“Fuck,” Logan whispers.
“I’ll tell him,” Garrett says hoarsely.
Dean’s blond head is lowered as he wanders into the kitchen. He’s engrossed with his phone, his fingers tapping out a text message, probably to Allie. He doesn’t notice us at first, but even when he does, I don’t think he’s registering our expressions.
“What’s up?” he asks in an absentminded tone.
When none of us say a word, Dean frowns and puts the phone away. His gaze lands on Logan, and he stiffens when he sees our friend’s tears.
“What’s going on?” he demands.
Logan wipes his eyes.
I press my lips together.
“Seriously, if someone doesn’t tell me what’s going on right this fucking second—”
“Coach called,” Garrett interrupts in a low voice. “He just got off the phone with Patrick Deluca, and, uh…”
Dean looks confused.
Garrett keeps talking, though I wish he wouldn’t. I wish we didn’t have to tell Dean about Beau. I wish we didn’t even know about Beau.
I wish…lots of things. But right now, wishes mean shit.
“I guess Deluca called him because he knows we’re friends with Beau—”
“This is about Maxwell? What about him?”
Logan and I both stare at our hands.
Garrett has more courage than us, because he doesn’t shy away from Dean’s anxious gaze. “He…ah…died.”
Just like that, Dean falls into a trance. It’s painful to watch, and I have no idea how to draw him out of it. Garrett repeats what he told Logan and me, but it’s obvious our teammate isn’t listening. Dean’s green eyes are glazed, his mouth parted slightly as he sucks in uneven breaths.
It’s only when Garrett says that Beau died on impact that Dean blinks himself back to reality. “Can you tell it to me again?” he croaks. “What happened, I mean.”
“Goddamn it, why?”
“Because I need to hear it again.” Dean is adamant.
We watch as he marches to the cupboards and grabs a bottle of whiskey from the top one. He takes a deep swig right out of the bottle before staggering over to sit beside me.
Garrett starts talking again. Christ. I don’t know if I can hear this awful story again. Dean passes me the whiskey and I take a small sip before passing it to Logan. I can’t get wasted right now. I plan on driving tonight.
Once Garrett is finished, Dean pushes his chair back and stands up. He clutches the Jack Daniel’s bottle in both hands like it’s a security blanket. “Going upstairs,” he mumbles.
“Dean—” I start, but our teammate is already gone.
We hear footsteps climbing the stairs. A thump. A door clicking shut.
Silence falls over the kitchen.
“I have to leave,” I mutter to Garrett and Logan, unsteadily rising to my feet.
Neither of them ask me where I’m going.
*
Sabrina
I stare at Tucker, unable to comprehend what he’s saying. When he texted to say he was coming to Boston to see me tonight, I expected a serious discussion about our unplanned pregnancy. I panicked, told him I was studying, and he all but said tough shit. I think his exact message was: I’m coming. We’re talking.
The entire hour I was waiting for him, I gave myself pep talk after pep talk. I ordered myself to put on my big-girl pants and deal with this pregnancy the way I deal with everything else in my life—head on. I reminded myself that Tuck had said I’ve got you, that he’d support whatever I chose to do.
But none of that had succeeded in ridding me of the fear clinging to my throat.
Now the fear is even worse, for a whole other reason.
“Beau is dead?” My heart pounds dangerously fast. I’m scared it’s going to give out on me.
I’m scared of the grief I see in Tucker’s eyes.
“Yes. He’s gone, darlin’.”
I can’t understand it. I can’t. Beau is Briar’s starting quarterback. Beau is my friend. Beau’s dimples always pop out when he’s flashing you a particularly naughty grin. Beau is…
Dead.
A car accident, apparently. His father survived but Beau died.
The tears I’ve been fighting spill over and stream down my cheeks in salty rivulets. I try to breathe between sobs, but it’s hard, and eventually I’m hyperventilating. That’s when Tucker wraps me up in a warm, tight embrace.
“Breathe,” he whispers into my hair.
I try, I really do, but the oxygen isn’t getting in.
“Breathe.” Firmer this time, and his hands are moving up and down my back in comforting sweeps.
I manage to take a breath, and then another, and another, until I’m not feeling quite so dizzy. The tears are still falling, though. And my chest feels like someone sliced it open and is poking it with a hot blade.
“He’s…” I gulp. “…was. He was such a good guy, Tuck.”
“I know.”
“He was good and young and he shouldn’t be dead,” I say fiercely.
“I know.”
“It’s not fair.”