Chapter 172

Noah

It was supposed to be a big day. The kind of day you spend your whole life imagining—stadium lights, television coverage, crowds chanting, the kind of excitement that makes you feel untouchable. The Wolves were going to Houston for the championship, and everyone in town acted like the sun itself had risen just to watch us leave. Voices echoed in the hallways, people were already outside in jerseys and face paint—good grief—and the whole damn dorm buzzed with nervous joy, pride, adrenaline, and belief.

Everyone was alive with it.

Everyone except me.

I felt like I was moving in someone else’s body, like my bones were packed with sand. I got up because I had to. I washed my face because I had to. I packed my duffel because I had to. It was all mechanical—just motions repeating in a loop. There was no excitement. No fear. No thrill. Just a hollow space where my chest should have been.

We were leaving soon—maybe in an hour, maybe less. I could hear teammates talking, laughing, shouting down the hall. The playlist someone always blasted before big games was already rattling through the vents. People were knocking on doors, organizing carpools to the send-off rally. Our buses probably already park outside campus.

Meanwhile, I sat quietly, tying my shoes like I had to remind my fingers what to do.

Houston waited. William would be there. Lexie would be riding the cheerleader bus. Reporters. Cameras. Scouts. Alumni. My mother and sister, supposedly being “taken care of” would be watching. And, if the universe hated me enough, my father might be watching too—somewhere in the crowd, or somewhere on his couch, or somewhere with a bottle in his hand.

And Aiden.

I was going to see Aiden.

I didn’t know how I was supposed to walk onto that field and pretend I was fine. I didn’t know how to stand near him without reaching for him. I didn’t know how to play a championship game while my heart felt like someone had driven a truck over it and kept going.

But I had to. For the team. For the season. For his reputation. For something that had once meant everything to me.

The spark was gone. The dream was gone. The part of me that believed in tomorrow was gone. But I was still here, and for today, that had to be enough.

I was pulling my sweatshirt over my head when I heard the knock at the door.

It was quiet—not rushed, not frantic, not impatient. Just deliberate.

I stood there for a second, staring at the wood, breathing like the air didn’t want to go all the way in. I didn’t know who I wanted it to be. I didn’t know who I could handle it being. I only knew that ignoring it wasn’t an option.

So I walked to the door.

Nothing in the world could have prepared me for who was standing on the other side.

Micah.

He looked smaller than I remembered from that night. Not physically — just… diminished. Like someone had taken something from him too. But the shock hit before anything else. My chest tightened. My vision blurred for a second. My hand went numb on the doorknob.

Of all the people I could have imagined today—he was the last.

“Hey,” he said, voice soft, cautious. “I’m Micah.”

I stared at him, frozen for a beat too long, then it snapped.

“I know who you are.” My voice came out flat, dead, like it had been scraped raw. “What the hell are you doing here?”

He swallowed. “I need to talk to you.”

I didn’t even think. I just started to close the door.

Micah’s hand shot out—not forceful, not aggressive, just there—stopping the wood before it latched.

“No. No, listen—” His voice cracked. “You can kick me out, you can yell at me, you can hit me if you want. I get it. I do. But please—just… let me say what I came to say first.”

I could feel my pulse hammering in my jaw. Every part of me screamed to slam the door anyway. To shut him out. To shut the whole memory out. To shut out the image of Aiden in that bed that still made my stomach turn and my chest cave in.

But there was also rage-fueled curiosity—the need to know what the hell he thought he could possibly offer now.

I let out a slow, sharp exhale.

“Fine.” My grip tightened. “Say what you need to say. Then get the fuck out.”

Micah stepped inside only enough that the door could close behind him. He didn’t try to move closer. He held himself like someone standing near a wild animal—aware one wrong gesture could get him torn apart.

“What you saw the other night,” he began, voice steady but not confident, “it wasn’t what you think it was.”

I laughed. A broken, ugly sound.

“Oh my God.” I shook my head. “Did he send you? Seriously? Did he send you here to—what? To smooth it over? To make me feel stupid? To remind me I wasn’t enough? Or is this just you, trying to make yourself feel better about crawling into his bed?”

Micah flinched hard. Real pain—not guilt-performance—flickered across his face.

“He didn’t send me,” Micah said quietly. “He doesn’t even know I’m here.”

I didn’t move. I didn’t blink. I just stared.

Micah took a breath, steadying himself. “Look… Aiden and I don’t have anything. Not now. Maybe we never did. I love him—yeah. I always have. I won’t pretend that isn’t true.” He met my eyes, not flinching from the shame of it. “But he never loved me the way I wanted him to. And he never loved me the way he loves you.”

My jaw tightened. My throat felt like it was closing, but I didn’t say anything.

“I know you want to hate me,” he said. “I wanted to hate you too. But what you two have? It’s different. I thought what he and I had was everything—but he kept parts of himself walled off from me. He doesn’t do that with you.”

I let out a short, bitter breath. “No, he just cheats on me with you.”

“No,” Micah said. “I was the one in his bed that night. Not him with me. Me with him.”

My hands curled into fists.

“He didn’t ask me to come in,” Micah continued. “He sent me to the guest room. I was the one who went to him. I was drunk and stupid and selfish and I—” his voice cracked for the first time “—I crawled into his bed.”

I stared at him, the room tilting.

“And when you saw us…” he forced himself to finish, “you saw me. Not him. He was asleep, Noah. He didn’t know. The only reason he didn’t push me away is because he thought he was dreaming about you.”

My heart lurched and dropped, like missing a step on a staircase in the dark.

“That’s exactly what he said to me,” I managed, voice gravel. “You expect me to just believe that?”

Micah didn’t look away. Not once.

“No,” he said. “I don’t expect anything. I didn’t come here to convince you. I came here because he’s broken. And so are you. And I’m not going to be the reason either of you stays that way.”

Something stung behind my eyes. I blinked it back hard.

“You think I can’t see it?” Micah said, softer now. “You look like hell. He looks worse. I don’t know what the fuck happened between you two before I ever showed up, but whatever it was—it was real. And I stepped right into it like an idiot and lit a match.”

I exhaled shakily, anger and grief folding into each other.

“He loves you, Noah,” Micah said. “He’s willing to lose everything for you. His job. His career. His life here. Everything. I know that, because I watched him fall apart over you.”

My voice came out low, raw. “And if I don’t want to go back?”

Micah gave the smallest, saddest smile I’ve ever seen.

“Then that’s your choice. And it’ll be real. And you’ll move on. And so will he, eventually.”

I wouldn’t.

“But you don’t get to let go because of me.”

I felt the silence.

Thick.

Heavy.

Breathing on its own.

“Just… let him talk to you,” Micah finished. “You don’t have to take him back. Just don’t end it on a lie neither of you deserve.”

And just like that, I was alive again.