I find out on a Thursday.
The women's hockey team practices right after ours, which means there's overlap in the locker room hallway. I'm early—Rita moved our PT session—so I'm sitting on a bench outside, scrolling through my phone, waiting.
That's when I hear Sophie's voice.
"I can't believe you're still doing this." It's one of her teammates. I don't know her name.
"Doing what?" Sophie sounds tired.
"The bet. With Ross. You won, like, two weeks ago. Why are you still pretending?"
Everything stops.
"I'm not pretending," Sophie says, but her voice is quiet.
"Sophie, come on. You got him to trust you. That was the whole thing. You won the bet. Just take the money and—"
"It's not about the money anymore."
"Then what's it about? Because from where I'm standing, you're in way too deep with this guy for something that started as a joke."
The world tilts.
A bet.
This whole time.
Every morning run. Every PT session. Every coffee at dawn, every conversation, every moment I thought meant something—
A fucking bet.
I stand up. My legs feel disconnected from my body.
The teammate keeps talking. "Look, I get it. He's cute, he's got the whole tragic hero thing going. But you're going to have to tell him eventually. And when you do—"
"I know." Sophie's voice cracks. "I know, okay? I just... I need time to figure out how to—"
I don't hear the rest.
I'm already walking away, fast, then faster, then I'm running even though it makes my shoulder scream. I don't care. I need to be anywhere but here.
I make it back to my dorm.
Ollie takes one look at my face and says, "What happened?"
"Nothing."
"Evan—"
"I said nothing." My voice comes out harsh. "I need to be alone."
He doesn't argue. Just quietly leaves, taking his laptop with him.
I sit on my bed and stare at the wall.
A bet.
The words keep looping in my head, recontextualizing everything. Every kind word, every moment of support, every time she said she believed in me—
It was all a game.
How much did she win? Fifty bucks? A hundred? What was I worth?
My phone buzzes. It's Sophie.
Sophie: hey where are you? thought you had PT
Sophie: are you okay?
I throw my phone across the room. It hits the wall and falls behind Ollie's desk.
I don't want to see her messages. Don't want to hear her voice. Don't want to exist in a reality where the one person I trusted most was lying to me the entire time.
The pain in my shoulder is nothing compared to this.
I avoid her for the rest of Thursday.
I skip PT. Rita calls me three times. I don't answer.
I skip dinner. The group chat explodes with messages asking where I am. I put my phone on Do Not Disturb.
I lie in bed and watch the ceiling and try to figure out when I became someone whose pain was entertainment for other people.
Around 10 PM, there's a knock on my door.
"Evan?" It's Sophie. "I know you're in there. Your light's on."
I don't move.
"Can we talk? Please?"
Silence.
"Evan, what's wrong? Did something happen at PT? Are you—"
"Go away." My voice sounds dead even to me.
A pause. "What?"
"I said go away, Sophie."
"Evan, what—"
"I heard you." The words come out flat. "In the hallway. Before practice. I heard everything."
The silence on the other side of the door is deafening.
"Evan, let me explain—"
"Explain what? That you made a bet about me? That everything was a lie?"
"It wasn't a lie, I—"
"Get the fuck away from my door."
"Evan, please—"
"NOW."
I hear her breath hitch, like she's crying. Good. I hope it hurts. I hope it hurts even a fraction of how much this hurts.
Her footsteps fade down the hallway.
I don't move for an hour.
Friday morning 4:45 AM, my alarm goes off.
Force of habit.
I turn it off and stare at the ceiling in the dark. Sophie's probably outside right now, waiting with coffee, wondering if I'll show.
I stay in bed.
At 5:30 my phone buzzes.
Sophie: i know you don't want to talk to me
Sophie: but you need to go to PT
Sophie: don't let this mess up your recovery
Sophie: please evan
I delete the messages without responding.
The word spreads fast.
By Friday afternoon, everyone knows something happened. Nobody knows what, but the entire friend group is in crisis mode.
"Dude, what's going on?" Jax corners me after my Economics class. "Sophie's like, destroyed. And you look like you want to murder someone."
"Nothing."
"That's bullshit."
"Drop it, Jax."
"No. We're friends. You don't just—"
"I said drop it." I push past him and keep walking.
Behind me, I hear Maya's voice. "Give him space."
"But—"
"Space, Jax. Trust me."
Saturday morning, I'm lying in bed when someone bangs on the door. Hard.
"Evan Ross, open this door right now!"
It's not Sophie. It's Rita.
I open the door and she storms in, all five feet of fury.
"You missed two PT sessions."
"I know."
"Do you want to heal or not?"
"I don't know."
"You don't—" She stops. Really looks at me. Her expression softens slightly. "What happened?"
"Nothing."
"Can you just... give me the exercises? I'll do them here. I just can't come in right now."
She studies me for a long moment. Then she pulls out a sheet and hands it over. "Fine. But if you're not back by Monday, I'm calling your doctor. And trust me, you don't want that conversation."
After she leaves, I look at the exercise sheet.
I crumple it up and throw it in the trash.
Saturday night, around 11 PM, there's another knock.
I ignore it.
The knocking continues. Gets louder. More desperate.
"Evan, please." Sophie's voice is wrecked. "Please, I just need to explain. Please."
I put my headphones on.
The knocking stops. Then starts again. Harder.
"EVAN!" She's yelling now, not caring who hears. "EVAN, PLEASE! I'M SORRY! I'M SO FUCKING SORRY!"
Ollie and Sam are both out. I'm alone. And she's breaking apart in the hallway.
"It started as a stupid bet but it's not anymore! It hasn't been for weeks! I care about you, I—" Her voice cracks completely. "Please just let me explain. Please. I'll tell you everything. Just open the door. Please."
I can hear her crying. Full, body-shaking sobs.
"I never meant for this to happen. I never meant to fall for—" She stops. "Please. Please, Evan. I can't lose you. I can't—"
Something hits the door. Hard. Like she punched it or threw herself against it.
"PLEASE!" She's screaming now. "EVAN, PLEASE!"
My hand's on the doorknob. Every instinct is screaming at me to open it, to let her explain, to—
I step away from the door.
"Go away, Sophie."
The crying gets worse. I hear her slide down the door, still sobbing, broken sounds that make my chest feel like it's caving in.
"I'm sorry," she's saying over and over. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."
I sit on my bed with my headphones on, volume all the way up, and try to drown out the sound of her falling apart on the other side of the door.
Eventually, the crying stops.
Eventually, I hear her leave.
Eventually, I'm alone again.
Sunday, Maya texts me.
Maya: we need to talk
Me: no
Maya: not asking
She shows up twenty minutes later and walks in without knocking. Lena's with her.
"Intervention time," Maya says, sitting on Ollie's desk chair.
"I don't want to talk about it."
"Too bad." She opens her notebook. "Sophie told us everything."
"Good for her."
"Evan—" Lena starts.
"No. Whatever you're going to say—that she didn't mean it, that she really cares, that I should forgive her—save it. She made a bet about me. About my pain, my recovery, my trust. She turned my worst moment into a game."
"You're right," Maya says.
That stops me. "What?"
"You're right. What she did was fucked up. The bet was cruel and stupid and she should've told you immediately." Maya leans forward. "But she didn't tell you because she fell for you, and she was terrified of losing you. Which is what happened anyway."
"That's an excuse."
"It's not. It's an explanation. There's a difference." She closes her notebook. "Look, I'm not saying you have to forgive her. I'm saying you should at least hear her out."
"Why would I do that?"
"Because she's barely functioning. She hasn't eaten in three days. She hasn't slept. She's missing practices. Her coach is worried." Lena's voice is quiet. "And because whether you want to admit it or not, you care about her too."
"I don't."
"Evan." Maya's voice goes soft, which is terrifying because Maya's never soft. "I've been watching you for weeks. The way you look at her, the way you talk about her, the way you were healing because of her. That wasn't fake. Not on your end, and not on hers either."
"How do you know?"
"Because I've seen people fake emotions for research. That's not what she was doing. She was faking the reason she was there, but the emotions? Those were real." She stands. "You don't have to forgive her. But you should let her explain. You owe yourself that much."
After they leave, I sit with their words.
Part of me wants to stay angry. Wants to nurse this betrayal like a wound, use it as proof that trusting people only leads to pain.
But another part—the part that remembers dawn coffee and sunrise conversations and her hand in mine at the hospital—that part knows they're right.
I text Sophie.
Me: tomorrow. 6 AM. fountain.
Me: you get 10 minutes.
Her response is immediate.
Sophie: thank you
Sophie: i'll be there
Sophie: i promise i'll explain everything
I don't respond.
I don't sleep that night.
By 5:45 AM, I'm already at the fountain, watching the sky lighten.
Sophie appears at 5:55. She looks destroyed—eyes swollen almost shut from crying, hair a wreck, still in yesterday's clothes. She's shaking before she even reaches me.
She doesn't sit. Just stands there, trembling.
"Thank you for—"
"Just explain." My voice is ice.
"The bet—" Her voice breaks immediately. "It started before I knew you, the team makes stupid bets and someone said nobody could get close to you and I took it because I thought—" She chokes on a sob. "I thought it would be easy and I'm so fucking sorry—"
"What changed?"
"EVERYTHING!" She's crying hard, hands clenched at her sides. "The bowling alley, I realized I didn't want to win, I wanted you, I wanted to know you for real—"
"But you didn't tell me."
"I know!" She steps forward, closing the distance. "I know I should have but I was scared and I was selfish and—Evan, please—"
Her hand shoot out, grabbing my jacket.
I go rigid. "Don't."
"Please just listen—" She's clutching the fabric, pulling herself closer. "Everything after that first week was real, I swear, the morning runs and PT and staying at the hospital, I wasn't pretending—"
"Let go, Sophie."
"I can't!" She grabs with both hands now, fisting my jacket, and she's sobbing so hard she can barely stand. "I can't lose you, I can't—"
I grab her wrists. "Sophie—"
"NO!" She fights against my grip, trying to get closer, trying to press herself against me. "Please Evan, please don't do this—"
"Stop—"
"I fell for you!" She's screaming now, struggling and when I try to push her back gently she just surges forward again, grabbing at my arms, my shoulders, desperate. "I fell so fucking hard and I know I have no right but I did, I love you—"
"Don't say that."
"I LOVE YOU!" She's clawing at me now, trying to wrap her arms around me, and I have to grab her wrists again, firmer this time. "I love you, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, please—"
She breaks free and throws her arms around my neck, pressing her face against my shoulder, sobbing. Her whole body's shaking against mine.
"Sophie, stop—" I try to unwrap her arms but she holds tighter, fingers digging into my shirt.
"Please don't leave me, please, I'll do anything, I'll—" She pulls back just enough to look at my face, hands moving to cup my cheeks, desperate and wild. "Tell me how to fix this, tell me what to do, I'll do anything—"
I grab her wrists again, pull her hands away from my face. "Did you win the bet?"
She freezes, hands still in my grip. "What?"
"The bet. Did you win?"
"I—yes. When you—when you trusted me at the hospital."
"How much was I worth?"
"Two hundred dollars." Tears are streaming down her face. "I gave it back, I swear, the next day I gave it all back—"
"Doesn't matter." I let go of her wrists and step back.
"NO!" She lunges forward, grabbing my shirt again with both hands, pressing herself against me. "Don't say that, please don't—"
"Sophie—"
"I WON'T LET YOU GO!" She's hysterical now, arms wrapping around my waist, face pressed to my chest. "I won't, I can't, please—"
I grab her shoulders, trying to push her back gently. "You have to."'
"I LOVE YOU!" She's screaming it into my chest, hands fisted in my jacket, and when I finally to manage to pry her off she immediately reaches for me again. "EVAN, PLEASE—"
I catch her wrists, hold her at arm's length. She's fighting to get closer, pulling against my grip, sobbing so violently I'm afraid she'll collapse.
"Look at me," I say.
She does, and her face is completely wrecked—red, swollen, streaming with tears and snot, mouth open in a silent sob.
"I can't trust you," I tell her. "And without that, we're nothing."
"No—" She tries to pull free but I hold firm.
"I need time. Maybe forever. But you have to let me go."
"I WON'T" She's thrashing now, trying to break my grip. "I WON'T, I LOVE YOU, PLEASE—"
"Sophie." I pull her wrists down, force her to stop struggling. "Let go."
"I can't—"
"You have to."
"PLEASE!" She collapses forward an I have to catch her, and for a second she's pressed against me again, shaking, broken. "Please don't do this, please, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—"
I set her back on her feet, step away.
She reaches for me one more time, fingers barely brushing my jacket before I move out of range.
"Stay away from me," I say, and my voice cracks. "Please."
Then I turn and walk away.
"EVAN!" Her scream tears through the dawn. "EVAN, PLEASE! DON'T LEAVE! PLEASE!
I keep walking
"I LOVE YOU!" Raw, broken, desperate. "I LOVE YOU, COME BACK, PLEASE—"
Her voice breaks into incoherent sobbing behind me.
I don't look back. Can't look back.
Every step feels like I'm ripping myself in half.
Because despite everything—despite the bet, the lies, the betrayal—there's a truth I can't deny.
Part of me loves her too.
And that's the cruelest thing of all.
Monday morning, I go back to PT.
Rita doesn't ask questions. Just puts me through the exercises.
I do them all. Every painful stretch, every burning rep. I focus on the physical pain because it's easier than the other kind.
After PT, I go to class. I eat lunch with the group, who carefully don't mention Sophie. I do my homework.
I go through the motions if being alive.
But at night, lying in bed, all I can think about is her face at the fountain.
And the fact that even now, even knowing what I know, part of me still wants to forgive her.
Which might be the cruelest thing of all.