When his lips finally meet mine, it’s light. A question more than a statement.
And I answer.
The kiss deepens, not fast or desperate but perfectly certain. Like he’s memorizing me. Like he’s afraid the moment might disappear. His hand stays steady at my neck, warm and protective, and my fingers curl into the front of his shirt, reminding myself this is real. His lips taste me and I can’t get enough of him.
I feel it—the way everything keeps shifting and locking into place. Colson pulls back to rest his forehead against mine again, noses brushing, our breaths tangled.
“I love knowing you,” he murmurs.
I smile, heart racing, still tasting him. That is quite literally one of the dreamiest things anyone has ever said to me. The words, plus the way he looks at me? Unmatched.
Standing here, waves rolling in, summer wrapping around us, I realize something quietly, undeniably true.
I am falling in love with Colson Burke.
forty-one
Colson
Theechooftheball against the hardwood settles something in my chest. Makes me feel like I’m at home.
It’s been two weeks since I called Howie and told him I wasn’t finished. How I was ready to find my next team. Two weeks of waking up sore in the good way, of rehab bands and makeshift ice baths, of trusting my shoulder again instead of flinching every time I lifted my arm over my head.
Today is Sadie’s idea, actually.
Invite them to see you,she’d said, like it was obvious.Let them watch you move. Actions speak louder than words. You know that.
So now I’m at the rec center, the same one that only a few weeks ago smelled like mildew and rainwater after the storm. The court gleams like it’s ready for something new.
I roll my shoulders as I jog through warm-ups, focusing on form, on rhythm. Howie stands near the sideline with his phone up, already filming, his familiar intense expression locked in. Two other guys—contacts he pulled through favors and old relationships—stand a few feet away, quietly taking notes. They work with teams that had expressed interest, before I even made the choice to come back. Howie asked if I wanted to know what teams they were from and I said no. Doesn’t matter. The goal remains the same: to show them I’m worth a shot.
And then there’s Sadie.
She’s on the bleachers with her laptop open, legs tucked beneath her, hair pulled back. She’s pretending to be focused on something—camp schedules or some admin—but I know better. I can feel her eyes on me.
A night on my own is rare lately. Somewhere between dinners at her place, mornings at mine, late walks and sunsets at the beach, we’ve sort of… folded into each other’s lives. Easily. The thought steadies me as I move into drills.
I cut hard, pivot, pull up. The shot feels clean. My shoulder doesn’t protest. I hear the ball hit the bottom of the net and something loosens in my chest.
You can do this.
I run through another sequence, breathing controlled, body leaning into muscle memory. Every movement feels like proof—not only to them, but to me.
When I glance up again, Sadie’s smiling, a bit restrained, like she doesn’t want to distract me but can’t help it. I swear it gives me an extra inch of lift.
Between reps, I grab my water bottle, hands on my hips, heart thudding. Howie nods at me, with a look that saysthis is goodwithout saying it out loud. One of the scouts murmurs something to the other, scribbling faster now.
This feels doable. The next team. The next city.
But right on its heels comes the ache that’s been hanging around for a bit. Golden Harbor has been good to me. Better than I expected. There’s a part of me that tightens at the thought of summer ending, of packing this up and leaving—of leavingher. The idea sits deep in my stomach, dull and uncomfortable, like I don’t want to look at it too closely yet.
One thing at a time.
I head back out onto the court, catching Sadie’s gaze for a brief moment. She lifts her chin, almost sayingyou’ve got thiswithout words.
IknowI do.
I take the ball at the top of the key, breathe once, then drive.
