Page 26 of My Freshman Mate
Oh god. No. No, please, no.
"Violation of athlete conduct code." He pauses, and I can picture him running a hand through his hair, his shoulders slumped. "Yes, sir. I know it jeopardizes everything."
I curl into a tight ball under the covers, pure, cold panic seizing me. This is my fault. All of it. Because I didn’t listen. Because Wes had to come save me from Nash. Because he protected me.
"I'll be there. Nine a.m. sharp." Another heavy silence. "Thank you, Coach."
The apartment goes quiet. I hold my breath, listening for a footstep, a sigh, anything. But there’s nothing. Just the crushing weight of what I’ve done hanging in the air, thick and suffocating.
Wes is going to lose his scholarship. His NFL prospects. His entire future. Everything he’s spent his life working for, sweating for, bleeding for—it’s all about to go up in smoke. And I’m the one who lit the match.
This is all your fault.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but it’s no use. The tears leak out anyway, hot and shameful, soaking the pillowcase under my head. My chest feels tight, like a band is constricting around my lungs, making it impossible to get a full breath.
The bedroom door creaks open. I quickly scrub at my wet face with the back of my hand, turning my head away, pretending to be asleep. The bed dips as Wes slides in beside me, his warmth a stark contrast to the ice in my veins. His arm wraps around my waist, pulling me back against his solid chest. His lips press against the back of my neck, a soft, reverent touch right over his claiming mark. He's so tender, so protective that I feel fresh tears building up, and I have to bite my lip to keep a sob from escaping.
"I know you're awake," he murmurs, his breath a warm puff against my skin.
I can’t answer. If I try to speak, the dam will break, and I’ll fall apart completely.
"It's going to be okay," he says, and the lie is so painfully obvious I want to scream. It’s not okay. I’ve destroyed him.
"Get some sleep, little mate. Tomorrow's a new day."
But it’s not a new day. It’s just another tick of the clock, one day closer to Friday. One day closer to the end of his world.
I lie awake for hours, long after his breathing deepens into the steady rhythm of sleep. My mind won’t shut up, spinning through every possibility, every way this could go wrong. There has to be a way out. There has to be a way to fix this.
Then, a thought crystallizes in the chaos. A cold, hard, logical solution. I’m the problem. I’m the variable that threw the whole equation off. If I remove myself, the system can reset.
If I’m gone, this all becomes a simple alpha territory contest. Wes can say it was a misunderstanding, that he overreacted. With no omega to fight over, the whole thing loses its meaning. The board might still punish him, but maybe not as badly. Maybe they’ll see it as just a rivalry boiling over.
It’s the only way. It has to be.
***
The apartment is deathly quiet when I finally force myself to move. Wes’s side of the bed is empty, the sheets already cold. I see the note on his pillow.
Early practice. Back by 11. Love you.
I read those last two words and feel like someone’s twisting a knife in my gut.
I glance at the clock. 8:30. I have two and a half hours to erase myself from his life.
My hands shake as I yank my suitcase from under the bed. Not like yesterday when I folded everything perfectly. Now I'm just grabbing whatever I can reach, stuffing clothes into the bag, notcaring if they wrinkle or tear. My vision blurs with tears, making the room swim around me.
This is the right thing to do. The only thing. You have to save him.
I catch my reflection in the closet mirror—a pale, hollow-eyed ghost. My gaze snags on the claiming mark, a dark, angry red against my skin. A permanent brand. I press my fingers to it, feeling the raised edges, the proof that I belonged to someone. That I was loved. That I'm throwing away the only real thing I've ever had.
Past tense,I tell myself fiercely.It has to be past tense now.
I grab my things from the bathroom, my laptop from the desk. My five-year plan is still taped to the wall, a monument to a life that no longer exists. I leave it. That Braiden is gone.
I find a pen and scribble a note, my handwriting a spidery, uneven mess.
This is the only way to fix it. I'm sorry. Don't let me ruin your future.
