Sophie just nods and goes back to her cereal, but the way she said it, like Charlotte already belongs here, lingers as I rinse my mug.
I miss her. Not just the way she looks at me like I’m still me, not a broken-down captain sidelined while my team proves they can win without me.
I miss the way she listens and doesn’t flinch when I say the hard parts out loud.
I miss her ponytail in my fist, the way she arched into me, the heat of her body under my hands.
The worst part is I’ll see her in a couple of hours, close enough to touch, close enough to feel that pull, and I’ll have to pretend I don’t want more.
Erin’s car honks from the driveway. Sophie grabs her backpack, leans in for a quick hug, then adds, “Oh — and don’t forget about the bake sale after school today. Maya and I are working the cookie table!”
“I remember,” I say, trying not to smile at how serious she sounds.
“Just making sure,” she says, grinning. “Don’t be late!”
And then she’s gone—out the door, laughter trailing down the steps as she races to meet Maya.
When I reach for my phone on the counter, the team chat’s still buzzing from last night.
GIFs of Dalton’s celebration. Torres spamming goal memes. A blurry shot of half the guys passed out on the bus with pizza boxes in their laps. Normal post-win chaos.
Usually, I’d be right in the middle of it—chirping, trading jabs, replaying the best shifts until the sun came up.
This time, I scroll, smile faintly at a few, then set the phone face down.
I’m proud of them. Of course I am. They earned a spot in Round 2, battled their way through the Wranglers and proved they’re not just a one-man team.
But that pride is tangled with something sharper. They’re doing it without me. And as much as I try to remind myself that’s what a captain should want, it still twists in my chest.
I used to be the one sending the midnight texts, rallying the boys in the locker room, answering reporters until my voice went hoarse. Now I’m on the sidelines, bracing for another round of rehab while the rest of the team keeps moving forward.
My phone buzzes again. Local station wants me on for a segment about leadership through injury. My agent leaves a voicemail about “leveraging the comeback narrative.”
I delete both.
Round 2 practice schedule kicks in today, but for me it’s the same routine—ice, bands, and the bike.
Crutch in hand, I head for the arena, the buzz of my phone still rattling in my pocket. Everyone wants something from me—quotes, comments, presence. But the only thing I can think about is walking into that training room, knowing she’ll be there.
The drive to the arena feels shorter than usual, but heavier too. By the time I hobble down the hallway, the air already smells faintly of disinfectant and athletic tape and the fluorescent lightsbuzz against the white tile. It’s like the whole place has been scrubbed of warmth.
When I step into the room, she’s there, tablet in hand, hair pulled back. Professional. Careful. Guarded.
And it kills me.
Because I know the difference: when she laughs mid-rep, her hand steadying my knee and lingering, her gaze holding me like I’m more than a patient.
Today there’s none of that. She greets me with a polite smile, the same one she probably gives Torres or Dalton, and suddenly I’d give anything to go back to last week, when things weren’t so sharp-edged.
She stands a half-step farther than she used to.
“Pain, one to ten?” she asks, not “How’re you holding up?”
I answer with numbers and nods and pretend it’s enough.
But what’s missing is the way she used to ask how I slept, if anything else hurt, the little extras that made it feel like more than PT.
And the truth is, I don’t blame her. I pulled away. I left her hanging without an explanation.
