Page 13 of Slots & Sticks
“When?” My voice scrapes out, hoarse from disuse.
“In the restaurant. She shouldn’t have seen that footage. I’ve seen plenty of bad shit in combat and flying Life Flight, and that one… It’s going to stay with me. To find out that way? In public.” She exhales, sagging into the chair. “I’m glad you were there. You’re a really good friend, Cam.”
I nod like it means something. Like being a good friend will keep her breathing through this.
But what I want is to be her safe place, not just her steady one.
“Yeah.” I swallow hard and chase the word with the last of my coffee. It tastes like burnt water.
She has no idea how bitter it sounds in my mouth.
Because Dot’s not just my friend. She never has been. She’s the girl I measure every other heartbeat against.
And sitting here, watching her world collapse while I can’t even touch her hand—it’s killing me. My hands ache to hold hers. To touch her knee, her back, her hair—anything. But I don’t get to do that. Not yet. Not unless she reaches first.
If I let myself move an inch closer, I’d give everything away.
If I spoke, the truth would crawl right out of my throat.
So I sit still.
I stare at the door she disappeared through and imagine every terrible thing she’s about to see on the other side. I want to take it for her—trade places, carry it.
I can’t.
All I can do is keep her purse by my feet and wait until she comes back.
It’s not enough.
But it’s what I’ve got to give her tonight.
* * *
Coach is still in the burn unit five days later during the funeral.
“They should have pushed this back,” Viktor gripes from one corner of the event. “He should be able to attend. Delilah was hiswife.”
Knova disagrees. “Dot said that he’ll be in the hospital for weeks, if not longer. Putting this off will make it harder on everyone. Besides, you think the first thing Ranger will want to do after he gets out of the hospital is attend a funeral?”
Argument-loving Viktor is the kind of guy who will die on every hill, so I think we’re all a little surprised when he nods. “Fair. Funerals are supposed to be for the families, though. If it were my mom—”
Knova lifts a hand to cut him off. “Sweetheart, you know I love you, but don’t you dare try to make Dot’s loss aboutyou.”
“Besides,” I cut in, “look at all this press. Does itlooklike this event is about the family?”
The Mona Lisa’s ballroom feels too small for the kind of grief packed inside it. Cameras flash from the mezzanine, white bursts bouncing off the crystal chandeliers. Outside, a sea of fans crowds the barricades—homemade signs, candles, people sobbing into each other’s shoulders while reporters shove microphones in their faces.
Delilah Shaw wasn’t just famous. She wasbeloved.
You can hear it in the way her fans chant her lyrics through the glass, like a prayer they’re refusing to stop saying.
Inside, it’s flowers on flowers—an entire wall drowned in lilies and orchids, their scent thick enough to taste. Dante handled most of the arrangements, but gifts keep arriving anyway: guitars, letters, framed photos from fans who never met her but swear she saved them.
And in the middle of all of it stands Dot.
She’s wearing black, but the kind that doesn’t try to be dramatic—simple, sleeveless, waves of thick chestnut hair trailing down her back. Every person who passes touches her arm, whispers condolences, then drifts away again, leaving her stranded in the noise.
I should go to her. Every cell in my body tells me to. But my chest locks up with the same thought on repeat:don’t make this about you.
