It's almost ten, and even though I should be studying for my organic chemistry test tomorrow, I let Luke and Micah convince me to join their NBA2K tournament. We're three games deep, and somehow, I've won every one so far. I have no fucking clue how, especially since I haven't played in a while, but since I've beat Luke nearly every game, and his puffed-up ego can't seem to wrap his head around that, he's been bitching the entire time. Apparently, it's only because he "gave me the good controller"—the one that hasn't been brutally disfigured from him and Micah slamming it down like assholes every time they lose a game—which, to be fair, is probably true. But regardless of how it's happening, it's really pissing him off.

"What the fuck?" He stands up from the couch as my player steals the ball from his, as if standing is somehow going to give him an advantage. "This game is fucking glitching! Did you see that shit?"

I honestly have no clue how this is happening. Luke should be beating my ass right now since this is all he and Micah seem to do when they're not in class, at practice, or getting fucked up at a party. He's usually impossible to beat, and I'm more shocked than he is that I'm winning.

"Right in his fucking mouth." I laugh, watching the replay of my player dunking a nasty one in his player's face. Micah leans over and slaps my outstretched hand, and we both watch as Luke stares in disbelief at the screen. It's pretty clear from that play that his controller was glitching, but when I glance back at Micah's damn near giddy smile, I know we agree that we're not going to admit it.

"That's—no, fuck that—no. This is fucking bullshit." He flings his controller down into the couch, and we all watch as it bounces high off the cushion and hits the floor with an incriminating crack. I glare at him as he rubs his hands through his hair roughly because that's now the third controller he's broken.

"Whatever. I'll buy a new fucking controller," he snaps.

"Don't blame the controller, bro. You just fucking suck," Micah calls, tossing another chip into his mouth. Luke flips him off before disappearing into the kitchen, where the sound of a beer top popping off and hitting the counter echoes through the living room.

Micah grins at me, the kind of smile reserved for rare, fleeting moments like this when Luke McConnell finally isn't the one rubbing his 2K wins in our faces.

"I want a rematch," he calls out as he rounds the corner into the living room. I toss the controller to Micah and get up, stretching my arms above my head to get those three cracks from between my shoulders. My legs still fucking burn from the three miles coach made me run during our morning workout yesterday for my stadium jumping.

It was still worth it.

"I'm tapping out for the night, boys. Abby should be here soon." I glance down at my phone, hoping to see something from her, but aside from the usual stream of texts in our team group chat, there's nothing new from the one person I actually want to talk to right now. I was supposed to get a FaceTime from her two hours ago after she got out of dinner with her mom, but instead, I got a text—I can't talk, but I'll see you soon.

I have a feeling dinner didn't go well, so I already raided the pantry for some candy, threw my hoodie in the dryer to keep it warm, and have Love Island waiting for us on the TV in my room. I was expecting it, though. Most people don't look like they're about to death march straight into war before they have dinner with their mom, but that's exactly what Abby looked like—like she was preparing herself for the worst.

Before leaving for dinner, she was dressed like she was going for a job interview and paced the house like she'd explode if she weren't constantly moving. I could tell it was just nerves because when I tugged her down into my lap and buried my face into her neck, pulling her close, she finally relaxed, even if it was just for those five minutes.

I can't imagine being that anxious to see my family, especially not my mom, but I guess that explains why she's always so excited to come with me whenever I have to stop by my parents' house, even just for a few minutes.

Luke makes a whipping sound as I walk into the kitchen, but I ignore their laughs because I know they don't get it. Hell, I didn't get it until a few weeks ago. I was so focused on my one-and-done mindset that I didn't even know what I was missing. But after a week of being with Abby, I can't imagine going back to that—to before.

I have someone to text all day, which I honestly thought would be annoying, but every time I look at my phone and see a text from her, I smile like a fucking idiot because I know it's either going to be a corny joke she just thought of, a meme she saw online, or her saying how much she misses me after only being away from me for a few hours. It's also pretty game-changing to have someone there when shit goes wrong. I never thought it would feel so good to have someone to call up and complain about my organic chemistry professor or Coach when he's in an extra pissed-off mood, but she just lets me rant until I'm not even mad anymore, and then she says some cheesy inspirational quote that makes me laugh. Somehow, I always end up at her apartment by the end of the phone call, knocking on her front door and grinning down at her as she answers with her phone still pressed to her ear. And the sex—God, the sex. The sex is fucking incredible. I mean, I could go on and on about it, but when I think about my favorite parts of Abby, the sex doesn't even make the top three—hell, the top ten—because every other part of her is that fucking amazing.

I grab two water bottles from the refrigerator, and when the three soft knocks from the front door sound, Luke makes another whipping sound. I flip him off as I walk past, and when I pull open the door, it takes me a second to register Abby's puffy face and swollen eyes.

"What's wrong?" I take a step toward her and reach out for her hand, but she brings it up to her mouth and shakes her head as the tears well. They start to spill over as her shoulders shake in a silent cry.

Her eyes flick to my two roommates on the couch, and when I glance over at them, they're both looking away at nothing in particular, but they're suspiciously quiet as they try to listen in.

"Can we go to your room?" The raspy croak of her voice makes me wince because it's the voice of someone who's been crying for a while.

I nod, stepping back to let her inside. When I follow her through the living room, both Micah and Luke turn to the black screen of the TV, pretending like they don't know what's going on. Abby doesn't look over at them, she just walks through the living room toward the hall, and when she pushes open my bedroom door, her shoulders fall when she notices Love Island on the TV and the pack of candy on her nightstand.

"Abs," I say softly, tossing the two water bottles onto the bed before reaching for her, but she takes a step back from me and pulls her arms across her chest in a sort of hug. That's when I realize she's still crying so hard that her entire body is shaking.

"Abby, please." I take another step toward her, but she shakes her head and takes a step back, and I swear to God, my chest feels like it's going to break open.

"I—I can't hug you, because if I hug you, all the resolve I've managed to find in the past two hours that I've been driving will dissolve, and I—I just can't, I just—" Her voice breaks into a soft sob and she closes her eyes as she takes a deep breath. When she opens her eyes again, she nods slowly, as if she's mentally giving herself a pep talk. Her eyes are focused on the USW logo printed on the front of my hoodie when she speaks again.

"I just realized how careless I've been, how stupid I've been, and I'm so sorry that I didn't realize this before . . . before we got this far." Her voice cracks again, and when another sob slips through her lips, she brings her hands up to cover her face.

I shake my head, dumbfounded as I push my glasses further up the bridge of my nose. The knot in my throat is growing, but when I take a hesitant step forward, she pulls her hands away from her face, and I know she doesn't want me to touch her. The realization is like a slap to the fucking face because, from the day that I met her, she's never looked at me like that.

"Is this about the condoms? Because I know it was stupid, but I went to the store today, and we could get that Plan B pill if you're worried—"

"It's not about that." She shakes her head, bringing her hand up to wipe her nose on the sleeve of her coat. Her mascara has already started to run, and the sight pulls me back to the other night in the field.

"We can't be together anymore, Tristan."

The words stab straight through my chest, and I don't know how long it's been since I've been able to inhale air, but I'm starting to feel light-headed. She doesn't even give me a chance to try to answer, though, because she's already going again, speaking so quickly I can hardly keep up.

"I need to focus on myself and my career, and I can't be with someone who I wrote an article on. It's unprofessional. It's disreputable. It makes me look like I sleep with everyone I interview. And I can't have that kind of a reputation going into grad school; I've worked too hard to get to this point and—"

"We're not just sleeping together, Abby. You're my girlfriend," I interrupt, but she just keeps going, like I didn't say anything at all.

"I need to be realistic about this. I mean, you're going to get drafted in a few months, and you're going to get a ton of media attention, and they're going to dig, really, really dig into your life because that's what they always do. And there will be no hiding this—" She motions between us. "—And if I'm being honest, I don't want to have to hide my relationship. I want to be able to get married and have babies, and not worry about whether or not people will put the pieces together, and have my whole career fall apart because of one stupid fucking article."

I've never actually heard her curse before and it catches me a little off guard, but she doesn't miss a beat. "But I can't go my whole life waiting for the other shoe to drop, Tristan. I can't wonder when it'll get out or what people will think of me when it does."

My brows pull together because I'm confused as fuck. Marriage? Babies? Articles? I can't keep up. But I can't even try to unpack all of that because I can't focus past the fact that she's saying all of this because she's leaving me.

She's leaving.

"You're leaving me because of the article." My voice breaks, and I bite down so hard on the inside of my cheek I can taste blood, but it's that or cry, and that's not going to fucking happen.

She's silent for a long time, and I realize it's because she's crying again. She turns away from me, and when the strangled cry echoes through my room, I swear my chest cracks wide open. When she finally turns around again, she wipes the tears from her face.

Fuck. Even now, right in the middle of Abby fucking dumping me, all I want to do is reach out and pull her to me, to wrap my arms around her and hold her until she stops crying.

"I'm so sorry," she croaks while taking in a shaky breath. "But it's better now than in a few months when we're in too deep, right?"

I'm surprised when a harsh laugh bubbles out of my chest, and her eyes widen as she looks up at me.

"It's a little late for that, don't you think, Abs?" My voice is hoarse, and she winces at my words.

I don't think I could be any deeper than I am now. I'm in deep, as deep as you can be, too fucking deep, and I don't know if I'll ever find my way out.

"I'm so sorry."

I'm sorry—the famous last words.

I'm paralyzed as she walks past me, and when my bedroom door closes, the knife in my chest turns until every part of me feels like it's on fire. Like I'm burning from the inside out.

I pull open my bedroom door, stopping at the end of the hall to see Micah and Luke staring at me wide-eyed on the couch. And I know that they just heard it all because they're both on their feet already, moving quickly as if the wound tearing open my chest is somehow visible.

Micah runs into the kitchen, reappearing with a bottle of rum. His voice is clipped as he uncaps the bottle and passes it to me. "Tell James to get home now. We're getting shit-faced tonight."

Luke pulls his phone out, but I don't bother trying to catch what he's saying to James because all I can seem to hear are her words echoing over and over and over in my mind.

We can't be together.

We can't be together.

We can't be together.

I'm sorry.

I take the bottle from Micah, bring it to my lips, and fucking chug.