Eli had always been good at containment.
As a kid, it was how he survived being the quiet one. As a teenager, it became discipline. On the field, it made him dangerous.
At home—
it kept him from breaking.
He told himself he didn't love her like that.
For years.
Because loving her like that would mean admitting something complicated.
She wasn't his sister.
Not by blood.
But she had sat at the same dinner table. Shared the same last name. Called the same man Dad.
That mattered.
It should have mattered enough to stop this.
And for a long time, it had.
Until she grew up.
Until she stopped being the girl who hid behind him in grocery stores. Until she started challenging him in class. Until she looked at him like she expected him to understand things no one else could.
It wasn't sudden.
It was slow erosion.
And now—
she had a boyfriend.
He knew about the kiss before she told him.
The team chat had made sure of that.
He hadn't thrown his phone.
Hadn't said anything stupid at practice.
He had just played harder.
Hard enough that Coach pulled him aside afterward.
"You're not at war," Coach said. "It's a game."
Eli nodded.
But it didn't feel like a game.
Because Liam wasn't just a teammate now.
He was the guy who got to stand close to her. Touch her. Say things Eli had swallowed for years.
That part wasn't supposed to hurt.
But it did.
When Liam came over for dinner, Eli stayed quiet on purpose.
He watched.
Measured.
Liam was polite.
Respectful.
Said the right things.
But Eli noticed what others didn't.
How Liam talked about winning more than loving the sport. How he glanced at Eli during certain answers — not hostile, but competitive. How when Mr. Callahan asked about intentions, Liam's shoulders squared slightly.
Claiming.
That's what it was.
Claiming.
And Eli hated how instinctively territorial that made him feel.
Because he had no right.
Later that night, lying in bed, he stared at the ceiling.
He replayed the kitchen moment.
The kiss.
It hadn't been dramatic.
Just normal.
That somehow made it worse.
If Liam had been reckless, careless, arrogant — it would've been easier.
But he wasn't.
He was decent.
And that made Eli's jealousy feel ugly.
Unjustified.
He rolled onto his side, staring at the wall between their rooms.
He could hear faint movement from her side.
A drawer closing. Footsteps.
He wondered if she was thinking about Liam.
The thought lodged somewhere sharp.
He pressed his hand over his chest like he could physically hold the feeling down.
You don't get to ruin this, he told himself.
You don't get to risk her safety.
This house had given her stability. A father. A mother. A life.
If he said something— If he crossed that line—
What if she pulled away? What if she felt betrayed? What if Mr. Callahan looked at him differently?
The idea of disappointing his father felt almost worse than losing her.
Almost.
The next day at practice, Liam jogged up beside him.
"Hey," Liam said casually. "Dinner was nice. Your parents are solid."
Eli nodded. "They are."
"You good with… all of it?"
There it was.
Not confrontational.
Just checking territory.
Eli kept his gaze forward.
"She makes her own choices."
Liam studied him for a second.
Then nodded slowly.
"Yeah."
But neither of them sped up.
Neither of them fell back.
They ran shoulder to shoulder.
Even.
Matched.
Waiting.
That evening, Nora sat at the kitchen counter doing homework.
Eli grabbed a glass of water.
She looked up at him.
Soft.
Open.
The way she always looked at him when it was just them.
"You're quiet," she said.
"I'm always quiet."
"That's not true."
He almost smiled.
Almost.
"You okay?" she asked.
The concern in her voice nearly undid him.
Because she cared.
She just didn't know why he needed her to.
"I'm fine," he said.
And he meant—
I love you. And I won't ruin this. And I don't know how to stop feeling it.
But what came out was:
"Practice was long."
She nodded.
Accepted it.
Trusted him.
And that trust made the silence heavier.
Eli loved her.
Not in a reckless way.
Not in a selfish way.
In a way that wanted her safe. Wanted her happy. Even if that happiness wasn't with him.
That was the problem.
He would choose her comfort over his confession every time.
And unless something forced his hand—
he would keep choosing it.