Chapter 14
Nick doesn’t know what to think.
It’s weird, being back.
Coming home—or what used to be home, or what was supposed to be home, or what never really felt like home in the first place.
He hasn’t been here in almost a year.
He hasn’t let himself.
And now, standing in his mum’s doorway, bag slung over his shoulder, body aching from the game, it feels… off.
Familiar and unfamiliar at the same time, like he’s stepped into a past version of himself, like if he stays too long, he’ll turn into that kid again—the one who pulled his hair to keep from screaming, who swallowed down his father’s words like poison before and after the divorce, who did what was expected of him without question.
The air smells the same—lavender and something sweet.
His mum’s perfume.
The soft scent of old furniture. The faintest trace of dog shampoo. It almost knocks him sideways, this sudden, visceral familiarity, and fuck, he’s tired of crying.
Then—Nellie.
She barrels into him, tail whipping in excitement, paws scrabbling at his jeans. And right beside her, Henry—a little bigger than when he last saw him, but still his Henry, his gangly, excitable shadow.
Nick barely has time to brace himself before they’re both on him, Nellie’s tongue lapping at his hands, Henry biting at his shoelaces like an overexcited puppy.
He pulls at his hair to keep the emotion at bay, but it’s useless.
His throat tightens, his eyes burn, and all he can do is kneel, press his face into Nellie’s fur, let Henry climb into his lap.
"Missed you too, girl," he whispers, voice wrecked, ruined.
He drops his bag without thinking, lets himself sink into the moment. The warmth. The familiarity.
His mum’s voice floats in from the doorway.
"Do you want anything, love?"
Nick blinks up at her, and God, he missed her too.
The softness in her smile, the way she doesn’t push, doesn’t demand anything from him, doesn’t ask why he looks like he’s barely holding himself together.
For a second, he considers asking for a drink—something strong, something to drown out the noise in his head.
But that doesn’t feel right.
Not here.
Not with her.
He shrugs, voice quiet.
"Just tea, please."
Sarah nods, disappearing into the kitchen.
Nick lets out a breath. Feels Henry gnawing on his shoelaces. Hears Nellie’s tail thumping against the floor.
And he wonders—when was the last time he let himself laugh?
His mum’s voice filters through the doorway. “Nicky, love, don’t teach Henry it’s okay to lick dirt, now,”. There’s warmth in her voice, but her eyes soften when they land on him, lingering like she’s assessing him, trying to figure out what’s wrong.
(And Nick knows she can tell something is wrong. He’s always been terrible at hiding things from her.)
Henry bites at Nick’s shoelace again, tugging lightly, and Nick lets out a breath of laughter, scooping him up and scratching under his chin.
He missed this. More than he realized.
The soft domesticity of it.
The warmth of his mum’s voice.
The quiet hum of a house that actually feels like home.
He follows after Sarah, watching her move around the kitchen like second nature. The tea kettle hisses softly, and his mug—the one with the big N on it, the one he hasn’t used in far too long—is already set out, waiting for him.
He chuckles under his breath when Henry licks at his cheek, nuzzling against his neck. He lets his mum’s voice wrap around him, familiar and grounding as she says, “Why don’t you go wash up in the shower, sweetheart?"
Nick doesn’t argue. Doesn’t want to.
The water scalds, but Nick doesn’t move.
He stands beneath the stream, head bowed, muscles sore, steam curling around him in thick, heavy clouds.
It burns down his spine, scalds his shoulders, but he doesn’t move.
Doesn’t lift his arm from where it’s braced against the wall.
Doesn’t turn the heat down.
Doesn’t stop thinking.
Because he’s bruised—fuck, he’s bruised.
And why does that feel like a relief?
Why does it feel like proof of something?
Proof that he exists, that he did something, that he’s still here?
He lets his gaze drop, watching the water swirl at his feet, mud and sweat and blood washing down the drain in spirals, washing away the game, the bus ride, the exhaustion, the ache in his muscles that feels earned.
It doesn’t wash away Charlie.
His voice.
His laugh.
His eyeliner.
His hands on Nick’s collar, pulling him in.
His lips—soft, warm, inviting.
Nick slams his eyes shut.
No, no, no. Stop thinking. Stop feeling.
This is not the place to wank off in the shower. Not in his mother’s house.
He groans, pressing his forehead to the tile, tugging hard at his hair until the thoughts fade, until the heat feels unbearable, until his breath evens out and his hands stop shaking.
Then he forces himself to move.
Shampoo.Soap.Rinse.Breathe.Forget.
He kills the water.
Drags a towel over his face, his hair, his chest—eyes flickering up to the mirror before he can stop himself.
And fuck, he looks wrecked.
His face looks different here. Tired. Older, somehow.
He doesn’t want to think about it.
He throws on a pair of sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt, tugging on rubber ducky socks (because of course his mum still has them folded in his drawer) before heading downstairs.
Sarah is already sitting at the dining table, tea in hand, and another mug waiting in front of the empty chair. She looks up at him and smiles, small and warm and knowing, like she’s been waiting for him.
Nick exhales and sits down at the empty chair, fingers wrapping around the warmth of the mug, letting the steam curl into his face.
He exhales softly, allowing himself to just be for a second, before Nellie pads over and rests her head on his knee. He smiles despite himself, running his fingers gently through her fur as she lets out a small huff, pressing closer.
He takes a sip of his tea before glancing up and meeting his mum’s eyes. Soft. Concerned. Loving.
Nick sighs, already knowing what’s coming. He sets his mug down with a quiet clink. “I know you want to ask,” he mutters, rubbing at the back of his neck. “So ask.”
His mum doesn’t hesitate. “Nick, what’s going on?” she asks, voice gentle but firm in the way only a mother’s could be. “Panic attacks, texting me out of nowhere, telling me you’re scared. Sweetheart, I need to know what’s going on so I can help.”
Nick closes his eyes for a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose.
This was a mistake.
He should’ve just kept everything bottled up like always, let it fester, let it rot, let it chew at him from the inside until he found another distraction.
Rugby. Workouts. Late-night gym shifts. Something.
Instead, he texted his mum like he was a kid again. Like she could just hug the bad feelings away.
“I’m fine,” he mumbles. “It’s nothing, Mum.”
Sarah exhales, setting her own mug down, fingers curling around the handle like she’s keeping herself grounded. “Please don’t lie to me, Nick,” she says softly. “You know I hate when you lie.”
Nick groans, tilting his head back, eyes squeezing shut. “I’m just—” He stops, presses his lips together. Runs a hand through his hair, tugs at it once before he catches himself.
Stop doing that.
Idiot.
“I’m a wreck right now, okay?” he finally mutters, shoulders slumping. “I’m starting to realize I don’t have that great of friends, and I have all this pressure to be a good captain to teammates who are—” He pauses, exhales through his nose. “Who are kind of just... awful people.”
His mum’s brows pinch together, lips pressing into a thin line. He can see her holding back a thousand questions.
And then there’s Charlie.
His brain immediately slams the brakes on that thought.
No.
He can’t.
He won’t.
That’s a whole other thing. A thing that doesn’t matter because nothing is happening between them. Right?
Right.
He clears his throat, sitting up a little straighter. “And I’m starting to think,” he continues, voice quieter now, like he’s admitting a sin, “that maybe going pro isn’t realistic.”
The words sting coming out.
Because they’re real now. He said them out loud.
And Sarah’s expression softens in that way only mothers’ do when they know something you don’t want to admit to yourself.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she murmurs, reaching across the table to place her hand over his. “You don’t have to go pro if you don’t want to.”
Nick lets out a dry, humorless chuckle, shaking his head. “Yeah, well. Try telling that to Dad.”
Sarah sighs, thumb brushing gently over his knuckles. “Nick, you know he doesn’t get to decide what you do with your life, right?”
Nick shrugs, looking down at their hands. He wishes he believed that.
He really does.
Nick lets out a sharp breath, rubbing at his temple as he leans back in the chair. His tea is barely touched, the warmth fading, much like the certainty he used to have about his life.
"I'm sorry, Mom, but you don’t really believe that, do you?" His voice is quieter now, but there’s a sharpness to it, a raw edge. "I mean... he's been on my ass about this for years. He’s always been that way, Mom. I can’t just wake up one day and decide, Oh, I’m quitting rugby and going into politics or something. He’d lose his fucking mind."
Sarah tilts her head, watching him carefully. "Language. Do you want to go into politics?"
Nick lets out a dry laugh, shaking his head. "I don’t know, Mom. I don’t know what I want." His fingers curl around the mug, gripping it tightly, as if that alone could ground him. "I just... I feel lost. So fucking lost. And I’m tired of feeling like I’m forcing myself down this path, chasing a future that might not even happen. That might never happen." He exhales shakily, running a hand through his damp hair. "And I’m tired of Dad getting mad at me for one bad game. I’m tired of feeling like I have to prove something to him every fucking second of my life."
His voice cracks slightly at the end, but he swallows it down, pressing his lips together.
"I’m tired of being angry all the time, Mom," he admits, his voice barely above a whisper now. "But what do I do with that? Where does it go? I can’t just... switch it off." He flexes his fingers, looking down at his hands, at the faint bruises that still linger on his knuckles. "It just festers. It builds and builds until I either throw a punch, or I start yelling, or I drink until I don’t feel it anymore. And I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to stop it. And that... that scares me, Mom."
Sarah watches him for a long moment, and when she speaks, her voice is gentle. Careful, but firm. "Nick... do you love rugby?"
Nick swallows, his throat tight. He opens his mouth—ready to say yes, of course—but the words don’t come.
Instead, what does come is the truth.
"I don’t know." His shoulders slump as he exhales, defeated. "I don’t know if I’ve ever loved it... or if I’ve just loved the fact that Dad actually seemed to care when I played."
Sarah closes her eyes for a moment, like she’s trying to push back some of her own emotions. When she looks at him again, there’s nothing but warmth in her gaze.
"Nick... it’s okay to feel lost," she says softly. "It’s okay to not know."
Nick shakes his head. "None of it makes sense anymore. None of it. And I feel so—so fucking lonely there." His voice catches again, and he bites the inside of his cheek to stop it.
Sarah’s face falls slightly, and she reaches across the table, her fingers brushing over his knuckles. "Sweetheart..."
Nick pulls his hand away, rubbing at his eyes. "You don’t know how bad it was, Mom." His voice wavers now, the words breaking before he can stop them. "That summer I stayed with Dad, you don’t—you don’t get it." He clenches his jaw, shaking his head. "It was really bad. It was really, really bad. And I think... I think that’s when the anger started. I think that’s when I started letting it take over."
His throat is tight, his breathing uneven.
"And now... now I have all this anger, and I don’t know where to put it. I’ve let it ruin friendships with my team, and now I—I don’t even know who I am anymore." He lets out a shaky breath, his fingers gripping the fabric of his sweatpants. "I don’t know what I’m doing, and I don’t know how to fix it."
Sarah stands, crossing over to him without hesitation, and pulls him into her arms. Nick stiffens at first—because he’s not a kid anymore, he doesn’t need to be held like one—but then he crumbles, pressing his face into her shoulder, his body shaking against hers.
And she just holds him.
Like she always has. Like she always will.
"Oh, Nick," she whispers, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head. "You don’t have anything that needs to be fixed."
Nick sobs.
His shoulders tremble, and he shakes his head against her, his fingers curling into the fabric of her sweater like a lifeline. "I have everything I need to fix," he chokes out. "I'm not—I'm not me. I don't know who I am or who I like or what I like or what I even fucking want."
Sarah smooths his damp hair back, her own breath uneven. "Oh, my baby," she murmurs, another kiss against his temple. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
Nick swallows hard, pulling away just enough to rub at his eyes, but the tears keep coming. "I—I'm sorry," he says again, his voice breaking. "I shouldn't be crying. I've been such a bad son, and I'm—I'm sorry."
Sarah shakes her head instantly, her hands cupping both sides of his face, making him look at her. "Nicky," she says firmly, her own eyes glistening. "You aren’t a bad son. You’ve just said some bad things. But that doesn’t make you bad."
Nick nods, but it’s a hollow movement, like he’s trying to believe her but can’t. "If I’m not bad," he whispers, voice wrecked, "then why don’t I feel good?"
Sarah exhales shakily, brushing her thumbs under his eyes, wiping away tear tracks that only keep falling. "I don’t know, Nicky," she admits softly. "I wish I knew. I wish I knew."
They stay like that for a long time—just holding each other.
Nick doesn’t know when the exhaustion fully settles into his bones, but it does. His body feels heavy, like lead, and when Sarah pulls back slightly and murmurs, "Why don’t you go to bed, sweetheart?" he doesn’t argue.
He trudges up the stairs, each step familiar but distant. Like walking through a place that used to be his home but now feels like a museum exhibit—his life, frozen in time.
His bedroom is the same. Exactly the same. The posters, the shelves, the rugby trophies, the old books stacked in the corner. It should feel like comfort, but instead, it just feels... surreal.
Like he’s visiting himself rather than coming home.
He barely gets under the covers before Henry and Nellie jump up onto the bed, curling up beside him like they never forgot him, like he never left.
Nick smiles faintly, for the first time in days.
He lets out a slow breath, closing his eyes, hoping—begging—for dreamless sleep.
But the moment he drifts off, his mind is filled with Charlie.
Charlie’s voice.
Charlie’s laugh.
Charlie’s lips.
Nick clenches his jaw in his sleep, as if he can fight it off.
But he can’t.
And deep down, he knows he doesn’t want to.