Page 90 of Triple Play
I sit in the locker room for twenty minutes, staring at my locker nameplate like it’s going to tell me what to do.
WILDER.
Mason’s was right next to mine through high school. We played together from the time we could hold sticks. He was better than me—faster, more instinctive, the one scouts watched at games. I was the grinder, the one who worked twice as hard for half the talent.
Then he died and I got his spot. His future. His life.
And I’ve been trying to earn it ever since, punishing myself for surviving when he didn’t, keeping everyone at arm’s length because wanting things feels like a betrayal of the brother who can’t want anything anymore.
But Mason wouldn’t want this. Wouldn’t want me skating until I puke because I’m too scared to fight for what I actually want.
He’d tell me to stop being a chickenshit and go after her.
The thought sits in my chest, heavy and true.
I shower. Change. Drive home in the pitch black stillness of night.
I sit in my car in the driveway for fifteen minutes, engine off, staring at the house.
She’s in there. Probably still in Jordie’s bed, wrapped up in both of them, exactly where she wants to be.
I lost her. It’s my fault. I deserve this.
But.
The word hangs there. Small but significant.
But I can’t let her go without telling her the truth. Can’t let her think I don’t want her when wanting her has been the only thing keeping me sane for two years.
I might be too late. Probably am too late. She’s got two guys who worship her, who don’t come with my baggage and guilt and emotional wreckage.
But I have to try. Have to tell her about Mason and the guilt and the fear that wanting anything means it’ll be taken away. Have to let her decide with all the information instead of just my cowardice.
Even if she chooses them. Even if telling her changes nothing. At least she’ll know.
At least I’ll have fought for her once instead of just running.
I get out of the car. Walk toward the house with purpose I haven’t felt in months.
The front door is unlocked. The house is quiet in that early morning way, everything still and waiting.
I take the stairs slowly, my heart hammering against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.
Jordie’s door is closed. I stand outside it for a long moment, listening. Nothing. They’re asleep.
I should wait. Should let them rest. Should plan what I’m going to say instead of barging in exhausted and desperate.
But I’ve wasted two years on should. On doing the safe thing. On protecting myself instead of risking anything real.
I knock. Three times. Loud enough to wake them but not aggressive.
Movement inside. Muffled voices. Then footsteps.
The door opens and Jordie’s standing there in sweatpants, hair fucked up, eyes still heavy with sleep. He looks at me and his expression shifts from confused to guarded in half a second.
“Grant.” His voice is careful. “It’s four in the morning.”
“I know.”
