Talia?
No.
Coach Addison.
Coach:Join Talia and me for brunch. 10:30. West Main Diner.
I stare at the screen like it’s in another language.
He’s never invited me anywhere personal. Never outside of practice, games, film, or his office with the crappy fluorescent lighting. The idea of “brunch” with him feels… off.
Or dangerous.
Or maybe just important.
My stomach tightens.
Does Talia know I’m coming?
Or is this Coach forcing two gravitational objects into the same orbit to see what happens?
Either way—
Me:Yes, sir.
I grab my jacket, lock the door, and head out. The drive across town is crisp, quiet. Frost laces the grass along the edges of the road. The heater in my truck works on its own schedule, so I shiver through the first few minutes until it finally decides to cooperate.
I should be assuming this is about the grant. About Alistair. About the reason theChroniclephoto didn’t run. About the leash he keeps trying to pull me back on.
But the truth is simpler and far more pathetic:
I want to see her.
Even if it hurts.
Even if she barely looks at me.
Even if she’s holding herself together with every bit of strength she has left.
I want to see her.
I pull into the diner’s lot at the same moment a small rideshare car rolls to a stop by the curb. Talia steps out. She freezes when she sees me. Her fingers hover at the strap of her bag.
Oh.
She didn’t know I’d be here.
“Talia,” I say, voice low.
“You’re…” She blinks, sleep still heavy in her eyes. “You’re here.”
“Coach texted,” I answer.
She swallows, her throat working. “He didn’t tell me that.”
It hits sharper than I want it to, but I shove it down. “We can go in.”
She nods but doesn’t move at first. Then she does—a step toward the diner doors, hair shifting over her shoulder. I follow, keeping just enough distance not to crowd her, though every part of me wants to reach for her wrist, her bag, anything.
