“I’ve got it,” I say, shaking my head.
After a moment, she asks softly, “Does it hurt?”
“It’s fine,” I lie.
Truth is, the brace is pinching and every step feels like a landmine. I shift most of my weight to my good leg and force myself upright, one careful hobble at a time.
I crack a small smile and slide her plate in front of her.
She doesn’t push, just reaches for the ketchup.
I catch her watching me as I ease into the chair across from her.
“Still fine,” I mutter.
“Didn’t say anything,” she says, eyes back on her tablet. But her mouth tugs in that half-frown she gets when she’s worried.
She digs in immediately, ketchup applied with surgical precision.
I watch her for a second too long.
I used to think the reason I hadn’t dated in the three years since our divorce was because I didn’t have time. Between travel, parenting, and keeping my name out of the tabloids, it just wasn’t a priority.
But that’s not the full truth.
The truth is, I couldn’t risk trusting the wrong person again. Couldn’t risk bringing someone into Sophie’s life who’ddisappear the second it got hard. Couldn’t stomach watching her flinch through disappointment a second time.
Vanessa and I got married because we were young, reckless, and scared—because two lines on a pregnancy test changed everything. I thought I could hold it all together if I just worked hard enough.
I was wrong.
So no, I haven’t dated. Haven’t introduced Sophie to anyone. Haven’t let anyone close.
Because loving her comes first. And that means protecting her, even from things she doesn’t know.
By the time Erin pulls up outside, Sophie’s triple-checking her rehearsal bag and reminding me to eat lunch like I’m the one heading to middle school. I wait on the porch while she climbs into the back seat next to Maya, her braid swinging behind her.
There’s still snow clinging to the edges of the yard, but most of it’s melting fast. Bright sky. Bare sidewalks. The kind of day that pretends it’s spring until the next cold front rolls in.
Erin gives me a quick wave from the driver’s seat, then they’re gone.
My phone buzzes. David this time.
A new text pops up:How’s the knee this morning?
I snap a quick photo of the brace strap digging into my skin and send it back.
A second later, his reply comes through:Ugly. But I’ve seen worse. Don’t let Charlie go easy on you.
I huff out a breath, half a laugh, and tap back:Pretty sure she’s enjoying the opposite.
Another bubble as David types:Good. Someone’s gotta keep your stubborn ass in line.
I shake my head, pocket the phone, and grab my bag. A few minutes later, one of the Team Services guys rolls up in the SUV. I take the passenger seat without argument. My knee’s throbbing, my brace is riding up, and I’m already dreading whatever fresh hell Charlie has planned for me today.
The therapy room smells like antiseptic and eucalyptus—clean and fake-relaxing, like the waiting area of an upscale dentist’s office. Everything’s white or stainless steel, with one wall of floor-to-ceiling mirrors that I pointedly ignore.
Charlie’s already setting up resistance bands when I hobble in. She’s in black joggers and a team quarter-zip, blonde hair twisted up in a clip. She bites her lip as she reads something on her tablet, one foot tapping absently against the mat, pen twirling like she’s trying not to burst into song.
