Lola’s POV
“Where the fuck were you!” I screamed the second I slammed the front door behind me. My whole body was shaking—partly from the cold rain soaking me from head to toe, partly from the rage that had been boiling inside me since the cemetery.
Cassian looked up from the kitchen like I had just disturbed his nap, not the fact that he abandoned our parents’ death anniversary.
He was mid-sip, standing barefoot on one of our dining chairs with an energy drink in hand. “What do you mean, where was I?” he said like he was actually confused.
I gawked at him. “Oh my god. You don’t remember?”
He blinked at me. Silent.
“It’s Mom and Dad’s anniversary today. Five fucking years.”
Cassian just shrugged. Shrugged.
“Oh. Oops. I forgot.”
My jaw dropped.
The rain dripping from my hair hit the hardwood floor like tiny knives. My jacket clung to my skin. My nose was red, my hands numb.
And that’s when he had the audacity to say, “You should go get changed before you catch a cold.”
My blood boiled, but it wasn’t even over yet.
A voice floated down from upstairs, sugar-sweet and fake as hell. “Cassian? What’s taking you so long?”
It was Darla.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I hissed. “Why don’t you give a fuck anymore?”
Cassian rolled his eyes and went back to sipping his drink like he wasn’t destroying everything.
I didn’t wait for his answer. I stormed to my room, heart racing.
I peeled off my soaked clothes, towel-dried my hair roughly, and threw on my Gymshark leggings and top like muscle memory. Rain still slammed the windows, but I didn’t care. The only place I could breathe right now was the gym down the street.
Every time Cassian breaks something, I go and fix myself in the gym.
It’s stupid. But it helps.
I tied my sneakers and headed out again.
Cassian’s voice followed behind me. “Where the fuck are you going in this rain?”
I ignored him. Slammed the door. Let the storm eat my silence.
The walk to the gym was brutal. Wind. Mud. My socks were already wet through my shoes, but I kept going.
I needed the burn. I needed to drown the ache with effort.
The gym lights flickered as I walked in, and the warmth hit me like a wave. I looked around. The back-right equipment—the pull-down machine—was finally free. I made a beeline.
I wrapped my hands around the bar, started pulling with all my frustration, when a voice cut through the hum of gym playlists.
“Damn. You’re dripping wet.”
I stopped mid-rep.
Slowly turned my head.
And came face to face with Jace fucking Reyes.
He was leaning against the wall, black hoodie half-zipped, tousled hair slightly damp like he’d just come in from the rain too. His hazel eyes sparkled with amusement, but it was the cocky tilt of his mouth that made my stomach flip—and not in the good way.
Jace Reyes.
Chaos in the shape of a six-foot-two outside hitter. We’ve been rivals since junior year. He plays like he’s reckless, unpredictable. Makes plays that defy logic. He thrives in messes. Lies. Manipulates. Dismantles polished teams like mine just for fun.
We’ve never been on the same side of anything.
And we’ve definitely never exchanged anything other than sarcasm, glares, and occasionally the middle finger behind the ref’s back.
So why was he talking to me?
I just stared, confused, silent. He grinned wider. “A picture would last longer, Sinclair.”
I snapped out of it. “Go away.”
“Not very polite, considering I was about to compliment your form,” he said, walking up to me like we weren’t enemies.
I rolled my eyes. “Don’t pretend we’re friends.”
“I’m not pretending,” he said casually, stepping closer. “I’m interfering.”
He pointed at my grip. “You’re doing that wrong.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You’re using your shoulders too much. You’re supposed to control with your back. Here—”
“Don’t touch me,” I snapped, stepping away. “I don’t need your advice. Especially not from someone who plays like a drunk octopus on game day.”
“Drunk octopus? That’s a new one,” he said, almost impressed.
I felt it then—everything I’d been holding in since Cassian left me standing in front of our parents’ grave.
I dropped the bar, shoved it away like it had insulted me, and hissed, “Please. Get the fuck out of my face.”
Jace didn’t move.
Instead, he tilted his head. “Huh. This doesn’t look like the composed Lola I see on court. Where’d she go?”
The words hit me in the gut. And then… the tears came. My vision blurred. My chest heaved. I hated it. I never cry in public. Never.
“Oh shit,” Jace said quickly, his cocky grin faltering. “Okay, whoa, whoa, Lola—I didn’t mean it like that. I mean… I meant it, but not like that-that.”
I let out a weak laugh, wiping my face. “It’s not you. It’s just… my brother.”
Jace raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms. “Mmm. Please. Tell me more.”