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“Come over tomorrow.”

“I have practice.”

“It’s Tuesday. You forget I know how this works.”

Tuesdays are typically our day off so we can rest, recoup, and have personal time.

“Okay. Text me your address.”

When he says, “Sweet dreams, Hunter,” it sounds like he’s smiling.

“Sweet dreams, Lucas.”

Surprisingly, when we get off the phone, I fall asleep.

*

When Lucas messagedme his address, he also said to come over at nine for breakfast.

He lives in a condo building in West Hollywood. While most of the time it’s easy to blend in in LA, I don’t want to risk being seen going into Lucas’s building, so I wear a baseball cap, low above my eyes, and a simple pair of black track pants and an athletic shirt.

I use the intercom to call up, and Lucas lets me inside. My heart raps against my chest the whole time, as if I’m doing something I shouldn’t. Really, can’t Lucas and I be friends? We’ve been practically family for most of our lives, so why would it matter if I go see him? But something about this feels illicit, like I’m breaking rules or doing something taboo, even though it’s just having someone to talk to.

That’s all this is. Someone to talk to, someone who gets it, gets me.

I take the elevator to his penthouse apartment. My chest is still tight when I step into the hallway, but some of the pressure I’ve carried all morning is starting to dissipate. I knock on the door, and seconds later it opens, Lucas standingthere in a black tank top and gray sweats, his feet bare. He’s wearing a chain necklace and rings, and one arm has a sleeve of tattoos. He had a few when Ellis was still alive, but not this many. Even back then, his parents had complained about them. I’ve never thought much about tattoos—they aren’t really my thing—but they fit Lucas.

“Hey,” I say, and he grins, then rolls his eyes.

“What?”

“Nothing. You just look like you’re trying to hide.”

“Iamtrying to hide.” I step inside, and Lucas closes the door behind me.

“Why? I’ve literally known you since I was thirteen years old. Are we not allowed to be friends?”

He’s only saying what I was thinking moments ago, but still, it makes my stomach tighten and the back of my neck prickle, like I’m subconsciously considering… But I’m not. That can’t be. My head is just all over the fucking place right now. If it weren’t, I wouldn’t be here at all.

“We can be friends,” I say. “I just…don’t want more noise, ya know?” I already have enough, and the loudest will be Coach Blake. He’ll find a reason why it’s wrong for me to be spending time with Lucas, but somehow blame him. I’ve seen enough of Lucas getting blamed for things that aren’t his fault, and I don’t want to be the source of it.

“Yeah, I know,” he says, his tone wistful. “Come in. Make yourself comfortable. I’m cooking.”

As soon as I breathe in, I notice the scents of breakfast foods permeating the air. “You’re cooking?”

“Did you expect me to pull breakfast out of my ass?”

“You know, you don’talwayshave to be such a dick.” I follow him to the kitchen. The living room, dining room, and kitchen space is huge, an open concept with windows along one wall, facing the Hollywood Hills.

“Are you telling me not to be myself? That’s not nice.”

“No. I’m telling you not to always act.”

“Who says I’m acting?” He quirks a brow, which peeks from under the blond hair on his forehead, and for a reason I can’t explain, my pulse skips a beat.

I immediately turn away from him, walking around like I want to explore his home, when really, looking at him is making my body do the kind of shit it shouldn’t be doing when looking at my dead boyfriend’s brother.

I think of Ellis that way most of the time, remind myself he’s gone, which probably shouldn’t be the case after all these years. Or hell, maybe I’m trying to punish myself, to hit the nail in over and over and over again so I can’t forget.