Page 29 of Pieces

“Hudson. What’s up? You look like you’re about to puke.”

“Can I come in?” My voice comes out rough, and he steps aside without another word.

I drop my bag near the door, the sound louder than I intended, and start pacing the length of his room. My hands find their way into my hair, tugging at the strands as if that’ll shake the words loose. Every breath I take seems a little too shallow.

“Fuck fuck fuck. I’ve fucked it. I’m a dead man,” I chant, feet slapping against his floor rhythmically.

“What are you talking about?”

I pause, looking up at him, his eyes are wide. Fuck, I don’t know if I can say it out loud.

“I’m in so much shit, man.”

“What have you done this time?” he asks with a hint of judgement. He has every right to take that tone, because over the last two years, he’s helped me out more times than I can count. He’s saved me at midnight when a girl wouldn’t let me leave her dorm. He’s picked me up from a random girl’s house at dawn. He’s even shown up at a costume party in a borrowed onesie, pretending to be my scorned boyfriend to get me out of a hookup gone wrong. The guy is a best of friend as they come.

But this feels like peak Hudson-level screw-up territory. I need a second to brace myself, to at least pretend I have this under control.

I stop pacing and lean against the wall, rubbing the back of my neck. It’s now or never. One deep breath, Hudson. “So, at the Gracie concert, I met someone.”

He looks at me expectantly. “Yeah, I know.”

Shit, it feels like I can’t breathe. I close my eyes and purse my lips, trying to force the words out, but they’re tripping over themselves on the way. “Well, that someone happens to be... I mean, I didn’t know she was... I didn’t know who she—” I stop, groan, and begin pacing again. My admission is a mess, just like me.

“Hudson,” he interrupts. “Get there faster.”

Right. I guess just rip the band-aid off.

“I slept with Daphne!” I shout, my blood pressure spiking as I fold onto his bed, chest heaving. A moment passes, and when he doesn’t answer, I turn to face him. Did he not hear me?

Jay’s eyebrows knit together. “Daphne? Who’s Daphne?”

Oh right, he has no idea who she is.

I swallow the fear wedged in my throat and squeeze my eyes shut. “Coach’s daughter.”

There’s a beat of silence that’s broken by Jay’s sharp inhale.

“The coach’sdaughter?” he shouts, making me open my eyes again to see he’s stood up from his desk chair.

“Yeah,” I mutter, watching him pull his glasses off and clean them on the edge of his shirt, something he always does when he’s stalling or holding back. He carefully blinks and puts them back on, holding my focus now.

“The coach’s daughter,” he repeats, and I just nod slowly. “Hudson… do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

“Yeah.” My throat is as dry as sandpaper. The knot in my chest feels like it’s doubled in size and is moving into my esophagus, threatening to choke me.

Jay shakes his head, his mouth opening and closing, like he’s searching for the right way to break it to me. Then, finally: “Coach is going to kill you. Like, actual murder.”

“Yeah,” I repeat, the word barely scraping out.

Jay lets out a long, low whistle, leaning back against his desk. “Shit, man. I… I don’t think I can help with this one. Do you know if she’s told him?”

Sitting up, I blow out a harsh breath. “Do you tell your parents when you hook up with someone?”

“Fair point,” he says, rubbing his chin. “But if Coach was normal with you at practice, chances are he doesn’t know.”

“He doesn’t know I know her.”

“What did Daphne say when she saw you?” he asks.

---