“Vanessa.”
We both freeze.
“Oh, hi, Miles. Congratulations on the win.”
“Yeah. Thanks.” I rub at the back of my neck. “Uh, sorry about the loss?” It comes out more question than sympathy.
Vanessa laughs, and it only makes me miss Summer more. No one’s laugh compares to hers. No one’s smile. Or the way she pulls both out of me without trying.
“Who are you?” The little girl looks up at me. She has her mom’s green eyes and her dad’s jet-black hair.
“He’s an old friend of Mommy’s,” Vanessa says, pulling her close. She looks back at me. “How’ve you been?”
“Really good, thanks. And you?”
“Great.” She brushes a hand through her daughter’s hair, smiling.
David Park, my old GM, rounds the corner. Tall. Late-forties. Expensive suit. A little more gray in his hair, but he still looks exactly the same.
He reaches Vanessa and sets a hand on her waist. “King. Hell of a game.”
The girl starts fussing, tugging on the sleeves of his suit jacket. Something about an iPad and a cartoon.
“Come here, princess.” David picks her up. He steps back a few feet, and she does her best to whisper, “Who is that tall guy?”
David chuckles and points to a team photo on the wall, back when I was on it. The hallway is lined with framed pictures, one for each year since the franchise was founded. “There he is. Five years ago, he was on Daddy’s team.”
Five years ago, I was traded.
“I’m gonna be five next!” The girl raises her hands.
“You are. But you’ve got almost a full year to be four.” He smiles at her, then points to the photo from the year before. “And here he is again.”
“There you are, Daddy!” She grabs for the frame.
I thought I’d feel something more, seeing them. The happy family. The kid. Though I’m not sure what I expected.
There was a version of this that could’ve been mine. I used to think about that more, but it’s been a while since it even crossed my mind.
The day Vanessa told me she was pregnant, it was like a knife to the gut. Like someone cut me open and watched all my pain ooze out.
It was less than a month after our breakup. She’d come to Chicago to pick up the rest of her stuff. She never brought much to begin with, so everything fit into one big suitcase.
We were standing in the hallway of my old apartment, doing that awkward thing where you’re supposed to say goodbye but can’t find the words. Then she ran to the guest bathroom, and I followed. I rubbed steady circles into her back while she threw up her breakfast.
She flushed the toilet and sat back on her heels. When she turned to me, her eyes were red-rimmed and watery. She huffed a laugh before blurting, “I’m pregnant. I didn’t want to tell you like this.”
Was sheeverplanning to tell me?
A million things spun through my head, but the first thing that came out was, “Is it mine?”
I wasn’t sure what I wanted the answer to be, but when she told me “no,” relief didn’t follow. Only more loss. More guilt and regret.
Everything I wanted, given to someone else—what, weeks after we broke up? Did it start before that? I couldn’t bring myself to ask.
“I’m sorry,” she’d whispered.
I’d never told anyone about that day. Not Fox, not Volk, not Tara, or my family. Some things you carry alone because saying them out loud means admitting how much they cost you.
