“I’m surprised you’re out here alone.” She side-eyes me. “No bodyguard? No entourage?”
I shake my head. “Don’t keep any. Wouldn’t know what to do with one, to be honest.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Seriously? You’re… you.”
I huff a laugh. “Aye, but I like my freedom. The noise gets too loud sometimes. Running helps me remember I’m still my own person.”
She’s quiet for a beat, then nods. “That actually makes sense.”
We walk a little farther, the wind tugging at her shirt. “You liking Great Lakes so far?” she asks.
“I am. The sea air, the quiet. Bit of a change from where I lived before. I’m looking forward to surfing in the offseason.”
She smiles. “You surf?”
“Trying to remember how,” I admit. “Been a few years.”
“Well,” she says, eyes glinting, “if you ever need someone to film your inevitable wipeouts, I’ve got a camera.”
I laugh then, properly, and her breath snags just slightly, surprise flickering across her face. “You offering to document my humiliation?”
“Someone has to,” she teases.
We reach the coffee shop. Small string lights still glowing from the night before, the smell of pastries spilling out as the door swings open. I hold the door open for her, and she steps inside, brushing past me. The scent of her, vanilla and sun, lingers.
If I’m not careful, she’s going to make a habit of undoing me.
The café smells of roasted beans and brown sugar, warm and rich, the kind of scent that settles deep in your chest and refuses to leave. Catalina leads the way to a small table tucked by the window, half hidden behind a shelf of plants. It’s quiet here. Sunlight spilling across wood grain, dust motes dancing in the air.
She slides into the seat across from me, legs crossing, oversized T-shirt slipping off one shoulder enough to reveal smooth skin. I take the opposite seat before I can make a fool of myself by staring.
A waitress comes over, and recognition flickers in her eyes, but she’s kind enough not to say my name. Catalina orders an icedlatte; I stick with black coffee. She thanks the waitress with that easy, soft smile, and it hits me right in the gut.
For a moment, neither of us speak. The silence isn’t awkward; it’s alive. Humming. I feel it in my chest, in the pulse at my throat.
Then she leans forward, elbows on the table, her voice gentle. “So… your academy. You said it’s named after your mom?”
I nod once. “Aye.”
“What was she like?” She asks it quietly. No pity, no performance, just curiosity. Genuine.
I look down at my cup, thumb running along the rim. “She was… fierce. Kind, but stubborn as hell. Worked herself raw to keep me fed, and still found time to watch every match, rain or shine. She had this laugh, big and loud, filled a room. I still hear it sometimes when the crowd gets going.”
A small smile curves her lips. “She sounds incredible.”
“She was.” The word lodges in my throat. “Only one who ever believed I’d make it. My da thought football was a waste of time. He wanted a striker, someone who scored goals, not stopped them. Said keepers were cowards hiding behind gloves.”
Catalina’s brow furrows, her voice soft. “That’s cruel.”
“Aye. He… wasn’t the kindest man.” I hesitate, fingers tightening around my mug. “Drank too much. Took it out on her when the world didn’t go his way.”
She goes still, eyes searching mine. “What happened?”
I draw in a breath, slow. “One night, he raised a hand, and I stepped in. I was twelve—finally big enough to think I could stop him. My heart was hammerin’, legs shakin’, but I stood between them anyway, and that was it. He never touched her again.”
The words hang between us. Too heavy, too familiar.
Her eyes glisten, and she reaches across the table without hesitation. Her hand finds mine, small and warm, her thumb brushing the back of it. “That must’ve been terrifying.”
