Page 16 of Never Enough

The sun glares down on the field, coating everything in a harsh, unyielding light. Heat radiates off the turf, and my muscles burn with exhaustion as I push through another drill. The weight of my decision about Celeste hangs over me like a shadow, but I shove it aside, focusing on the rhythm of the game, the precise movements that don’t require the turmoil of emotions.

“Whitmore! Heads up!” Coach’s voice cuts through the sound of grunts and clashing gear.

I catch the spiraling football with practiced ease, tucking it under my arm and dodging an oncoming tackle. Adrenaline pumps through my veins, a brief respite from my brewing storm of thoughts. But then, there’s Celeste, her cheer uniform hugging herperfect curves, blonde hair tied up with a ribbon that matches the school colors. She’s the flawless image of a Whitmore University cheerleader, and her eyes are all for me.

“Looking good out there, Alex!” Her voice carries over the sound of colliding bodies.

Every break, my soon-to-be ex is there, brushing her fingers against my arm, offering me water with a stroke of her hand against mine. They’re touches that once sent sparks but now conjure static. My gaze slips away, scanning the stands, half-hoping to see Daphne’s silhouette, but I don’t.

I’m snapped to the present when Coach bellows, “Alex, come on! Focus!”

“Sorry, Coach,” I mutter, jogging into position.

Practice drags on, and Celeste’s presence is relentless. She’s a force of nature, all smiles and flirtatious laughter, every move calculated for maximum effect. Under different circumstances, maybe I’d play the role of the adoring boyfriend. But not anymore. As sweat trickles down my spine, I realize how much of a show our entire relationship has been—a performance put on for the sake of appearances.

Finally, the whistle blows, signaling the end of practice. Bodies slump in relief, but there’s no rest for me. Not yet.

Celeste springs up from her spot on the sidelines, her movements fluid as she makes her way towards me.

“Great job today, babe,” she breathes, looping her arms around my neck, her kisses seeking mine.

“Thanks,” I say, gently extricating myself from her grasp. “I need to cool down.”

But she’s persistent, following me towards the locker room with a sultry sway to her hips. When I pause to open the door, her lips graze my ear. “I can help with that. How about I support you in relaxing with your cock in my mouth?”

Said cock twitches.

I steal a glance at her, taking in the desire in her eyes. It’s either for me or for the thrill of being wanted. I want to tell her it’s over, right here, right now, but Victoria’s words echo in my mind.“Don’t do it in public. It’ll embarrass her. And avoid giving her false hope.”

“I’m quite sore today. I need some time alone.”

Disappointment flickers across her face, quickly masked by a pout. “Fine,” she huffs, tossing her hair. “Your loss.”

As she flounces away, my teammates chuckle.

“Turning down a quickie with Celeste? You feeling okay, Whitmore?” one of them teases.

I shrug, forcing a laugh, though inside I’m screaming about how I’m finished playing the star player with the cheerleader girlfriend.

“Maybe he’s holding out for hotter pussy,” another chimes in, and the locker room erupts in laughter.

I shake my head, trying to mask the truth in that jest. Images of Daphne’s soulful eyes and the haunting melody of her music seep into my consciousness.

“All for her,” I whisper to myself as I step into the shower, letting the hot water cascade over me, washing away the sweat and the performance, if only for a moment.

Chapter seven

Alex

Itap the steering wheel with my fingers to the restless rhythm of my unsettled chest. The leather feels cool and smooth under my skin, but it does nothing to ease my bubbling anxiety. It reminds of the annoying hum of a broken refrigerator that you can’t fix or unplug.

And it’s getting louder.

I’m not suicidal—haven’t been for a while now—but the depression? Some days, I can ignore it by shoving it into a corner of my mind where it barely whispers.

But today, it’s screaming.

The thing about mental illness is, it doesn’t care who I am or what I have. It simply claws its way through, gripping tighter until it exhausts me enough to snap my control over the haze. Breathing is exhausting, and it hurts to be alive.

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