Page 27 of Love at Second Down

“They said you were playing poorly all week. They’re worried about the game on Sunday.”

I flinch, hating the way my cheeks heat at the admission. It’s hard enough standing in front of the girl who so callously threw my heart away like she was taking out the trash. But having her get an inside perspective on how I’m failing at the one and only thing I’ve ever been good at really fucking hurts.

Anger rises inside of me like a fine mist, until it swells and grows, pushing on the walls of my chest. I’m a human barometer, ready to burst. “I’ll be fine,” I say, wishing I believed it. “It’s just nerves.”

“I never doubted you.”

I scoff and glance away as I clench my jaw. I don’t know what pisses me off more: the fact that she has the nerve to transfertomyschool, talk tomyfriends, and demandmytime, or her casual display of faith in me.

“Is that why you dumped my ass the way you did?” I grind out. “Because you knew I’d be okay?”

She winces like my words hurt. “No, I . . .” She trails off, her expression stricken. “Damon, there are?”

“Why are you here?” I snap, cutting her off.

I cross my arms over my chest, narrowing my eyes at her in the silence as if sayingI’ll wait.

“I told you. I want to talk. There are so many things I need to say.”

“No.” I shake my head, pointing to the ground. “Not in this room. Here. At this school. Was Harvard not posh enough for you? Did the students there not kiss your ass enough? Please, enlighten me.”

“I get that you’re angry,” she says, her tone tense. “And you have every right to be. I don’t blame you for not wanting to talk to me. After how I left you, maybe I don’t deserve your ear or your time, but?”

“Why. Are. You. Here?”

“Because I want you back!” she shouts.

Her hands clench into fists as I stare at her wide-eyed, shock ricocheting through me like a bullet. Of all the things I expected her to say, this was not one of them.

“I want a second chance,” she breathes. “You want the truth?” Her eyes search mine, and I wonder what she sees there. Shock, pain, anger? “Well, the truth is I’ve been miserable without you. The last two and a half years have been a complete wash, a waste of precious time. Every single day without you, I’ve just been going through the motions, pretending to be happy when really, my every waking thought has been of you. And I know I probably don’t stand even half a chance, but I’m willing to fight for you. I’m willing to do the work, to earn your trust, to win you back.”

Her words wrap around me, squeezing like a vise. Words I craved. Words I dreamed about hearing almost nightly for an entire year before I finally accepted the truth. She was never coming back, and she was happy with the life she built in Cambridge without me.

Had she come to me a month after we broke up?hell, two months, three, or even a year afterward?and pleaded her case, I would’ve forgiven her. No questions asked. With zero hesitation. Because I loved herthatmuch. But it’s been two and a half years without even so much as a word or a phone call. At any point, she could’ve reached out to me, and I would’ve listened. But now, we’re way past the point of no return. Even if forgiveness were an option, a second chance is impossible. I can’t and won’t open my heart again. Not to her, not to anyone.

Suddenly, the air is a little too thin, the room far too small with both of us in it, and I can’t breathe. I can’t fucking think. My thoughts are too preoccupied with trying to make my lungs work.

“Say something,” she whispers in the silence.

My chest heaves, my heart hollow. The gaping hole she left in my life glares back at me like an old wound torn open—raw, exposed, and bleeding all over again.

I open my mouth, but the words catch, tangled in the mess of anger and longing lodged in my throat.

What am I supposed to say? That I still dream about her? That I hate how part of me wants to believe this could somehow be different?

No.

I won’t.

I can’t.

Instead, I swallow hard and force out the only thing I can manage. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“Tell me how you feel.”

A slow bitter laugh tumbles out of me. “Trust me. You don’t want to know how I feel.”

“I always want to know how you feel,” she whispers, and before I even realize what’s happening, she reaches up, softly cupping a hand over my jaw.

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