I'm already pulling away, smoothing my hair, my sweater, anything to erase the evidence of what we were just doing. "What are you going to tell him?"
Garrett's thumb moves across his phone screen with practiced ease.
Nah, headed home early. Long day.
The lie comes so naturally, so effortlessly, that it sends a chill down my spine. He hits send and sets the phone aside like it's nothing, but the moment is ruined. The warm, safe intimacy we'd built lies in pieces around us.
"This is..." I start, then stop, not sure how to finish the sentence.
"Harder than we thought it would be," he says quietly, reading my mind.
"The lying. The constant fear. The way we have to pretend we're nothing to each other." I lean back against the couch cushions, suddenly exhausted. "I knew it would be difficult, but I didn't realize how much energy it would take. How much of ourselves we'd have to hide."
Garrett shifts to face me, his expression serious. "Are you having second thoughts?"
The question hangs between us, loaded with everything we haven't said. Am I? Part of me is terrified by how deep this is getting, how much it's starting to matter. But when I look at him—really look at him, sitting in his grandmother's light surrounded by books and jazz and the scent of rising bread—I know the answer.
"No," I say, and I mean it. "But I need you to understand what we're risking. Not just my job, but my entire career. The reputation I've spent years building. If this gets out..."
"It won't." His voice is fierce, certain. "I won't let that happen."
"You can't promise that. Neither of us can." I reach for his hands, lacing our fingers together. "All we can promise is thatwe'll be careful. That we'll protect each other as much as we can."
"I can promise something else." He pulls me closer, until I'm back in his arms, until the warmth of him surrounds me again. "I can promise it's worth it. You're worth it."
The words settle into my chest like an anchor. Worth the risk. Worth the fear. Worth the exhaustion of living two lives.
When he kisses my forehead—soft, protective, reverent—I let myself believe him.
Outside, Minneapolis glitters in the darkness, indifferent to our secrets. Inside this fortress of brick and books and gentle jazz, we hold each other against the cold reality of what we're attempting.
It's not enough to keep the world at bay forever.
But for tonight, it's enough to keep us safe.
19
Garrett
The tape comes off my stick in long strips, adhesive clinging to my fingers. I'm taking too long with this. Everyone else cleared out ten minutes ago, but I keep finding reasons to stay—retaping the blade, adjusting the curve, checking for splinters that aren't there.
Anything to avoid walking out into the hallway where someone might want to talk.
"You got a minute?"
Phil's voice cuts through the humid quiet of the equipment room. He's leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, still in his practice gear minus the shoulder pads.
I don't look up. "Kind of busy."
"Yeah. I can see that." He moves into the room, settling against the equipment rack like he's got all day. "You've been off lately."
Not a question. A statement.
My hands still on the tape. "I'm fine."
"You blew two coverages last game." Phil's tone stays even, matter-of-fact. "Showed up late to three practices this week. And you're checking your phone between drills, which you never do."
The observation lands heavy in my chest. I force myself to keep working the tape, unwinding it from the blade. "Just tired."
