“You’re doing more than that.” Her gaze homes in, sharp but kind. “Don’t let idiots like Phil get under your skin.”
“I wasn’t bothered,” I lie smoothly.
“Alycia, I’ve watched you handle a league-wide scandal with more composure than most executives twice your age. But you don’t have to white-knuckle your way througheverything.Not anymore.”
I nod, pretending it’s an agreement.
“If you need support, tell me. Don’t make me guess.”
“I won’t,” I promise, even though we both know I will.
She nods once and heads for the door. “Breakouts start in ten minutes. Let’s keep the momentum.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The moment she’s gone, the weight slides heavier onto my shoulders—pressure and pride and fear, all knotted together so tightly I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. The schedule in my head scrolls forward automatically: social posts, sponsor approvals, three phone calls I’m already late for, five I haven’t scheduled yet.
Move, Torres.
I’m halfway to my office when male voices drift around the corner. Loud, easy, familiar. My body registers them before my brain does, recognition sinking into my muscles.
Kyle’s laugh lands first as he rounds the corner with Beau, hair damp from practice, cheeks flushed, quarter-zip unzipped just enough to be distracting. He looks loose, the exact opposite of the knot living under my sternum. He doesn’t see me at first, but when he does, something in his expression softens just enough that I feel it like a hand around my heart.
“Morning, Torres,” he says, voice dipping into something warm enough to melt the last of my composure.
I force my spine straight. “Morning.”
His eyes sweep my face, slow and certain, like he’s cataloging every sign showing that I didn’t sleep. Like he recognizes them. The air tightens between us for a heartbeat, just enough for Beau to groan.
“There are children in this building,” Beau mutters, disgusted, and keeps walking like he refuses to witness whatever this is becoming.
Kyle follows, steps slowing just enough to betray him. The connection stretches thin, taut, then snaps when he turns the corner and disappears. The loss is sharp, immediate, and irritatingly real.
A shaky breath slips out of me before I can stop it, betraying the low tremor in my ribs. I smooth my blazer, pretending I can press myself back into the version of me who doesn't get rattled by a look and wants what she can’t have. I have forty-seven emails, three meetings, and a department depending on me. Work is predictable, and I cling to it like oxygen, because wanting him is the one thing I can’t afford to breathe in. Not now. Not ever.
By the time I leave work, the sky is a deep, bruised blue. My phone is at 9 percent. My brain is at 0 percent. The drive home is muscle memory. My apartment greets me in practiced silence as I toe off my shoes, hang my coat, and set down my bag. Each motion strips away another piece of armor until the ache underneath becomes impossible to ignore.
I tell myself I’ll make real food tonight. Something with a vegetable, proof I can take care of myself in ways that don’t involve Google Calendar reminders. Then I open the fridge and find nothing but a lone yogurt and half a lemon staring back at me from the middle shelf, surrounded by too much empty space. Whatever good intentions I have dissolve on contact.
“Future me can worry about scurvy,” I mutter, and close the door before turning on the kettle, as if hot water counts as nourishment, then my phone rings.
I see the contact photo—my mother holding a pie like a trophy—and my chest tightens.
I consider letting it go to voicemail, but she’ll keep calling if I don’t answer. “Hi, Mom.”
Her voice is warm and bright and immediate, as if she’s been waiting all day to hear from me. “Ay, mi niña,am I catching you at a bad time? You must be drowning in work with this big gala coming.”
I try to smile, even though she can’t see it. “A little busy.”
“Well, you always handle it,” she says, pride ringing through every word. “They’re lucky to have you.”
My throat tightens, but I manage, “Thank you.”
“Are you ready?” she says, excitement blooming.
“Ready for what?”
“Alycia.” She laughs, light and teasing. “Por favor, attending the gala with your wonderful boyfriend, of course. It’s all over the TV! Why didn’t you tell me Kyle was a big-time hockey player?”
