“This isn’t about being the boss. If you have a problem with alcohol–”
“A problem?” she snapped. “You think I’m hiding some kind of dependence? Go ahead Coach, diagnose me while you’re at it.”
She yanked the door handle and climbed out, slamming it behind her.
“Mel…” I scrambled after her.
She didn’t stop. I caught up, falling into step beside her as she marched toward the bar.
“Where are you going?”
“Not your business.”
Damn it. The words had come out too fast, too raw. I’d seen what alcohol could do—what ithaddone—and I got carried away.
I stepped in front of her. “Mel, I’m sorry. Please hear me out.”
“No. You hear me out.” Her voice shook. “My parents lost their entire retirement. Their condo, everything. How is that an alcohol problem?”
That shut me up—game, set, and match.
She swiped at her eyes, a few tears clinging to her lashes. Her gaze drifted toward the nearly empty parking lot, blank and distant.
Guilt surged up my throat. I shouldn’t have said those words. That wasn’t her—it was my own damn baggage. My dad had circled the drain again. He was back in rehab, I’d lost count of how many times. Not that it mattered.
Tonight, Mel wasn’t avoiding reality; she was holding it, barely letting anyone see the weight. My coaching instincts scrambled, my playbook didn’t have pages for women crying in parking lots or family losing everything. Right now, she didn’t need a coach, that much was clear.
I cleared my throat. “Mel…I’m sorry.”
She didn’t answer right away. Her fingers toyed with the corner of a tissue, eyes fixed somewhere past me. Then she took a deep breath. “Also… sorry about earlier.”
“Earlier?”
“When I—uh—face-planted into your shirt. That wasn’t planned.”
Ah. That. Hard to forget the emotional sucker punch that followed. “You were upset.”
“Still.” She winced. “Not exactly textbook professionalism.”
“We’re not in a textbook moment.”
She gave a soft, tired laugh. Then, without another word, she turned and walked back toward my car. I followed and opened the door for her. We climbed in, the silence settling around us—less tense now, more fragile.
We sat there for a bit.
“You don’t have to be okay,” I said quietly. “Not when it comes to me.”
The quiet stretched, a minute where no one expected anything, where it was okaynotto be okay. That, I could give her.
Her parents had lost everything. That kind of gut-punch changed people. I felt for them and for her, having to carry that weight, trying to stay composed in front of the whole team. Maybe that explained why she lived at home. That one detail told me more than any résumé ever could.
I started the car and pulled into the drive, glancing at her every so often. I’d seen women cry—girlfriends; my sister; Cassy; Evie, my ex-wife. Mel breaking down against me was different. She hadn’t masked it or tried to soften the blow; she let me see the raw center of it all.
And it wasn’t only the tears. That burst of mismatched-colored panties from her bag had already cracked the polished assistant façade. What spilled wasn’t just fabric, it was her—funny, bright,flustered, unexpectedly vulnerable. I hadn’t expected to know her like this. And now I couldn’t unknow it.
Her wet cheeks had left a damp patch on my shirt that still hadn’t dried, the faint warmth messing with my head. It felt as if she had handed me a piece of herself no one else got to see, and for some reason, she’d chosen me.
Chapter eight
