He hasn’t seen me yet. For one selfish second, I just watch him, broad shoulders hunched in a plain T-shirt, the curve of his mouth pulled down instead of up like the man I know. The man who used to smile at me like I was his whole world looks like he hasn’t smiled in months.
My pulse stumbles. My grip on my bag tightens.
And no matter how hard I try, I can’t unlearn the way he unravels me.
I should’ve walked back out. Pretended I didn’t see him, gone home, poured myself a glass of wine, and convinced myself it was better this way.
But I didn’t. My feet betray me, carrying me deeper into The Bar until the music dulls and all I can feel is the pull of his presence across the room.
He looks up. His eyes lock on mine like no time has passed at all.
“Sarah.”
Just my name. Rough. Low. It scrapes over me like sandpaper and silk all at once.
I freeze. Every part of me wants to look away, pretend I didn’t hear him, but my body doesn’t listen. My gaze drags back to his, and suddenly the noise of The Bar fades into a low hum behind us.
He crosses the space between us in a few long strides. Up close, the shadows under his eyes are deeper, his jaw sharper from the grind of holding himself together. He smells faintly of soap and beer, clean but tired, like a man who hasn’t slept in days.
“Coach,” I manage, the word stiff on my tongue. I force my hand tighter around the strap of my bag so he won’t see it shake.
His mouth tips, but it’s not quite a smile. “That’s new.”
“You earned it.” My tone is lighter than I feel. “Bowl invite’s no small deal.”
“Offense finally showed up.” His voice is even, but there’s no pride in it, none of the spark I remember. Just flat, like he’s reciting stats.
Silence settles between us. But it’s not that comfortable feel we used to have. It’s heavy and drags at me, pulling me back to every moment I swore I’d forget.
“You look good, Sarah.”
I hate that my breath catches. “That supposed to be small talk?”
He shakes his head back and forth slightly, “Just the truth.”
The weight of it lands between us, raw, too familiar.
I shift my bag higher on my shoulder, searching for something casual to say, but every word that comes to mind tastes wrong. Every word that comes to mind feels sharp where it shouldn’t, soft where it matters, and dangerously close to the truth.
“You here with your crew?” I ask finally.
He nods once. “Couple of the guys wanted a drink.” His gaze flicks toward the table behind him, where two coaches hover over a pool game, but he doesn’t move to join them. His eyes stay on me.
I swallow hard. “Ellie dragged me out.”
“Ellie.” He says it like he’s just cataloging, nothing more. But then, quieter, “And Emma?”
I shake my head. “No. Just Ellie tonight.”
“That’s good,” he says, then adds after a beat, “She and Ethan must have a lot on their plate being new homeowners and all. I mean, it’s their second place, right? NFL money basically means he makes more than God.”
I just nod. He’s on a modified schedule right now after a minor injury, so they’re splitting time and staying closer to family when they can.
The silence stretches. My pulse won’t settle. He looks at me the way he always has, like I’m both the problem and the solution, the wound and the cure.
I hate that I still want to close the distance.
“You seem… tired,” I say before I can stop myself.
