Charlotte.
She’s just outside the bench tunnel, tablet in one hand, radio clipped to her hip. She’s mid-conversation. Focused. Unbothered by the noise and sweat and adrenaline around her.
She looks up, like she feels someone watching.
Our eyes lock for a beat—calm, steady.
She gives me a small smile. Thankfully, there’s not a trace of pity in it.
I nod back.
For reasons I can’t explain, something in my chest settles.
Not all of it. But enough to make the rest of the night feel a little less off-kilter.
I don’t say anything. Neither does she.
But the moment lingers, even after I pass.
By the time I make it to the exit, I’m already thinking about tomorrow.
Rehab.
Recovery.
And seeing her again.
Chapter Seven
CHARLOTTE
Sundays are my day off.
No tape, no ice packs, no one wincing through hip mobility drills while pretending they’re fine.
And, for the first time all week, no Declan Tremayne.
That thought stops me as I towel-dry my hair.
I don’t know why I notice it. Or why it makes something shift in my chest.
Working with Declan, even when he’simpossible, has a way of sticking with me.
He shows up. Grumbles, but listens.
Mostly.
And sometimes—between reps or stretch checklists—he says something that makes me look up.
About Sophie. His team. Just an observation I didn’t expect him to share.
And then it passes, like he didn’t mean to say it.
I shake it off, dragging a brush through my hair.
Today’s about grilled food, folding chairs, and spending time with David, Erin, and Maya.
I’ve barely seen my niece since moving back, and I want that to change.
