The Winning Shot

CHAPTER FIVE

XANDER

As I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, I pray for at least a few hours of decent sleep. Just like I do every night. I no longer know who I pray to; I doubt there's someone up there willing to listen, anyway. Because if there is, why would they let me suffer?

I'm not even asking for eight hours, but five would be more than enough. Five hours of peace. Five hours of not seeing his face or hearing his voice. Wishful thinking.

He's constantly there, right next to me, reminding me that no matter what I do, I will never be free. Even though he can't reach me now, I can feel his touch, and it's the worst possible feeling. The physical pain is bearable, but knowing how little power you have over your own body... No words can explain it.

What hurts the most is the fact that he took the most important choice from me, and there's no way I can get it back. I can't erase what he did. I can't erase the memories. I can only lie to myself that I don't care, and maybe one day, I'll believe it.

"But you do care, don't you, Alex?" he whispers into my ear, sending shivers down my spine.

It's not real. It's not real. It's not real. It's not—

"You're mine. Nothing will change that."

I jump out of bed like it's on fire.

There goes my chance of getting any sleep tonight.

I dig my phone from under the pillow and immediately regret it, when the screen lights up, blinding me for a good moment. After a second, the brightness automatically adjusts, allowing me to check the time.

Quarter to four. Could've been worse.

It still gives me quite a lot of time before the sunrise, so I should probably find something to distract myself with until then. And what's better for this job than social media? I mean, their only purpose is scrambling our brains, so it's very much what I need.

I settle down on the couch, hoping I'll stop thinking—or overthinking, should I say—for at least a short moment. Just enough to catch a breath.

After about an hour of passive scrolling—joke's on you if you think I register anything of what I see—I somehow end up on Instagram. BU's official account, may I add. And from there, it's a quick route to our team's profile.

Don't ask me why I'm torturing myself because that's a rabbit hole you definitely want to stay away from.

Their latest post is our game schedule, and even though I have this thing memorized, seeing it here somehow makes everything more...real.

Triggers this whole "Fuck, it's really happening" freak out and all.

I open the comment section, and it's like breaking a dam. I don't think I've realized how many people are looking forward to watching us play. How many people are just as excited as we are, or at least almost as excited. I see every possible hashtag created to support the team, each more creative than the previous one. Even a simple "Show 'em hell, boys!" fills me with unspeakable joy.

But then one username picks my attention. I recognize who it is because it's a last name I know all too well, only the 'o' was replaced with zero.

It's a bad idea, isn't it? A terrible one, even.

And yet I still follow it through.

What welcomes me there is...not even close to what I was expecting. Not that I know what I was expecting.

Barely any of the photos Everly's posted feature him; most of them are of dogs. Shelter dogs if you believe the profile that is tagged in every single post.