95 S.P.O.R.T

95 S.P.O.R.T
Date = 12 August
Place = San Francisco (Black Pit)

POV - Enrique

Back in the bedroom, Aria is still on the bed, now sitting up with her legs crossed under the sheet, staring at the phone in her hand.

She looks up when I step through the door, and a soft smile curves her mouth — the kind that always makes my chest tighten, like she’s been waiting for me.

“Did they break in?” she asks, voice light, but her eyes search my face.

“They came. They saw. They interrogated.”

Her laugh bubbles out, quick and warm, chasing away the sting of the earlier chaos. She tilts her head, hair brushing her cheek. “You fed them?”

“Can’t kill them. I’m too pretty for prison.”

She sets her phone aside and pats the spot beside her.

I go. I always go. Always will. The bed sighs under my weight as I sink down, close enough to breathe her in — soap, bread, the faint ghost of her perfume. I offer her half of my sandwich, and she accepts without hesitation, biting into it like it’s communion. She chews slowly, eyes lowered, as if lining up words in her mouth before speaking them.

“I called Noah,” she says after a beat.

I swallow. “Yeah?”

“I asked him to walk me down the aisle.”

My heart stills. Not because I don’t know what to say — but because something deep inside me goes molten and still, like warm wax pooling around a flame.

“And?” I manage, though my voice sounds rougher than I mean it to.

Her lips curve, small and sure. “He said yes.”

Of course he did. There was never a chance he wouldn’t.

“Let me guess — he cried,” I tease, needing the levity like air.

Her laugh slips out again, softer now, threaded with affection. “Only a little.”

“He’d better cry at the altar, too. I want full waterworks.”

“And you? Will you cry?” she asks softly and then bites her bottom lip.

“Unclear. But I will definitely be dangerously turned on. That gown better have an easy exit strategy.”

“You’re frickin crazy.”

“And yours.”

She giggles as I wiggle closer, pulling her against me. “Yes, you are MY Sport,” she whispers teasingly.

I groan. “Please stop calling me that until I know what it stands for.”

“Never.”

“I have theories.”

“You always do.”

“Super Powerful Orgasmic —” I pause to think, “ — Ravishing Tornado?”

“NOPE,” she laughs.

I stare at the ceiling. “Smart Playful Obsessed Reckless Temptation?”

“Oh, my word! No.”

“Romantic Trouble … Smug …”

She wheezes softly. “Those are all very good descriptive words.”

“Okay, fine,” I groan. “What does it stand for?”

“Nope,” she taps my nose with a finger. “First, I want another secret.”

I grunt. “What do you want to know?” Hoping it’s not too deep.

“Your eyes … Mel said there was an accident …” She hits out of the blue, and I’m stumped.

My sister should really learn to keep her mouth shut. My oxygen-deprived brain does a loop. And then a full circle. It’s such a stupid thing, I don’t even know where to begin.

“Listen,” she says, before I can start, sitting up a little. “I know it’s not easy for you to open up —” I blink.

“It’s not about opening up.” I stare at the ceiling. “Some things are just … better buried.” Deep. Like the pit. Like the smell of mold and rot and metal when you’re eight years old and crying silently because Jackson told you not to scream.

The eye accident, however, has nothing to do with Alexander.

“But this isn’t one of those things,” I say anyway. And before I can stop myself, I’m already talking. “It happened during a game of dodgeball.”

“Dodgeball?” She frowns. “How can dodgeball change your eye color?”

I wince. This is the stupid part. “It can when you play it inside the house and your brother misses your face and hits a window and a piece gets in your eye.”

The memory flashes in high-def — Jackson shouting, the ball being thrown way too hard, the sound of glass shattering right next to my face.

And the blood.

Uncle John’s fury. Mel’s worry. Kiara’s panic.

I laugh, but I’m not happy. “Luckily, I didn’t lose my sight. Just most of the blue.”

“Let me guess,” she says, and here it comes — “Jackson threw the ball.”

I feel my jaw twitch. Of course, she’d think that. Everyone always does.

Why Jackson? Everyone always just assumes he’s to blame. When in fact we’ve hurt him more times than he hurt us. Each of us put at least one scar on him. If not more.

Yeah, he’s intense. Dangerous. Broody. And keeping fucking secrets that’s not his to keep.

But he’s also the most loyal person I know. Unselfish. Brave. Strong.

He will sacrifice himself to save you, and you won’t even know.

“No,” I say. “It was Logan. Jackson wouldn’t have missed.” My voice comes out sharper than I meant it to. Aria looks up at me, surprised. Not sure if it’s because of my voice or because Jackson didn’t do it.

“Aria, I can’t force you to like Jackson,” I say, sitting up, “But I wish you would.”

She nods slowly, eyes on her hands like they might have the answers. “The truth is, I love your whole bloody family … including Jackson. How can I not? He’s a part of you.”

That makes my chest ache. In a good, stupid way.

She hesitates. “He just … scares me a little.”

Fair.

“He’s complicated,” she adds. “And it feels like he puts everyone in danger with his unpredictability and anger.”

“It’s as if he’s always exploding. And someday those explosions might blow everyone up. Like a human grenade.”

Also fair.

She hesitates, then blushes. “And I swear he can see into my soul and read my mind. It’s … unnerving.”

I let out a low chuckle. “Yeah, he’s got that creepy psychic exorcist vibe. It’s not an act. It’s just … him. Always has been.”

“And the scary part … most of the time he does know what you’re thinking … sometimes before you even think it. I hate that.”

“You do?” She sounds surprised.

Then she exhales hard. “I guess I’m just scared that one day, Jackson and his crazy ways are going to get another someone I love killed. And I can’t lose anyone else. My quota is full.”

That hits harder than I expected. Makes me feel like I swallowed a nail. I’ve also reached my limit.

I take her hand and kiss her fingers, even though I’m not sure I have the right words for this. But I try anyway.

“I get it. I do. And I know how he looks from the outside. Like he’s chaos in a black hoodie. But baby … Jackson’s chaos usually saves lives, instead of taking them.”

She raises her brows, skeptical. “That’s an awfully poetic way to justify recklessness.”

I nod. “I know. But you have to trust me — he’s not the danger. He’s the net. The guy who dives headfirst into the fire so no one else burns. Always has been.”

She doesn’t look convinced, but she’s listening.

“And I’m going to say something that might piss you off,” I add. “But just … hear me out.”

She gives me a wary side-eye. “That’s always a comforting preface.”

“Since your parents’ accident, you’ve spent your whole life watching from the sidelines. Always looking over your shoulder. Always calculating, thinking five steps ahead — because you had to. You were protecting Leyla. And yourself.”

She stays quiet, but her fingers move slowly over my shoulder, tracing my scar again. I continue.

“You didn’t get to join the party, Batnip. You weren’t allowed to make mistakes. You had to survive. And I respect the hell out of that. But …”

“But?”

“Now? You’ve got your dream. Your house by the sea, the stars, the little sister with the sass of ten lawyers. And me. Somehow.”

She snorts. “You’re the bonus prize?”

“I’m the scratch-and-dent special,” I say, grinning. “But yeah. You pulled me into your dream.”

“I did?”

“Yep.” I kiss her knuckles. “And I’m glad you did. Because I didn’t have one. Not really.”

She goes quiet. I let the silence sit, heavy but soft.

“Jackson and I,” I say finally, “we didn’t get dreams. We got rules we didn’t understand and punishments we didn’t earn. We got thrown into pits. Locked in iron rooms. Starved. Burned. Cut. Screamed at.”

She closes her eyes. Her hand curls over mine.

“We got tortured for existing. So dreaming felt like a setup for more pain. We just grabbed at whatever piece of life we could get our hands on. Whatever spark made us feel something other than fear or rage or numbness.”

“That bad,” she whispers.

“Worse,” I say quietly. “You stop fearing death when life already feels like hell.”

She swallows hard. I hate putting that look on her face. But I want her to understand. I need her to.

“But the point is,” I say, reaching to brush a lock of hair from her face, “— now we’re here. And you’re allowed to live. Not just survive. Not just plan. But live.”

She nods slowly, thoughtfully.

“So should you.”

“Yeah, we should try it. We can live together. Recklessly responsible.”

She narrows her eyes. “That’s not a real thing.”

“It is now. Trademark pending.”

She smirks, but there’s moisture in her eyes. “I guess you’re right …”

“Wait — say that again. Slower. Let me record it.”

She pokes me in the ribs. “But there’s a difference between living and being totally unhinged.”

“Is there, though?” I ask softly.

She shoots me a deadly look. “Yes.”

I hold up my hands. “Fine. Maybe we could do it your way. Live … with a helmet on.”

“Exactly. Pink helmets.” She’s teasing me.

“Oh, pink is a little harsh on my complexion.”

She chuckles through her nose. “Too bad, I was thinking of getting you some matching knee pads.”

“Oh, kinky.” My blood flows South.

“Don’t push it.”

“I’m just saying, I think the balance works, Red. You’re the brakes. I’m the gas.” I move my hand up her thigh. She gasps softly, and I smirk. Knowingly. My future wife can’t resist me.

“And Jackson’s the rocket launcher strapped to the roof?” she asks, her voice husky from wanting.

I snort. “Pretty much.”

She sighs again, that slow, storm-clearing kind of breath. With just a hint of sexual tension. “Okay. I’ll try. To understand him. For you.”

I kiss her forehead. “Thank you.”

“And for me,” she finishes.

That makes me smile.

“But I swear,” she mutters, “if he shows up to our wedding with a grenade or on a motorcycle that’s also on fire …” I shut her up with a soft, hungry little kiss.

“Then he’s just being festive,” I whisper against her lips. “But Mel will give him a stern warning. She’s been on our case since she fell pregnant.” I lift my head to look into her eyes.

“And is it working?” I would like to think so. Damion calmed down a little.

“At least now we think before doing.” She makes a face. Not convinced.

“It’s true,” I insist. “We now check our gear three times before we do a stunt.”

She snorts. “You mean before you do something stupid?”

“Potato, potahto.” My need starts to throb. Hard. Ready.

She rolls her eyes, feeling the hardness pressing against her.

“Let me show you something exciting,” I say, dragging her over me.

“Nope,” she deadpans. But her grin is wicked.

Then her hand disappears under the sheet.

“First,” she says sweetly, “I need to check your gear, Sport.” It reminds me.

“Hey, you promised to tell me …” I complain. She leans forward, and her breath blows in my ear.

“Sexy. Perfect. Obnoxious. Robot. Toyboy.” She says each word slowly. Gruffly. Teasingly.

I gape.

“Initial thoughts from when you first video-called me. And it spelled a word.”

I burst out laughing, full-body shaking. “That’s …”

“Disappointing.” Maybe. But also accurate, I guess. And I like the name.

I kiss her again, but this time it’s slower. Deeper. The kind that tastes like the future. One I now have.

And even with everything swirling around us — death and grief and uncertainty — there’s this unshakable feeling anchoring me down.

We’re still going to be okay.

Even if we cry.

Even if the world never fully heals.

We’re going to find joy anyway.

Together.