My phone rings, vibrating hot in my hand. Nate. His name fills the screen. For a second, I almost answer, cravinghis voice, his steadiness. Then I see the video thumbnail glowing behind the call banner, comments still climbing, and shame spikes hotter than the cold air on my cheeks.
I let it ring.
The call cuts off. Silence. Then my phone lights again.
Nate
Pick up, Trouble.
It rings once more. I don’t move. Another text follows.
Nate
We’re flying home after the game. I’ll be there tomorrow.
My throat closes. A new email pings. Another cancellation. My first week, unraveling before it starts.
Every instinct screams to let him fix it, to let him hold me steady. But this time, I might be the problem he can’t solve.
I shove the phone deep into my bag, muffling the vibration, silencing him, silencing the world.
Tomorrow is opening day. And it feels like walking into a storm.
34
SHADOWBOXING (NATE)
Yorkville parking is a joke. I finally muscle the SUV into a space barely wider than a goal post, cut the engine, and sit there a second, hands loose on the wheel.
She hasn’t called back.
All day, I kept reaching for her. After lifting, between film, even ducking out of a sponsor thing. Call. Text. Most of the time, nothing. Once she shot back a quick line:
Eden
Can’t talk now.
That’s it. No call, no follow-up, no spark of her usual self.
I keep trying to tell myself she’s slammed with opening-day chaos—new clients, onboarding the massage hire. But Eden’s the kind of woman who can mobilize a cranky hip, map a rehab progression, and still fire off a line that makes me laugh.
One-word texts? Silence?
That’s not her.
And pretending it doesn’t get under my skin? That’s the lie.
This morning, Alex ran my PT session instead of her. He’s a great guy—professional, thorough—but all it did was remind me what I’m missing. Her hands steady on me. Her eyes reading more than muscle. Her voice, telling me where to move, when to hold, when to breathe.
Not having her today cut deeper than it should have.
Now I’m parked outside her clinic, staring at the lights off in the front windows. All I can think is one thing:Call me back, Trouble.
I lean back against the headrest, letting the weight of her silence settle in my chest. My phone lights up on the console, and my pulse jumps. Finally.
But when I grab it and realize it’s not her, I drag a hand down my face and answer anyway. “Jessica.”
“You’ve seen the posts?”
