on the couch. "So, you gonna start crying or what?"

"Shut the fuck up." He shoves my arm, but he's smiling.

A real, genuine, Luke-type smile. He exhales, shaking his head again. "I don't even know what to say."

I lift a shoulder. "Say thank you. Maybe throw in an 'Ellie, you're the best friend in the world' while you're at it."

Luke huffs a laugh. "I owe you one man."

"Nah. Don't mention it."

His gaze softens, his usual sarcasm gone for a brief second. "Seriously, though. Thank you."

I wave him off. "Don't make it weird."

He smirks. "Too late."

We settle into easy silence, the background noise of the TV filling the space between us. Luke glances at me after a beat, stretching his arms over his head. "So, how's Bella?" I nod, taking a sip of the water bottle I stole from his coffee table. "Good. She had plans today, so I figured I'd come here instead."

Luke hums, studying me. "You two still solid?"

"Yeah," I say, and it's true. Bella and I are good. She's steady. She's what I need.

Luke raises a brow. "That wasn't very convincing."

I roll my eyes. "Not everything has to be some deep emotional revelation, dude."

He chuckles. "Fine. But if I catch you brooding over some unspoken bullshit, I'm kicking your ass."

I smirk. "Appreciate the concern."

He leans back, crossing his arms. "What time's practice?"

"Five."

Luke nods. "Plenty of time for me to stress out, then."

I snort. "You'll be fine. Just play your game."

"Easy for you to say."

"It's literally my job."

He sighs dramatically, rubbing his temples. "Guess I should go find my cleats."

I shake my head. "Please don't embarrass me."

"No promises."

Luke grabs his phone, scrolling through something before tossing it onto the couch. "Alright, Ellie. You wanna eat before we go get our asses kicked at practice?"

I exhale. "Yeah. Let's eat."

He grins. "Good. You're paying."

I glare. "I just gave you a shot at the JETS, and you want me to pay for your food?"

He shrugs, smirking. "Gotta milk it while I can."

I shake my head, already grabbing my keys.

-

Four hours pass in a blur.

Between eating, watching a random game on TV, and going over plays in my head, I don't even realize how much time has passed until my phone buzzes with a reminder.

Practice.

I already feel so much better. The hangover is nothing but a dull ache at this point, and my body feels loose, ready.

Luke and I leave the house in separate cars, making the short drive to the stadium.

When we finally walk in, the familiar scent of turf and sweat hits me instantly, the smell of home. Players are already scattered across the field, stretching, chatting, passing a ball between them. The energy is high, as it always is before practice.

Luke keeps his expression neutral, but I know him. I know the way he holds tension in his shoulders when he's nervous.

He glances at me. "You sure about this?"

I snort, clapping a hand on his back. "Dude. You're acting like I brought you to war."

He exhales, shaking his head. "Feels like it."

I smirk. "Relax. You got this."

As we step further onto the field, a familiar voice calls out.

"Crawford!"

I turn just in time to see Coach Miller striding toward me. He's the team's general manager, late fifties, built like a former linebacker, a clipboard in one hand and a whistle around his neck.

"Coach," I greet, shaking his hand.

He eyes me for a second before nodding in approval. "How are you feeling?"

"Good," I say, rolling my shoulders. "Ready."

He hums, glancing toward the field before his gaze flicks over to Luke. He studies him for a second, then turns back to me. "That him?"

I nod. "Yeah. Luke Sinclair. I've played with him since freshman year."

Coach raises a brow. "You don't vouch for people often, Crawford."

I shrug. "Because I don't have to. But Luke?" I tilt my chin toward him. "He's exactly what we need. Strong, fast, plays smart. He's got vision. If you give him a real shot, you won't regret it."

Coach looks back at Luke, narrowing his eyes slightly, like he's already running numbers in his head.

Luke stays still, doesn't fidget, doesn't look intimidated—good. That's what Coach wants to see.

After a long moment, Coach steps forward, extending a hand.

"Sinclair," he says, voice even. "Best of luck at practice today."

Luke shakes his hand firmly. "Appreciate it, Coach."

Coach nods once before glancing back at me. "Make sure he doesn't waste my time, Crawford."

I smirk. "Wouldn't dream of it."

Coach gives one last nod before stepping back, moving toward the other staff waiting near the sideline.

Luke finally exhales, running a hand through his hair.

"Well," he mutters. "That was fucking terrifying."

I chuckle, nudging his shoulder. "Welcome to the big leagues, dude."

He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "No pressure or anything."

I tilt my head, grinning. "Nah. Just your entire future riding on this practice. No big deal."

Luke groans. "You're a dumbass."

I smirk, patting his shoulder. "Come on. Let's get to work."

We move toward the rest of the team, the adrenaline already thrumming in my veins.

This is what I live for. The game, the competition, the feeling of being exactly where I belong.

The stadium lights glare down on us, bright and relentless, even in the late afternoon sun. The air is thick with the scent of turf and sweat, the distant echo of whistles and the heavy thud of bodies colliding filling the air.

It's go time.

I shake off the last remnants of my hangover, rolling my shoulders as I strap my helmet on. My body already feels loose, warm from the earlier drills, but the real test starts now, full-contact scrimmages, real game scenarios, and the chance for Luke to prove himself.

He stands a few yards away, already set in position, his helmet tucked under his arm as he listens intently to coach. I watch as he nods, expression serious, his stance already locked in. He wants this. Bad.

Good.

Because I didn't get him this opportunity for him to half-ass it.

I pop my mouthguard in and jog over to him, bumping my shoulder against his. "You ready?"

Luke exhales, stretching his arms across his chest. "As I'll ever be."

I smirk. "Good. Don't get your ass kicked."

He scoffs. "You wish."

I grin before jogging back to my spot in the offensive lineup. Coach blows the whistle, signaling the start of the first play.

I drop into position, eyes locked onto the quarterback as I shift my weight onto the balls of my feet. My heart pounds steadily, my muscles coiled tight, ready to explode off the line.

Snap.

The ball moves, and so do I.

I launch forward, cutting through the defense like a knife through water, my feet light and fast. The cornerback tries to press me at the line, but I swat him off with a quick move, my body twisting just enough to create separation.

I don't break stride.

My eyes track the ball spiraling toward me, perfect, tight, right where I need it. My hands move on instinct, fingers closing around the leather as I pull it in, securing it against my chest. A defender lunges, but I pivot, cutting inside and juking past him with ease.

Green. Open field.

I take off, my legs pumping, my breath steady, the roar of my teammates barely registering as I cross the imaginary end zone.

Touchdown.

The whistle blows, but I don't stop moving until I jog back toward the huddle, my body buzzing with adrenaline.

Luke is already there, waiting. He pulls off his helmet, shaking his head as he exhales. "Jesus, Crawford. Slow the fuck down."

I smirk, nudging him with my elbow. "What, can't keep up?"

He rolls his eyes, but there's no real bite behind it. "I can keep up just fine."

Coach claps his hands, signaling another rep.

We line up again, the air thick with tension, the defense shifting into position.

Luke crouches into his stance, his fingers digging into the turf, eyes locked onto the offensive line in front of him. His entire body is coiled tight, focused, waiting for the snap.

And then—it comes.

The offensive line moves first, but Luke is already reacting, his instincts sharp. He pushes off the line with explosive power, his body low, his hands shooting out to engage the left tackle.

Contact.

A heavy collision of muscle and force, but Luke doesn't give an inch. He plants his feet, absorbs the block, and then shoves back with enough force to knock the lineman off balance. The quarterback scrambles, looking for an opening, but Luke sees it before anyone else.

He disengages—fast.

Cuts inside. Sees the gap.

Then he bursts through.

The quarterback doesn't even have time to react before Luke is on him, his arms wrapping around his waist, driving him down to the turf in a clean, brutal sack.

The whistle blows.

I let out a low whistle, jogging toward him as he pushes himself off the ground. "Not bad."

He snorts, shoving his helmet back on. "Not bad?" He wipes some sweat off his brow. "That was textbook."

I grin, nodding. "Yeah, it was."

The rest of practice flies by in a blur of controlled chaos. The offense and defense go at it, play after play, each rep more intense than the last.

Luke holds his ground, proving exactly why I vouched for him. He's a wall on defense, quick on his feet, strong enough to hold his ground, fast enough to close gaps. He disrupts plays, forces fumbles, sacks the quarterback twice more.

And me? I do what I do best.

Route running. Cutting. Catching. Breaking tackles.

Scoring.

Every rep is clean, sharp, exactly what the team expects from me. I don't miss a beat, don't hesitate, don't let anything from last night cloud my focus.

By the time practice ends, my body is drenched in sweat, my muscles aching in that familiar, satisfying way.

Coach blows the final whistle, gathering us together for a brief speech. He's pleased. We looked good.

Luke gets a nod from him, a rare gesture of approval, and I know what that means.

Luke did exactly what he needed to do.

The manager approaches, clapping him on the shoulder. "Not bad, Sinclair," he says. "You keep that up, we might just have a spot for you."

Luke exhales, nodding. "Thank you. I won't let you down."

I smirk, slinging an arm around his shoulder. "Told you."

He shoves me off with a laugh. "Yeah, yeah."

As the team starts dispersing, I exhale, rolling my neck, my body still buzzing from the high of the game.

Today was a damn good day.

-

The locker room is filled with the usual post-practice energy—guys cracking jokes, talking about plays, some already making plans for the night. I move through it all on autopilot, grabbing my stuff and heading straight for the showers.

The hot water washes away the exhaustion clinging to my muscles, but it doesn't erase the lingering buzz of adrenaline still in my veins.

Practice was good. Luke was good.

The thought makes me smirk as I run a towel through my hair, stepping out into the main area of the locker room. I shower slow, waiting for everyone to leave. Luke is already by his locker, pulling a clean shirt over his head. He catches my eye in the mirror, smirking.

"You're still slow, Crawford."

I snort. "You're still ugly, Sinclair."

He flicks water from his bottle at me, and I dodge it easily, rolling my eyes. "Come on," he says, slamming his locker shut. "Parking lot?"

"Yeah, let's go."

We step outside, the stadium lights still glowing against the darkening sky. The lot isn't empty, but most of the team has already cleared out, leaving a handful of cars scattered around.

Luke stretches, rolling his shoulders. "You going home?"

I nod, unlocking my car with a press of a button. "Yeah. Might crash early."

He hums, tilting his head. "No Bella plans?"

I shake my head, glancing at him as I pull my car door open. "She's busy tonight."

Luke raises an eyebrow, like he wants to say something, but doesn't. Instead, he just claps my shoulder once before heading to his car. "Get some sleep, man."

"You too, rookie."

He flips me off over his shoulder, and I chuckle, sliding into the driver's seat.

The moment I close the door, my phone buzzes against the console.

I glance at the screen.

Anthony.

I sigh, running a hand through my damp hair before answering. "Vasquez."

"Crawford." His voice is easy, casual, but there's something under it. "You alive?"

I scoff. "Barely."

He chuckles. "Tough practice?"

"Something like that." I lean back against the headrest, closing my eyes for a second. "What's up?"

"Just a heads-up," he says. "We were supposed to have a meeting with Baldwin today."

My eyes snap open. "And?"

"She rescheduled."

I blink. "She what?"

"Yeah," Anthony hums. "Moved it to tomorrow. Said she was busy."

Huh.

I frown, gripping the steering wheel. "That's weird."

Juliet Baldwin doesn't reschedule. Not for something like this. She's too calculated. Too obsessive about time management to push back a business deal without good reason.

Anthony exhales. "I figured you'd say that."

I run my tongue over my teeth, thinking.

Maybe she had a last-minute crisis. Maybe she had something bigger on her schedule. Maybe she really was busy.

Or maybe...

Maybe she just didn't want to see me today.

My jaw tightens.

Fuck.

I shove that thought away before it has a chance to settle.

"She didn't give a reason?" I ask, keeping my tone even.

Anthony snorts. "Not one she's legally required to share, no."

I exhale through my nose. "Fine. Tomorrow, then."

"Yep." A pause. Then— "You good?"

I hesitate.

Am I good?

I was. A minute ago.

Before this call. Before her name came up again, dragging everything back to the surface.

I shake my head, exhaling sharply. "I'm good."

"See you tomorrow then, Crawford."

I hang up without another word, staring at my reflection in the rearview mirror.

Tomorrow. Another fucking meeting.

I grip the steering wheel tighter, rolling my neck before finally throwing the car into drive.

Whatever. It's just business. Nothing more.

At least, that's what I tell myself as I speed out of the parking lot, leaving the stadium, and all the thoughts I refuse to deal with, behind me.

-

The drive home is quiet. The streets blur past me, the city moving at its usual restless pace, but it feels distant, like I'm moving through it on autopilot. My fingers grip the steering wheel a little too tight, my knuckles pale under the streetlights.

Juliet rescheduled.

It doesn't mean anything. Maybe it was a coincidence. Maybe she had something more important come up. Maybe she was just being her usual, calculated, business-driven self.

I shake my head, pushing the thought away as I pull into the driveway of my house. The mansion looms in the dark, its exterior catching the soft glow of the landscape lights.

I kill the engine, exhaling slowly before stepping out.

I make my way inside, the house is still, untouched from when I left. My duffel bag drops to the floor near the stairs as I head straight for my bathroom, already tugging off my hoodie.

The bright lights flicker on as I step inside, casting a harsh glow against the marble.

I reach for my toothbrush, running it under the water before squeezing out the toothpaste. The routine is automatic, muscle memory, the kind of thing I don't have to think about.

And then—I glance down.

Something about the counter makes my brows scrunch. My movements stall. I don't know why. I don't know what, but something feels off.

My grip on the toothbrush tightens.

And then, like a dam breaking— It crashes into me.

The club.

The heat. The weight of Juliet pressed against me. Her mouth. Her hands. Her breath mixing with mine.

The fucking bathroom.

My entire body goes rigid, the toothbrush slipping from my fingers, clattering against the sink.

Oh. My. God.

A sharp, uncontrollable breath punches out of me as the realization slams into my skull.

What the fuck did I do?

My pulse skyrock. The panic grips me tighter, sinking its claws into my ribs, twisting, refusing to let go. My breath is coming too fast, too shallow, and I can't fucking slow it down. My chest feels tight, like there's a weight pressing down on it, something heavy and suffocating and impossible to shake.

I stumble back from the counter, gripping the edge of the sink like it's the only thing keeping me upright. My fingers dig into the cool marble, my knuckles turning white, my pulse hammering so hard I can hear it in my ears.

I kissed Juliet.

I kissed Juliet.

I fucking kissed Juliet.

The words loop in my head, over and over, growing louder, more unbearable, until they're all I can hear.

My hands shake. My vision wavers.

I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing in a breath, but it catches in my throat, gets stuck, like my body is rejecting it.

Breathe, Ellie. Fucking breathe.

I try to ground myself, to grab onto something real, something that isn't this overwhelming, all-consuming wrongness spreading through my chest like wildfire.

But all I can feel is her. The way her body fit against mine. The way she tasted. The way her hands pulled me closer instead of pushing me away.

I gasp sharply, my body jolting like I've been shocked.

This isn't real.

This isn't fucking real.

I squeeze my temples, pressing down so hard it aches, like I can physically shove the memories out of my head.

But I can't.

They're branded into my skull, seared into my fucking bones.

I can't breathe.

I press my back against the cold tile wall, my chest rising and falling too quickly, too erratically.

My lungs aren't working right.

My body isn't listening to me.

Breathe.

I try. I really fucking try.

But every inhale feels like I'm being strangled.

My stomach churns. My legs threaten to give out.

I shouldn't have kissed her.

I shouldn't have kiss her.

I shouldn't have felt the way I did when I did.

I shouldn't have let it happen.

But I did.

I did.

And that's the worst fucking part.

A tremor runs down my spine, the realization hitting me like a truck.

I let out a sharp, broken breath, my body sagging against the wall as nausea rolls through me.

I have a girlfriend.

Bella.

Bella.

My stomach twists violently, guilt slamming into me so hard I almost keel over from it.

Bella, who loves me.

Bella, who trusts me.

Bella, who has no fucking idea what I did last night.

I press a shaking hand over my mouth, my eyes burning, my entire body trembling with the weight of it all.

This is so fucked up.

I can't tell her. I can't.

This was a mistake. One massive, colossal mistake.

And I have to bury it.

I have to shove it down so deep it never fucking sees daylight again.

I have to pretend it never happened.

I drag in a shaky breath, pressing my palm flat against my chest, trying to slow my heart, trying to push through the crushing, suffocating tightness constricting my ribs.

It's just a panic attack.

I've had them before.

I squeeze my eyes shut, focusing on anything other than the weight pressing down on me.

The cold tile against my skin.

The steady hum of the AC.

The distant sound of the city outside.

I clench my fists, pressing them against my forehead, my breaths still sharp and ragged, but slower now. More controlled.

I can fix this. I can make this right. I just need to act like it never happened. Like it was just a drunk mistake. Like it didn't mean anything.

Because it didn't.

It can't.

I inhale deeply, holding the breath in my chest for a few seconds before exhaling slowly.

Again.

Again.

I force my body to relax, force my thoughts to settle.

I repeat it in my head, over and over, until it starts to feel real.

This never happened.

This never happened.