Page 111 of Game On
He chuckles lightly, the sound comforting. “Maybe,” he concedes. “But maybe it’s less about fear, more about the acceptance of change. Life doesn’t pause for anyone.”
I exhale heavily, my fingers curling around his a littletighter. He’s right. As much as I want time to stop, to bask in this moment forever, that’s impossible. The world will continue to spin, and we’ll ride along with it—whether we like it or not.
“Takes some of the pressure off, doesn’t it,” I muse, looking at our intertwined hands. “Knowing that no matter what we do, change is inevitable, so we might as well embrace it.”
He smiles. “Okay, Davies, not so sure this level of optimism suits you.”
I move to sit on the mat and smack him on the arm. “You should talk, Mr. Doomsday himself.”
His laugh rumbles in his chest. “I’ve done a bit less catastrophizing lately. In fact, I’ve been letting go of control. I think we both have.”
“We have,” I say, “and it feels good.”
“Being with you always feels good.”
“And fighting with me?”
“Well, that feels a lot like a game. One I can’t ever seem to win.”
I laugh, nudging him with my shoulder. “You’re not meant to win, baby. That’s the whole point.”
“I like that,” he says, “you calling me ‘baby.’”
I gasp. “Did we finally find a nickname that Hudson Fox will tolerate?”
“Just might have. But only if it’s coming from you.”
We’re lying in Hudson’s bed, Sourdough nestled at our feet, purring into the quiet of the night. It’s a rare weekend off,and we’re soaking in the calm before the mounting storm. Daytona is looming—just thirty-eight days away now.
I’ve been talking to Hudson about my life before Oxford. I told him about my dad, and how he grew up working class. How he fought to give us the life we have now, but that he treats me as though he resents me for it.
When he asks about Mum, the conversation circles back to the single fact he already knows. That Louise Davies shares a heart condition with one of his favorite singers. That her tachycardia makes her overtired, overstimulated, and in her very special case, over-irritated to a fault.
I tell him how I used to worry about it all the time when I was younger, checking in on her, terrified that she might die. But that she never really showed any interest in me or my own life, only ever throwing money at me and sending me on my way.
“I don’t think my mum ever really wanted kids in the first place. I was an accident, they told me so. An unexpected surprise. It was easier, I think, for both of them to keep me at a distance rather than acknowledge their responsibilities as parents.”
Hudson’s quiet as he listens, gentle fingers tracing idle patterns on my arm. And somehow, it feels good to open up about it, to share the burden I’ve carried for so long. I don’t usually like dwelling on this stuff. But with him, it feels okay, like I don’t have to keep all of it locked away.
“Private school became my home from a young age, stuffing my time with extracurriculars I was never invested in. I saw my parents so rarely that they became like strangers tome. Inevitably, my mum would end up in the hospital, and they’d act like it was my fault that I wasn’t around. Like I was the one who’d neglected her. They wanted me to pause my life and rush to her side each time. As if it wasn’t them who had sent me off in the first place.”
He just listens, his presence comforting and reassuring. It’s not pity I feel from him—just this unspoken understanding, like he’s letting me feel what I need to feel without needing to fix it.
When the conversation shifts to my time at Oxford, I tell him more about Molly, my loud and fun-loving best friend, whose energy could brighten any day. And Olivia, our bookish roommate, who was constantly buried in a good romance novel.
“There’s this little pub we all used to go to,” I say, picturing it in my head. “The Blackbird. It’s all dark wood and copper. They knew us by name and always played the eighties rock songs that Molly loved on this retro jukebox. We’d spend hours there, laughing and drinking. This one time, Ja—” I cut myself off, biting my bottom lip.
I don’t want to talk about Jamie again, not when I’m here in Hudson’s arms, our bodies tangled together.
“It’s okay,” he mumbles in my hair. “You can talk about your past, El. He’s part of it. I know it doesn’t mean anything.”
So, I do. “Jamie and I would go there a lot with our friends,” I continue. “Once, he got so drunk, he started singing ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ at the top of his lungs and dancing on the table. Almost got us kicked out. It was embarrassing. And so unlike him.”
“He’s not usually a big drinker?”
“I meant the singing part.” I laugh. Jamie did love a pint. “He was always cautious. Worried about the fallout if he stepped too far out of line. But that night, it was like he didn’t care. Despite the embarrassment, it was still one of the best nights we had together.”
Hudson’s body stiffens beneath me. I quickly backtrack, trying to soothe whatever thoughts are racing in his mind. “Don’t worry,” I say, “I’m so glad it’s over between us. Long over, in fact. It’s been eight months.”
