Page 88 of The Backup

“This has been a lot of fun,” I start, my words careful and deliberate. “But I don’t think I can go deeper right now.”

There’s a pause, and I can hear the shift in his breathing. “You can’t…go deeper.”

My chest tightens, and for a second, I almost backpedal. But then I remember his words, the casual way he’d said them, and I force myself to stay firm.

“It’s all just happened so fast, Sloane. I need some time.”

“So…you want to end…whatever this is? I mean, was…”

“Yeah,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “I think I do.”

Another pause. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, steadier. “Okay. If that’s what you want.”

“It is,” I lie, gripping the phone tighter.

“Alright,” he says, and I can hear the faint smile in his tone, though it doesn’t sound real. “Take care of yourself, Sloane.”

“You too,” I reply, hanging up before I can second-guess myself.

As I set the phone down, my chest feels heavy, the weight of my own decision pressing down on me.

Because even though I know it’s the right thing to do…it doesn’t feel right at all.

twenty-eight

. . .

Asher

The stadium is packed,a sea of noise and movement as the crowd roars for the home team. I’m on the field, helmet in hand, adrenaline pumping, but my focus feels like it’s stuck in second gear.

Coach’s voice barks in my ear through the headset. “Knox, focus. This team’s beatable, but we’re not handing it to them. Got it?”

“Got it, Coach,” I reply, even though my heart’s not in it.

I step into the huddle, rattling off the next play like I’ve done a thousand times before. The guys nod, their eyes sharp and determined. Everyone’s locked in. Everyone except me.

As I line up behind center, I let my gaze sweep the stands. It’s subtle, just a quick scan under the pretense of taking in the atmosphere, but I know what I’m really looking for.

Or who.

I don’t see her.

The ball snaps, and I force myself to focus, scanning the defense and finding my target. The pass leaves my hand clean, but it’s a split-second too late, and the cornerback cuts in front, snagging the interception and sprinting down the sideline.

The crowd erupts—not in cheers, but in groans.

“Damn it, Knox!” Coach’s voice blares in my headset as I jog back to the sideline, yanking my helmet off.

“Sorry, Coach,” I mutter, wiping sweat from my forehead.

“Sorry doesn’t cut it,” he snaps. “Get your head in the game!”

I nod, but his words barely register. My mind keeps drifting back to Sloane, the empty space in the stands where I thought she’d be.

The rest of the game feels like a blur. I make a few decent plays, but nothing spectacular. Every time I drop back to pass, the weight in my chest gets heavier, and by the time the final whistle blows, the scoreboard tells the story.

We lost.

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