Page 90 of Bitter When He Begs

We start with conditioning—high knees, butt kicks, quick feet, shuffles, then full-out sprints—back and forth across the field with barely any time to breathe between reps. By the time we move on, my legs are on fire, my lungs burning, but I push through it. Because I need this. Because I need to get out of my own head; because I need to hurt somewhere other than my fucking thoughts.

Then it’s tackling drills, the kind that leave you gasping for air if you don’t brace right, the kind that remind you why this sport is as much about brute force as it is about skill. My shoulder slams into the dummy over and over, my muscles screaming, my fingers numb from gripping too hard.

After that, it’s routes, passing drills, and footwork exercises; Coach makes us repeat them until we’re flawless. One mistake, and we start over. One missed catch, and we run another sprint. One misstep, and we do it again.

By the time practice ends, my whole body feels like it’s been fucked up, but at least I’m clear-headed.

At least, for a little while, I wasn’t thinking about Sage, or Nate, or the way people won’t stop whispering about him.

The guys are already filtering out by the time I finish showering, most of them dragging themselves toward the locker room exit, groaning about how they’re going to die. I take my time, toweling off, pulling on my clothes, and rolling out my neck before grabbing my bag and heading out to the parking lot.

—And I freeze.

Sage is standing by my truck; his cheeks are tear-streaked and he’s shaking. Just like that, I fucking die inside. I don’t think or hesitate. I just move straight to him, straight to the broken lookon his face, straight to the way his arms are wrapped tightly around himself like he’s trying to keep himself together.

“Sage,” I say, my voice low, careful, and cautious as I step up to him. “What’s wrong, Sunshine?”

His breath stutters, his chest rising and falling too fast, but I don’t wait for an answer. I just pull him into me, arms locking tight around his smaller frame, holding him close, and he lets me. He lets me press my lips to his hair, lets me murmur soft reassurances, lets me feel the way he slowly starts to breathe with me.

I don’t know what happened. I don’t know what Nate said. I don’t know what’s hurting him. But I do know whoever put that look on his face is going to fucking pay.

And I know I should feel like shit right now. I should be standing here, feeling nothing but guilt because, no matter what happened today, I know it’s my fault.

But I also feel good because, when shit got hard—when he felt like this, when he needed somewhere to go—he came to me.

Not to Nate. Not to anyone else.

Me.

I tighten my grip on him, holding him closer, my chin resting against the top of his head as his hands fist into my hoodie, his breath warm against my chest.

I also want to fix this. I want to fix everything. So I pull back just enough to look at him, my fingers brushing over his jaw, tilting his face up so I can see him. “Tell me,” I murmur, my voice low, steady. “What happened?”

Sage hesitates, eyes flickering away for a second before he sighs and shakes his head. “It’s nothing,” he mutters in a hoarse tone.

I scoff, and tighten my fingers against his chin. “Try again.”

He sucks in a breath, looking away again, but this time, he actually answers. “Nate,” he admits. “He—he’s pissed.”

I fucking figured.

My jaw tightens, irritation simmering low in my gut. “What’d he say?”

Sage swallows, his fingers still gripping my hoodie like he’s grounding himself with the feel of me. “That I’m an idiot. That you’re just messing with me. That I’m going to get hurt, and you’re using me as some sort of redemption arc.”

I hate how much that pisses me off. Fuck, Nate’s not even wrong. Iwascruel to Sage. Ididmess with him. I pushed him away more times than I can count. But that’s not what this is anymore.

I let out a slow breath, reining in my anger. “And what do you think?”

Sage hesitates, chewing on the inside of his cheek before muttering, “I don’t know.”

It’s bullshit, but I don’t call him on it. Instead, I just press my lips to his forehead, letting them linger there for a second before murmuring, “Come home with me.”

He stills against me, his breath hitching. “Luca—”

“Just for tonight,” I say, pulling back to look at him again. “You don’t have to deal with any of this right now. No Nate, no bullshit. Just us.”

Sage hesitates.

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