[BOOK2]
Friendship built their world. Love will break it open. ❤️
*****
I want her.
I want her more than I've ever wanted anything.
But I can't have her. Because the moment I admit that out loud, the moment I risk everything we've built, I could lo...
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It's been a week since Theo and I got back together, and his suspension. I can tell he's still carrying it like a shadow. He doesn't say it. Doesn't want me to see it. But I know. I see it in the way his smile fades too quick when football comes up, in the way he changes the subject if anyone asks about the appeal.
Right now, I'm at my desk, half-buried in my laptop, trying to piece together a presentation I've been putting off. He's stretched out on my bed behind me, tossing a stress ball against the wall and catching it like it's the easiest thing in the world.
"You've been staring at the same slide for ten minutes," he says, voice lazy.
"I'm thinking," I shoot back without looking.
"You're overthinking." The ball thuds softly against the wall again. "Want me to look at it?"
I swivel just enough to glare at him. "You're not exactly an expert on Freud's theories ."
He smirks. "Maybe not. But I'm an expert on you." He pushes up on his elbows, watching me with that calm confidence that always makes me falter. "You chew on your pen when you're stuck. You've been doing it for the past hour. Which means you're stuck."
I groan, letting my head drop into my hands. "You're annoying."
"You love me." He tosses the ball aside and comes over, leaning against the desk so I have no choice but to look at him. "Show me."
I sigh, sliding the laptop around so he can see the mess of bullet points. He scans it with surprising focus, his brow furrowed.
"Open with this," he says, tapping one line. "It sounds stronger. You always start soft, and then you lose them."
I blink at him. "Since when do you know about presentations?"
Theo shrugs, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Coach used to make us pitch our plays. You think football's just running around, Luna? Half of it's convincing people to trust you."
That makes my chest tighten, because he says it so easily, like the word football doesn't still cut. Like he isn't aching every time he remembers what he's not allowed to do right now.
I look at him, and for a second I see it—the sadness he keeps locked away. The way he masks it for me. I don't call him on it. Not tonight.
Instead, I press, "You sound like my dad."
His brows lift. "Is that a compliment or an insult?"
"Depends on the day." My smile flickers, but the memory pushes through before I can bury it. Dad flying in from Madrid two weeks ago. Forty-eight hours, crammed so tightly it felt like he was running football suicides.
I picture the three of us at the kitchen table, Theo across from him, me caught between them and my Dad's rapid fire questions .
Did you see Jake touch your kit? Who was around you? Did you notice any of your supplies being tampered with?
