Miss Ashford,
Your father has been granted temporary calling rights. He will reach out to you at 7 p.m. this evening. Please be available to receive the call.
For a moment I just stand there in the middle of the field, my sneakers pressed into damp grass, the rest of the world blurring at the edges. I read the message again, then again, until the words blur. My throat goes dry. He’s calling. After all this time—so much silence, pretending that part of my life is sealed off—he’s actually calling.
I don’t realize I’ve stopped walking until someone collides with me hard enough to jolt my phone out of my grip.
“Whoa—watch it, peeping tom,” a voice says, deep, teasing, unmistakably familiar.
I blink up, disoriented, and the breath catches in my throat. Blue eyes. The same ones that looked into mine yesterday, as he thrusted inside me.
Jamie.
He’s in his hockey gear—pads, jersey, gloves half off—and somehow he still manages to look like sin wrapped in ice and laughter.
“Oh my god, sorry,” I say, crouching to grab my phone.
He grins. “It’s all good.”
He’s got that look in his eyes—mischief, warmth, and something else. He gestures toward me with a gloved hand.
“New look, huh?” His thumb grazes the edge of my cheer skirt, not enough to be inappropriate, but enough to send a pulse of heat straight through my stomach.
“Yeah.” I force a small laugh. “Tryouts and practice ran late.”
He tips my chin up gently with his knuckle until our eyes meet again. “Everything okay?”
I could tell him the truth that I just got a message from a lawyer about the man who’s supposed to be my father but feels more like a ghost, but I don’t. Not here. Not when Jamie’s looking at me like that.
“I’m fine,” I lie. “Just…a little out of it from practice.”
He studies me for a beat longer, then that slow, crooked smile appears. “I know a nice way to distract you.”
The line is pure Jamie—cocky and sweet all at once—but I can’t muster a real response. My mind is still stuck on the text. My father. Seven o’clock. The thought loops over and over until I can barely breathe. I try to smile, but it probably looks more like a grimace.
“You’ll be late for practice,” I say instead.
He squints, like he’s trying to read something behind my eyes. “You okay, baby?”
The word lands softer than I expect, a gentle hum that slides right beneath my ribs.
I nod, even though I’m not sure it’s true.
“I’m fine,” I say again, quieter this time. My voice doesn’t convince either of us. But I step closer anyway, because being near him makes everything blur a little softer. His arms come around me automatically, warm and strong, smelling faintly ofsweat and cedarwood andman. I rest my head against his chest and let myself breathe him in.
He kisses the top of my head. “Long day?” he murmurs.
I nod against him. “Just…a lot.”
“I can come over after practice. We can talk,” he says, his voice low, his thumb brushing circles on my lower back.
The offer makes my chest ache a little. He means it but the thought of trying to explain any of this feels impossible. I shake my head. “You don’t have to. It’s fine. Plus I kind of have to move into the sorority house.”
That gets his attention. He leans back slightly, looking down at me. “How come?”
“It’s a long story.”
“I can listen,” he says, and the way he says it—open, steady, unguarded—almost undoes me.
