[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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I can still hear her voice when I step out of Isla's room.
Thank God for your dirtiness and not tidying your bag for once.
She said it like a joke. Like it was just one of those little quirks she loves to roast me for. But the second I shut her door and head down the hall, the words echo different. Heavy.
Because I'm right and if that bottle's still in my bag—then everything changes.
By the time I get back to my apartment, it's evening and my pulse is hammering. I drop my keys, don't even bother with the lights. My duffel's right where I left it, half under the couch, reeking of turf and sweat and weeks of me ignoring it.
I drag it out and crouch down, fingers fumbling with the zipper. My chest is tight, every part of me braced for disappointment. For it not to be there. For this whole thing to fall apart before it even starts.
But when I shove past crumpled shirts and tangled headphones, I see it.
The bottle.
Still sealed. Peyton's.
My breath leaves in a rush. I grab it like it might vanish if I don't hold on tight enough. My hand shakes, but my gut... my gut's steady.
Fuck. Isla was right.
Peyton. Jake. Both of them.
My stomach twists, rage burning hot under my skin. They set me up. They tried to break me. And for weeks, I thought I was going crazy, thought maybe I'd imagined it all.
But it's here. Proof.
I sink back against the couch, the bottle clutched in my hand, sweat prickling my hairline. My head's spinning with what comes next—Coach, the panel, Isla, my whole future riding on this piece of plastic.
I'm still gripping the damn bottle like it might disappear if I blink. My heart's pounding so hard it hurts.
I could call Mr Brookes. Should call him. But this? This is bigger. This is the kind of thing that can't wait at all.
Before I can second-guess it, I scroll and hit his number.
The line clicks, and I don't even give him time to breathe. I pace the apartment, bottle sweating in my hand, words tumbling out fast and clipped.
When I finish, there's a pause. Long enough that my chest starts to ache.
Finally, Isla's dad exhales. "Good."
Relief slams through me so hard my knees almost buckle. I grip the bottle tighter, heart pounding like I've just scored in overtime.
"Don't open it," he says immediately. "Don't handle it any more than you already have. Put it in a clean bag. Keep it cold." His tone hardens. "I'll arrange for a courier to pick it up tomorrow."
