“What the hell are you doing here?” I keep my voice steady, but I can already feel the fire building.
Savannah tilts her head, eyes lighting up with mock surprise. “Relax. I was in the neighborhood. Thought I’d drop by, see the place. It's quaint.”
I grit my teeth. “Try again.”
She shrugs, stepping closer, like this is a game. “You’re trending, baby. People are talking. That video? Adorable. You and the new girl? So sweet. Couldn’t stay away.”
There it is. The real reason.
She’s not here for me. She’s here for the attention. For the spotlight. The moment the world looked in my direction again, she followed the flashbulbs like a moth to flame.
And just like that, the flashbacks hit…
I’m thirty-one years old all over again.
My knee’s wrecked, torn in two places, bone bruising, cartilage shredded. The doctors say I’ll be lucky to play again, but they don’t say it to my face. They say it to my agent, to the press, to anyone but me. I’m benched. Useless. A has been before I even hit thirty-five.
I’m living off painkillers, sleeping in thirty-minute bursts, icing until my skin goes numb to keep from screaming. Every morning starts with a limp and ends with a pill.
I’m in the locker room, cold and fluorescent. Head between my hands. Numb. It smells like sweat and liniment and loss.
Then I hear her heels before I see her.
Click. Click. Click.
Savannah.
She steps in like she owns the place. Hair blown out, makeup flawless, wearing a designer coat, and that smug kind of calm that always used to rattle me. The calm of someone who already knows how this conversation will end.
I glance up. “What are you doing back here?”
She doesn’t answer right away. She looks at me for a beat too long.
And then she drops a bomb.
“I’m pregnant, Knox.”
Three words. No emotion. No warning. No softness.
My ears ring.
I sit up straighter, heart hammering. “What?”
“I’m late. Took two tests. We’re having a baby.”
Her voice is so steady. Like she’s ordering a drink. Like she’s not just cracked open the floor beneath my feet.
I stare at her, trying to wrap my head around it.
My hands are shaking, so I fold them into fists.
I should have asked more questions. I should have said,Are you sure?orHow do you feel about this?But I don’t. Because even at my lowest, even when I’m circling the damn drain, something in me wants to do the right thing.
So I nod.
I make promises.
I tell myself this is a sign, a chance to turn things around.
