Chapter 91 Luke

Chapter 91 Luke
Luke

⛸️

My body moves before my brain catches up.

I don't grab the gear.

I don't think.

I just turn and walk—fast—away from the Escalade, away from the trunk, away from the driveway like distance can undo what just happened.

"Luke—wait!"

Mercedes' voice cuts through the night behind me.

Brianna's right after it.

"Luke!"

I don't stop.

I can't.

My heart's already hammering too loud in my ears, too sharp, too real.

I reach the front door in seconds.

Fumble the handle.

Inside.

Shut.

Lock.

The click feels louder than it should.

Like a seal going into place.

Like something closing that shouldn't have opened.

I stand there for a second, back against the door, breathing too hard, too fast.

Then I move.

Curtains.

I pull them down just enough to cover the glass.

Not enough to be obvious.

Just enough to disappear.

Outside—

I catch movement.

The Kia is still there.

Headlights dim.

Mercedes and Brianna are out now.

Standing by the car.

Talking fast.

Gesturing.

Looking at the house.

Looking at each other.

My stomach tightens.

"Luke?"

Bev's voice floats from the bathroom down the hall.

Casual.

Warm.

Normal.

"Did you make it in okay?"

I force my voice steady.

"Yeah," I call back. "I'm good."

Too steady.

Almost too calm.

But it works.

I run a hand through my hair, trying to reset my face, my breathing, my everything.

Through the gap in the curtain—

Mercedes looks up at the house one more time.

Brianna says something to her.

Short.

Final.

Then they both get back in the Kia.

The doors shut.

Engine starts.

And slowly—

They leave.

I don't move until the taillights disappear completely down the road.

Only then do I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding.

My chest feels tight.

Not from running.

From everything stacked on top of each other.

The bar.

The ID.

Bev.

Mercedes.

That look on her face.

I don't tell Bev.

Not yet.

Not this.

I can handle it.

I have to handle it all by myself. 

The bathroom door opens.

Water runs.

Then shuts off.

Bev steps into the hallway drying her hands like nothing in the world has gone wrong tonight.

Like everything is exactly where it's supposed to be.

She walks into the living room and sees me.

And immediately—

her expression softens.

She crosses the room and pulls me into a hug.

Warm.

Confident.

Grounding in a way that feels practiced now.

"I'm proud of you," she says into my shoulder.

I don't answer right away.

Just stand there in it.

"I'm going to keep in contact with the scout," she continues, pulling back slightly so she can look at me. "We stay consistent, we stay locked in."

A small smile.

"You're going to get drafted, Luke. I'm telling you."

My mouth moves before I fully decide the words.

"Yeah..."

She nods like that's all she needs.

Like everything is still perfectly on track.

And I stand there nodding back—

while something in the back of my mind keeps replaying a black Kia rolling past me in the driveway...

and a face I can't unsee.

⛸️

The hot tub water should've felt relaxing.

It doesn't.

It just feels too warm against my skin, like I can't tell where my thoughts end and the silence begins.

The night is quieter out here, tucked behind her house. Steam rising into the dark. The distant hum of the city barely reaching us.

Bev sits close beside me like she always does—too close to think clearly, close enough that everything feels intentional. The sex earlier had been intense, like always, but left me feeling hollowed out rather than satisfied.

We talk at first like normal.

Game stuff. The scout. The season.

Like everything is still simple.

Like everything is still just hockey.

Then she says it.

Like it's nothing.

Like she's suggesting dinner.

"I think we should get married."

I blink.

Once.

Twice.

My brain doesn't even process it fast enough to react properly.

"...Wait, what?"

She tilts her head slightly, calm.

"Yes," she says. "Wouldn't that be lovely?"

My stomach drops.

Not panic.

Not anger.

Just... confusion trying to find footing.

"Uh..." I let out a short breath. "That's like... way too soon. And fast."

I shake my head slightly.

"I don't want to do that anytime soon."

There's a pause.

Not loud.

But heavy.

I add, more carefully now, trying to keep it steady:

"I already told you I'm not thinking about marriage right now."

Her expression tightens—not exploding, not emotional—just sharpening in a way I've never seen before.

Controlled.

Measuring.

"Luke," she says quietly.

And something about my name sounds different in her mouth right now.

"I've been building your future," she continues. "Every step. Every decision. Every opportunity."

She studies me.

Like she's recalculating.

"And you're telling me you want to slow it down."

The pressure builds in my chest. The stress of the season, the draft looming, now this.

"I've already told you," I snap, voice rising. "I'm not ready for marriage. Why are you pushing this?"

Before I can react, her hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around my throat. Not hard enough to cut off air completely, but enough to make my eyes widen in shock.

"You will never raise your voice at me again," she says, her voice dangerously calm. "Do you understand?"

Her grip tightens slightly.

"I can end your reputation at any minute. Cancel any chances of that NHL draft spot you want so badly."

She holds me there for another moment, steam rising between us as I struggle to breathe properly.

Then she lets go.

"Do you understand?" she asks again.

I nod automatically, hand rubbing my throat where her fingers were.

Even though my chest still feels tight.

Even though something inside me feels completely broken.

"Good," she says quietly. "Because your draft future is right there. Don't lose sight of it."

And I sit there in the hot water—

smiling slightly on the outside...

while everything inside me feels like it's shattering into pieces.

⛸️

The house is quiet in a way that feels too clean.

Too controlled.

Like everything outside of it got shut off on purpose.

We shower separately.

Nothing about it feels weird on the surface—just routine, just after a game, just normal.

But my thoughts don't stay still long enough to settle into anything normal.

They keep looping.

Mercedes' face in the Kia.

Brianna's eyes widening.

Mitch's voice earlier in the locker room.

She has a fake name thing going on...

Then the hot tub.

The shift in her voice.

The way the air changed when I said no.

And underneath all of it—

that lockbox.

Something I tried brushing off. Something I never asked enough questions about.

Something I told myself didn't matter.

I get dressed for bed in silence.

Every movement feels automatic.

Like I'm watching myself instead of being inside it.

Get drafted.

That thought keeps repeating.

Like a lifeline.

Like a plan.

If I just make it there—

If I just survive until then—

I can step away from her. 

Reset everything.

That's what I tell myself.

Over and over.

Bev comes back into the bedroom wearing something soft, hair slightly damp, relaxed like nothing in the world is wrong.

Like the hot tub conversation didn't happen.

Like anything outside this room isn't even real.

She climbs into bed first.

Patting the space beside her like it's expected.

I hesitate for half a second.

Then I lie down.

The mattress dips as she shifts closer.

Her arm slides over me naturally, like it always does.

Familiar.

Practiced.

Comforting in a way that feels automatic instead of chosen.

We cuddle.

Her head rests against my chest.

My arm wraps around her.

The room is dark except for the faint glow from outside streetlights slipping through the curtains.

And I lie there staring at the ceiling.

Listening to her breathing.

Trying to steady mine.

Because my mind won't stop running through it:

Mercedes saying you're not safe.

Mitch talking about a fake name.

Bev's calm voice in the hot tub saying I've built your future.

The way she said it like it wasn't just a suggestion.

Like it was already decided.

I swallow quietly.

Adjust my grip slightly around her without thinking.

I tell myself again:

Just until the draft.

Just until you're out.

Just until you can walk away clean.

But even as I think it—

something in me doesn't fully believe how simple I'm trying to make it.

The darkness in the room feels different now.

Not peaceful.

Not restful.

Like it's hiding things.

Bev's breathing eventually steadies beside me, deep and even. She's asleep.

I lie there for what feels like hours, counting her breaths, waiting for something to shift inside me.

For the panic to settle.

For the plan to feel real again.

Just until the draft.

Just until you're out.

But the words ring hollow now.

My feet touch the floor before I've fully decided to move.

Silent.

Careful.

The house is still too clean, too controlled, but now it feels like a stage set for something I don't understand.

I move through the hallway like a ghost.

Past the living room where we sat just hours ago.

Toward the room where I saw it that one time—the lockbox on the top shelf of her closet.

My hands shake slightly as I reach for a different one. 

The lock clicks open.

Soft in the quiet house.

Inside: a laptop.

A small SIM card in a plastic case.

Nothing else.

I sink to the floor, the white carpet cool against my bare legs.

The laptop feels heavy in my hands.

Like it holds more than just circuits and screens.

The SIM card slides in with a soft click.

The screen lights up.

Files.

Videos.

Names I recognize from the other box. 

And then I see her.

Bev.

With them.

Doing things I can't process.

Things that make my stomach turn.

Things that make the air in my lungs feel thick and wrong.

I slam the laptop shut.

The sound echoes in the small room.

Too loud.

No no no no no. 

The panic hits hard and fast.

Chest tightening.

Vision tunneling.

I can't breathe.

She lied to me?

Has she been taking advantage of me too?

I'm just another boy.

Another victim.

Nothing special.

What the fuck?

I yank the SIM card out, fingers fumbling, heart pounding against my ribs like it's trying to escape.

Standing up too fast, the room spins.

I have to get out.

Have to get back to bed.

Have to pretend I never saw.

I close the closet door as quietly as I can.

Turn toward the bedroom.

And freeze.

Beverly stands there in the hallway.

Silhouetted in the dim light.

Not angry.

Not surprised.

Just watching.

"What were you doing?" she asks. Voice calm. Too calm.

My throat is dry. "Do you really love me?"

She tilts her head slightly. "Yes, of course, Luke."

"Or are you lying?" My voice cracks. "Am I just another victim? You disgusting piece of shit."

She laughs.

Not a big laugh.

Small and sharp.

Like glass breaking.

"You're not a victim," she says, stepping closer. "But you will be if you don't listen to me. Forget all of this and just go to sleep."

"No."

The word hangs between us.

Small.

But solid.

"Excuse me?" Her voice changes. The warmth vanishes completely.

"Your life will be over," I say, finding strength I didn't know I had. "All I have to do is run my mouth to law enforcement. Everything you've done to me. To those boys."

For the first time, I see it.

Panic.

Real panic flashing in her eyes before she masks it.

"And you'll never be drafted," she shoots back, voice low and dangerous. "Not without me. I'll make sure of it. They'll find out about your little temper. Your 'attitude problems.' How unstable you are. No team will touch you."

We stand there in the dark hallway.

Two people holding each other's futures hostage.

And I realize with sickening clarity:

She's right.

She could ruin me.

But I could destroy her.

The question is:

Who blinks first?