“You’re gonna be the worst kind of famous,” I mutter.
“I already am.” He zips the duffel, then leans back on his hands, studying me. “You figured out the Chicago thing yet?”
My chest tightens reflexively.
Not because Chicago is calling. They’re not.
They gave me a timeline. They gave me two weeks. They gave me a shot at a camp this fall, and I told them no.
I gave them the truth: my knee needs time, my body needs time, and my life—my actual life—needs time.
They didn’t love it, but they didn’t hang up either.
They said they’d keep checking in.
That nothing is promised.
That football will still be there, but only if I make myself ready.
Which means the decision isn’t gone.
It’s just…postponed.
And I’m okay with that.
“I told them next fall,” I say, voice even. “That’s the plan.”
Beck’s eyebrows shoot up. “Damn. You actually did it.”
“What?”
“Chose something else.” He nods toward me. “Choseher.”
I don’t correct him, because he’s right.
And because the wordherdoesn’t feel like a sacrifice.
It feels like relief.
“I’m still training,” I say, because my pride needs a bone. “Finishing my degree. Online classes so I can stay around workouts.”
Beck holds my gaze, then nods once, like he gets it. “I know.”
I exhale, the breath coming out heavier than it should. “I just—” I stop.
Beck waits.
I rub a hand over my jaw. “I don’t want to leave her. Not right now. Not when she’s still?—”
Broken, my brain finishes, but I hate that word. Like she’s something damaged.
She’s not damaged.
She’s grieving.
There’s a difference.
Beck’s voice is quieter when he says, “You’re doing the right thing.”
