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I groaned and dragged the pillow over my face like it might actually shut the world out if I pressed hard enough. Outside, a lone dog barked somewhere down the street, causing Ollie to shift against my leg, warm weight pressing closer like he was anchoring himself to me, while my mind drifted back to her.

I knew Evie had a crush on me growing up. I think everyone did—she wasn’t very subtle. Which was adorable. But I’d admit, it wasn’t until I was seventeen that I started to see her the same way. I thought she was cute when we were younger, but as I got older, she became something else in my eyes. I hid my feelings for years, thinking I’d lose Peter, and essentially the only family I had if I acted on them. But then Robert died and it put everything into perspective. She needed me more than ever, and I didn't want to hold back anymore.

So, I didn't.

Evie was many things, but it was her heart that made me fall in love with her. Or maybe it was the way she laughed, like it surprised her every time it came out. Or the way she sang under her breath when she did the dishes, like no one else was supposed to hear it. Or the small birthmark above her lip that I used to pretend I didn’t notice, but somehow always ended up staring at anyway. Her infatuation with old films, the way she’d talk about places she wanted to go like she’d already been there in her head, the way she’d stand too close to me when she was cold and I’d act like I couldn't tell, the way she felt in my arms, how soft her lips were. How she supported me without making it feel like effort. Like it was just…natural. Like I didn’t have to earn it.

But mostly…it was the way she looked at me.

Like I’d hung the moon and the stars without even realising I’d done it. Like I mattered more than I had any right to. Like she trusted me. My throat tightened before I even noticed. I pressed the pillow even harder over my face. It didn’t help. It never fucking did. Time moves slowly when you're in pain. The days flew past, months turned to years, but the grief of losing someone like Evie was forever. The crater in my heart was eternal.

After an hour with no sleep in sight, I sat up, swung my legs out of bed, and ran a hand through my hair before I picked my phone up off the bedside table and called the one number I shouldn't. “Jackson?” Andrew’s voice cut through heavy bass and laughter in the background. I closed my eyes for half a second. I’d regret this in the morning, but I needed noise that wasn’t my own thoughts.

“Are you still at the Brook?”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

JACKSON

December 17th, 1992

Oversized black-and-white photos of the team lined the concrete corridors of LJC Stadium. Frozen moments of celebration stared down at me as I walked under them. Dark sunglasses sat on my face, not because of the hangover everyone will assume, but because I didn’t sleep at all. Again.

Last night had been a mistake. I sat in an empty booth for hours, trying to drown out my thoughts with my drink untouched and sweating on the table while a live band played. Now I was back in the stadium, pretending I belonged in my own skin. As I passed the empty trophy cabinet in the hallway, a staff member adjusted the lighting inside of it, a spotlight aimed like it was already expecting something to sit there.

Once again—no pressure.

I pushed through the locker room doors and dropped my bag onto the bench, wincing when the sound echoed too loudly into the space.

“Captain!” Andrew called out immediately with his guernsey slung over his shoulder. “Where’d you disappear to last night? Vikki was asking for you.”

Elliot laughed from the next locker down, tugging on his kit. “Mate, you missed out. She was asking for you all night.”

“Not interested anymore, boys,” I replied casually, sliding my sunglasses off and placing them carefully into my locker before I pulled my shirt off in one clean motion. I stared at my reflection in the mirror inside the locker door. Tattoos adorned every inch of my body—well, everything covered except my chest.

Evelyn sat there—delicate, cursive lettering resting over my heart.

The only ink that held meaning on my skin. I remember walking into the tattoo parlour, a teary-eyed twenty-two-year-old who missed his soulmate to the point of exhaustion. The pain of the needle seemed to numb my mind, a temporary relief that became addictive. I'd gone back the next day and never stopped.

I grabbed my guernsey from the hanger and tugged it on. Red, blue, and gold prison bars streaked across my torso, the usual feeling of pride absent today. This time of year always did it. December first would hit the calendar and just like that, all I could remember was the countless hours spent searching bushland, the cadaver dogs barking in the distance, sweat in my eyes while strangers I had never seen before combed through places that already felt like they were swallowing me whole.

The search parties were the worst. I never wanted to find Evie, and it would make me sick with guilt. I remember going home after those searches and I’d just sit on the floor, convinced I was going to wake up and it would all make sense again. But I never did, and it never did.

“You alright, mate?”

The bench dipped as Bailey Dew sat down beside me. I flashed him a real smile as he nudged me with his shoulder. He lost his older brother to The Skinner, who was also taken in December, when Bailey was just fifteen years old. I recognised his last name when he joined the team a few years ago and asked him one day after practice if his brother was murdered. We spent the next two hours sharing our experiences and grief. He was the only one who knew about Evie, the only one who could tell when I was struggling.

“Not really,” I admitted, tightening my laces.

“Me neither, mate. It’s been a shit month,” he said with a huff as he bent down to thread his laces. “Saw that ad for that interview again. The one with that woman claiming she escaped him?” He scoffed with a shake of his head. “Still don’t know how people watch that stuff and think it’s entertainment.”

“Yeah,” I muttered. “Maybe if they lost a loved one⁠—”

“Are you guys talking about The Skinner?”

We both glanced up at the question, seeing Archer Hale standing near his locker, grinning like he was walking into a conversation about weather instead of murder. Fuck sake. The number one draft pick is too comfortable for his own good. “Mind your business, Hale,” I said with a smirk that probably looked as fake as it felt.

“What? I’m just saying. He’s kind of cool, isn’t he? The way he removes the flesh, right? I mean, what do you reckon he does with it? Maybe he⁠—”