Page 114 of Just Say Yes

I felt like two versions of myself were at war.

One was stuck in the past, chained to all the ways I’d been made to feel small and not enough.

The other? The other felt free. Brave, even.

And that unknown version terrified me.

The bookstore was quiet by the time I left, most of the women lingering inside to finish the last of the wine. I wrapped my coat tighter around me, the crisp night air biting at my cheeks as I made my way to my car.

When I pulled into my driveway, I spotted him immediately.

Trent was sitting on the porch steps, his head down, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket.

My stomach twisted, freezing me in place.

He looked up when he heard my car door shut, his expression carefully crafted—apologetic, wounded.

Calculated.

“MJ,” he said, standing slowly, his voice soft and full of practiced regret. “Please. I just want to talk. Can we do that?”

I didn’t move, my heart pounding.

The confidence I’d felt earlier, laughing with the Bluebirds, was on shaky footing.

Trent took a small step forward, his hands raised in mock surrender. “I mean it. No games. No lies. Just ... let me explain.”

I swallowed hard, my feet rooted to the ground as his words curled around me, suffocating. I stared at him as the porch light cast shadows across Trent’s face, and the weight of his presence pressed down on me like a storm cloud.

The air seemed to thicken as I stepped closer, my hands tightening around my car keys. The porch light buzzed faintly, casting his shadow long and angular across the wooden steps.

“MJ,” Trent said again, his voice low and honeyed, the kind of tone he used when he wanted to win me over.

My stomach twisted, my pulse thundering in my ears.

“What are you doing here, Trent?” My voice came out steadier than I felt, each word a deliberate push against the panic clawing at my chest.

THIRTY

LOGAN

It feltlike forever since I’d seen MJ—long days of extra drills, strategy meetings, and barely catching my breath as we prepped for the away game.

Sleepless nights where I’d told myself to focus, to keep my head in the game. But every time I closed my eyes, she was there—messy hair, soft smile, looking at me like I was someone worth trusting.

The snap of the ball, the rush of cleats against turf, the rhythmic hum of breath and muscle—practice felt electric today. Every pass, every run, every play connected like clockwork.

I hadn’t felt this smooth in years.

“Nice work, Brown! Nice work!” Coach’s voice and claps cut through the cool morning air as I broke through the defense and touched the ball down across the try line. Adrenaline thrummed through my veins.

I jogged to the huddle, my teammates slapping my back, shouting encouragement. The easy camaraderie felt natural, the way it always had when I was locked in like this.

But today was different.

Since I’d met MJ, something had changed.

At first I chalked it up to superstition—a string of good games that started when she showed up, her laugh cutting through the noise in my head, her smile steadying me in ways I couldn’t explain.

---