Page 118 of That's Too Pucking Bad

“Yeah,” he says. “Don’t make me wait.” He strides off, leaving me standing in the cold hallway.

I don’t go home. I drive aimlessly, ending up parked outside Hollister Hall, Remy’s dorm. Her lights are off. She’s probably out with friends, laughing, forgetting about me. My head pounds, a steady, nauseating throb. I can’t shake the self-loathing coiled in my gut.

By the time I get home, it’s late. The house is dark except for the faint glow under my dad’s office door. I ignore it, headingstraight to my room. My body’s sore, my arm aches from his grip, and my brain won’t shut up.

I lie down, staring at the ceiling. Sleep doesn’t come. My mind replays her at my door, the hurt in her eyes when I sent her away. The fucking lingerie. She was perfect, and I couldn’t let her in because she would see the fucking bruise on my side. The pain– it’s consuming me. Every movement fucking hurts. I slam a fist into the mattress.

I can’t let her see me like this, so I fucked everything up instead.

Morning comes too fast. The headache’s still there, pulsing behind my eyes. I skip breakfast, avoiding my dad and his passive-aggressive remarks. Practice is a blur, just like the day before. No Remy, no texts, nothing.

By evening, the pain in my chest is unbearable. I collapse onto the floor of my bedroom, gripping my knees. My throat burns, and before I can stop it, tears spill over. I’m crying like a fucking loser. Not because we won, not because of my dad or the scouts. Because I might’ve lost her.

And I don’t know if I can get her back.

Chapter 24

I step out of class, eyes glued to the ground, head pounding. Another day, another series of awkward looks and unanswered texts. I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve fucked something up with Zane. But did I? What did I do?

The halls are crowded, people rushing between classes, but I barely in my own body. I’m lost in my own stupid head. Then I bump into someone.

“Remy!” Maya says, grinning. She’s like a ray of fucking sunshine, the exact opposite of how I’m feeling right now. She looks at me, waiting for me to say something.

I force a smile. “Hey, Maya.”

“What’s gotten into you?” she asks, clearly noticing my mood. Her gaze sharpens, like she knows that’s bullshit. “You weren’t at the game last night. Why’d you skip?”

I wince. I knew this was coming. I should’ve gone. But I didn’t want to be a distraction. I didn’t want to be there if Zane didn’t want me there. He didn’t text me. He didn’t respond. He ignored me, so what else was I supposed to do?

“I felt like Zane didn’t want me there,” I mutter, the words tasting sour coming out of my mouth.

Maya looks at me, something flickering in her eyes. “Remy, you know he’s been a mess. It’s not about you.” She pauses, softens. “This next game, though? probably the biggest game of the season.”

I shrug, trying to pretend like it doesn’t matter. “I don’t think he needs distractions right now.” My voice comes out flat, unsure. It’s easier to pretend I don’t care, even if I do.

Maya tilts her head, studying me. “Come support Caleb, then,” she suggests, nudging my arm. “He’ll definitely want you there.”

“Yeah... right,” I reply, though I’m not sure. I want to go, but I also don’t want to face that crushing disappointment again. I don’t want to show up, only for him to pretend like I don’t exist. It’s the worst feeling.

Maya gives me a sympathetic smile. “Just think about it,” she says. “It’ll be good.”

I nod, but inside, I’m still tangled up in confusion. Maya waves me off, heading toward the cafeteria, and I’m left standing there, feeling even worse.

I get to my dorm, throw my bag on my bed, and head straight for the bathroom. I need to clear my head, but it’s like the more I try to shake off my thoughts, the worse they get. I look at myself in the mirror, and all I see is someone who’s been crying, someone who’s been trying to hold it together.

Zane. God, I miss him.

I didn’t realize just how much he’d become a part of my life. He made school bearable. Talking to him, hanging out with him— it was everything. But now none of it matters.

My hand reaches for my phone, like some stupid instinct. Maybe... maybe he texted me. Maybe I missed something.

I open his contact, my heart sinking as I see all the blue bubbles, no replies. He hasn’t responded to a single text, but there’s a part of me, the dumb, hopeful part, that thinks maybe he’ll answer now.

I tap out a quick message.

Remy: Good luck in the game tonight.

It’s simple. It’s safe. Nothing too much. Just... support.

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