Page 107 of Don't Say You're Sorry

I smirk.

“Fine,” Frankie says. “What are we having?”

Adam cringes at the soggy pan of spaghetti on the stove. With my help, he throws it away and starts from scratch.

Nate and Xavi set the table while Frankie teases Carter about him telling her he loves her for the first time. He flicks her on the forehead.

A little while later, the six of us sit and have dinner together as a family.

It’s great for the most part. We talk and laugh and poke fun at each other, but I can’t help feeling like something is missing, and I know I’m not the only one.

“It’s okay to miss him,” I say to Adam, low enough that only he can hear me.

He stares at his plate. “I don’t miss him.”

I click my tongue. “That’s the first lie you’ve ever told me.”

CHAPTER 37

ADAM

Easton walks onto the court to the sounds of thousands of cheering fans, and his shoulders immediately loosen. He once told me that being on the court is his second favorite place to be. Similar to what happens to me when he kisses me, when his sneakers touch that court, all his worries go away, and it’s only him, his team, and the game.

He doesn’t know I’m here tonight. I swapped shifts with Micah so I could surprise him, but now I’m thinking maybe I should have told him I was coming. What if he doesn’t want me here? What if having me watch him puts him off his game?

I’ve watched every game he’s ever played, but it’s been a long time since I’ve been to one in person.

I’m sitting in the front row with Xavi and Frankie on one side, and my mum and Michael on the other, wringing my hands together as the people around us scream and stomp their feet in the stands.

Nate looks over here and smiles at Xavi. He says something to Easton, and Easton turns toward us. The grin on his face is so big that all my nerves dissipate.

I grin back, pulling the collar of my hoodie tight against my throat. He thought I’d be working tonight, so he did a number on my neck before he left the house. I didn’t stop him.

A little smirk touches his lips as he gets into position, all the while looking at me. I discreetly look to my right, but our parents aren’t paying us any attention, their heads close as they talk excitedly.

Nate wins the center toss and passes the ball to Carter. Easton runs up the court toward the basket, and Carter passes to him. Just as I think Easton’s about to take a shot, he bounces the ball between two of the away team’s players, right into Nate’s waiting hands. He shoots from behind the three-point line and scores, adding three points to the board within the first seven seconds, breaking their record.

The crowd screams as Easton and Carter do a little dance on the court.

A familiar rush slams into me, and it feels like I’m back in high school again, watching my guy play. My vision tunnels, and I only have eyes for him. There are five Hawthorne boys on that court, all wearing the same black-and-blue uniforms, but all I see is Easton.

Every time he scores, his eyes meet mine, just for a second, and I smile so wide my cheeks hurt.

In my peripheral, my mum and Michael move up a seat, and I grit my teeth as Axel sits next to me.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, grateful our parents can’t hear me over the noise. They don’t know my brother and I are on the outs.

He glances at the boys on the court. “I came for Easton.”

I scoff. Fucking liar.

Easton jogs past us, looking like he wants to say something to me, but he stops himself and smiles tightly at our family before turning away.

Axel holds out his popcorn to me. I ignore him. Fuck him and his stupid peace offerings.

Easton and Carter share a look before getting back to the game.

As the score on the home side of the board creeps up, the fans get louder. There’s a rumor going around that Nate’s going to the NBA next season, so the pressure is on. Everyone wants to see the Hawthorne Hawks win their fourth championship in a row before Nate, Easton, and Carter graduate this year. They’re nearing the end of their last NCAA season. They don’t have a lot of time left on this court, so they’re making every second count.

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