I can only hope she lets me earn her back. Because I swear on every scar on my body, I will not lose her without fighting like hell first.
It’s travel day.
Portland, Oregon. The Strikers have never beaten them on their own pitch, and the lads have been buzzing all week about changing that. One more record to break. One more page in club history.
Yesterday at training, Brooks gave one of his speeches. The kind that gets clipped for documentaries one day. Fire in his voice, pride in his chest. He clapped my shoulder, told the boys he trusted I’d guard the net with my life, so it was on the rest of them to put balls in theirs.
If only he knew. My body is here, but the rest of me is elsewhere, tangled in blonde hair on a pillow that isn’t mine anymore. My nights are sleepless, my chest hollow, my thoughts a loop of her voice, her laugh, her hurt.
Turns out, without her, I’m no longer the man I was. Turns out, finding your person ruins you for solitude.
Smith drops me at the airport. I walk through the private entrance the club arranged, force a smile for fans waiting with shirts and phones, pretending my world isn’t in pieces. Chat with TSA, nod like a man whose heart isn’t bleeding into his shoes, then head straight for the jet bridge.
She has to be here. She wouldn’t let June travel alone, would she?
But she’s let five days go by without me.
I step onto the plane. The captain shakes my hand; I barely register it. A flight attendant greets me; I nod, impatient, heart smashing against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.
Move, for fuck’s sake. Let me see if she’s here.
I scan the cabin. Bags overhead, headphones on necks, lads joking, staff settling in. I look straight to row twenty-three, to the window seat,her seat, and find it empty. My stomach drops straight through me.
I swallow hard and move down the aisle. The lads give me space, quiet nods, sympathy in their eyes. Thiago pats my arm as I pass. He doesn’t know the details, but he knows heartbreak when he sees it.
Two rows back, June sits beside Luca. They’re mid-laugh until they spot me. Her smile falters.
“Is she coming?” I manage, trying not to sound like a man begging for oxygen.
“I don’t know,” June whispers, guilt on her face. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right, lass,” I murmur, though it isn’t.
I keep walking. Stow my bag, drop into my seat, lean back, and close my eyes. The cabin is quieter than usual—lads talking low, staff glancing over like they’re watching a funeral procession. I suppose they are.
Then—
It hits me before I see her. A scent. Vanilla and clean skin and something soft and sweet that has burrowed into my lungs and refused to leave. My pulse jerks, my breath stumbles. My soul recognizes her before my eyes see her.
I open them.
She stands in the aisle. Oversized sweater. Black tights. Runners. Messy blonde hair. Glasses. Eyes red and tired.
She looks breakable, and I might drop to my knees in front of the whole team.
Our eyes lock. Time stops.
“I’m not ready to talk,” she says quietly, voice steady but edged with hurt. “I’m here for the team, for June. I’m sitting here because I won’t be the reason the Strikers lose, but this doesn’t mean anything. Okay?”
I nod. God help me, I’d nod to whatever terms she gave me if it meant she stayed within reach. I stand, stepping aside so she can take the window seat.
She lifts her bag to stow it. My hand is on it before I think.
“May I?” My voice isn’t steady.Christ.
She hesitates, then nods. I take it from her gently, like it’s fragile, like she is, and slide it overhead. She hands me her backpack next. I store it too.
She sits. Buckles in. Opens her laptop. Headphones on. Walls up.
