We cut through the stairwell, and the building exhales around us—old banister, the scuff of shoes, the smell of someone’s toast down on two. Out on the landing, the courtyard is bright. A kid in a Defenders jersey bounces a ball against the wall. He freezes when he sees me, eyes huge, then waves so hard his arm might come off.
“Hey, bud,” I say.
“Did you win last night?” he blurts. “My mom wouldn’t let me stay up past nine.”
“We did,” I tell him, and he explodes into a hop that rattles the windows. A woman leans out of the kitchen door and mouths “thank you,” and Eden squeezes my hand.
“That felt good,” she says when the door swings shut behind us and we hit the street.
“Get used to it,” I murmur. “You’re public now.”
She lifts her chin. “I chose it.”
We walk the short blocks to her clinic, city air crisp, morning sun caging gold across the sidewalks. She unlocks the door; the bell gives a small ring. The place smells of eucalyptus and clean linen. She drops her bag behind the desk and turns to me. “You need ten minutes on the table? Hips?”
“You offering?”
“I am.”
I toe off my shoes and stretch out. She warms her hands and settles them on me, fingers sinking into tissue, reading, adjusting. There’s nothing performative in it—no audience, no lights, just her knowing exactly where I’m tight and what to do about it. She works through my adductor, clears my hip flexor, resets the angle on my ankle with a practiced glide. I breathe. The room holds.
“Better?” she asks.
“Always,” I say, because the truth is simple.
She helps me sit up. I catch her around the waist, press my forehead to hers. “Proud of you,” I tell her. “For last night. For this place. For choosing us.”
Her eyes shine. “Proud of you for letting me.”
I kiss her there in the front room, no one watching, no one needing to. It’s not a claim, not a show. It’s a quiet yes. Ours.
Her first client arrives in ten minutes. I set a fresh bottle of water on the front desk and step back.
“I’ll restock your pantry tomorrow,” I say. “Consider this fair warning.”
She smirks. “What’s on the list?”
“Coffee. Oat milk for the menace. Everything else we’ll figure out.”
“Go,” she says, giving me a gentle push. “I’ll see you tonight.”
I point to my chest, then to her. She nods, eyes steady, then brushes her fingers down my jaw in a secret private stroke that could carry me through even a two-a-day in camp.
Out on the sidewalk, the city opens up. I tuck my hands in my pockets and start toward York, already planning dinner, already counting the hours. My phone buzzes again—Leo:Beer run. Thursday. Also, I’m sending a crib to your place just to watch you panic.I grin and type back:Send fresh artichokes, then slip the phone away.
I glance back toward her clinic, a quick flash of a wave before she disappears into her day.
And just like that, it feels real. Solid. A life we can build.
EPILOGUE - HOME (EDEN)
Nate’s Fire Island kitchen is a loud, fragrant storm of movement—and he’s in his element.
It’s Labor Day weekend, the last Saturday before training camp. The annual pre-season dinner has taken over both houses. Between his place and Dmitri’s down the path, we’ve got eight bedrooms, two grills, one shared playlist, and enough egos to power a playoff series.
Inside, Omar Deep’s “Moscow” pulses through the speakers. Nate, Dmitri, and Sophie move in time—hips loose, shoulders bouncing as they chop, toss, and taste. Seared peppers and marinated shrimp fill the air, a mix of end-of-summer joy and pre-season focus.
Beach-dark and barefoot, Nate wears a Defenders tee and an apron that reads “Goalie by Day, Gourmet by Night.” He’s engineering a Calabrian-Creole menu layered with Russian twists, commanding the kitchen with a wooden spoon in one hand and a chef’s knife in the other.
