“Barely,” I mutter. “What’s up?”
“I’m in town,” he says, like that’s normal. Like he isn’t the guy who used to run my entire offense like it was a damn symphony. “And I’ve got someone with me.”
My grip tightens on the phone. “Who?”
Carter pauses, and I can hear the grin in his voice. “Offensive coach. Not yours. Mine.”
My heart stutters once, hard.
Chicago.
Of course it’s Chicago.
Carter continues, “He wants to talk, since you won’t return his calls. Nothing formal. Just…a conversation. You got an hour?”
My mouth goes dry.
My mind does that thing it always does when life tries to offer me two things at once—football and Sloane, future and now, dream and reality—and it starts splitting me down the middle.
“Where?” I ask, keeping my voice steady like I’m not spiraling.
“Diner off Ventura,” Carter says. “The one with the pie that tastes like God’s forgiveness.”
I almost laugh.
Almost.
“Okay,” I say, because I’m not stupid. Because even if I don’t know what I’m doing, I know you don’t ignore another call like this. “Yeah. I’ll meet you.”
“Good,” Carter says. “And Brooks?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t be late. Coach hates late.”
I nod as if he can see me. “I’ll be there.”
The line goes dead.
I stare at my phone for a beat longer than necessary, like it might explain what I’m supposed to do with my life.
When I look up, Sloane is already moving toward the hallway.
Not running.
Not panicking.
Just…retreating.
Like she’s giving me space.
My chest twists.
“Sloane,” I call.
She pauses at the doorway to her room but doesn’t turn around.
“I have to go meet Carter,” I say carefully. “He’s in town with—someone. They want to talk to me.”
