“At this point?” I let out a bitter laugh. “I’m a former pro athlete living in my friend’s garage apartment, and I can’t even pick up a ten-pound weight without pain shooting through my wrist.”
“Exactly.” He grins, and there’s something almost gleeful about it. “You have nothing to lose, man, which means you’re free to do anything. No reputation to protect, no image to maintain. Just you, being real.”
His words sit with me through the rest of our run, following me as we loop back toward his house. They’re still echoing in my head through the whole afternoon while I help him organize his garage, through dinner where Sophie makes this incredible shepherd’s pie. The conversation haunts me into the evening as I retreat to my apartment to wind down for the night.
Even after I’ve taken a shower, the hot water sluicing away the day’s sweat, even after I’ve climbed into bed in my room still full of unpacked boxes, the conversation is on my mind. I stare at my ceiling, watching the headlights from passing cars paint moving shadows across the white paint.
Niall is right. What’s the worst Devin can do? Laugh in my face? Tell me to leave her alone? Never talk to me again?
I’ve already apologized—the broad strokes acknowledgment that I was wrong. But I should go further and bring up specific cases from the past. The pizza comment. The time I suggested her fatigue was just depression. The way I rolled my eyes when she said she needed to rest.
Yet the idea of talking about those times twists my stomach into knots. I know I need to talk to her if I have any shot of getting her back, but knowing doesn’t make me any less freaked out.
Giving up on sleep, I climb out of bed and trudge into the kitchen. The floor is cold against my bare feet. Getting busy always helps quiet my mind, but I have to be careful about not doing too much with my wrist. Which means no hitting up the twenty-four-hour gym in Portsmouth, no using my ice rink key to hit pucks around. The run today left my wrist aching enough as it is, a dull throb that pulses with my heartbeat.
My eyes fall on the sourdough cookbook Niall loaned me. I sit down at the small table and open it up. Niall was right, even a newbie like me can handle the recipes. The instructions are clear, and thanks to the starter Noah passed on to Niall to give me, I have everything I need to bake my first loaf of sourdough.
The dough is sticky at first, clinging to my fingers, but gradually it becomes smooth and elastic. Kneading is calming in a way I didn’t expect—it’s nothing like the explosive power of a slap shot or the controlled aggression of checking someone into the boards. This is gentle, patient work. Push, fold, turn. The dough yields differently than any opponent ever did, teaching me something about persistence without force.
By the time I have the dough in a bowl to proof overnight, covered with a damp kitchen towel just like the book instructs, my thoughts have slowed way down. The kitchen smells yeastyand warm. But I’m still not ready for bed, and my wrist isn’t aching too much.
The over-ripe bananas on the counter call out to me, their peels spotted with brown, almost black in places. Looking at them feels like a sign from above. I only like bananas when they still have a hint of green left, but I happen to know someone who loves banana bread. Someone who used to beg me to wait until the bananas were “properly speckled” before throwing them out.
They also happen to be someone I would love to have an excuse to talk to.
Pushing my shirt sleeves back up, I peel the bananas and get to work.
Chapter Thirteen
Devin
“First you want them to flex their foot before you apply the tape,” I tell Mikaela, the intern. My fingers guide hers to the right position on Emmy’s calf. “Then start the anchor point below the knee on the back.”
The physical therapy room smells like wintergreen and athletic tape, that familiar combination that’s become the backdrop of my workdays. Mikaela watches intently as I demonstrate the proper tension, her dark ponytail swaying as she leans closer.
“Like this?” She positions the tape, waiting for my approval.
“Perfect. Now wrap it around, keeping the pressure consistent.” I watch her work, making minor adjustments. Emmy sits patiently on the treatment table, her track bag at her feet, one leg dangling while we work on the other.
We’re just finishing up, Mikaela smoothing down the final strip of tape, when the door to the physical therapy room opens. The familiar squeak of those hinges makes me look up, expectingto see Coach Reynolds checking on Emmy’s progress, but it’s Oliver.
Even with his weight loss, he nearly fills the doorway. His broad shoulders block the fluorescent light from the hallway, casting him in silhouette for just a moment before he steps inside. His presence takes up the room—not just physically, but in some other way that makes the air feel charged, different. My heart does a complete somersault in my chest, and I give him a quick smile before turning back to the two girls.
“You’re good to go,” I tell Emmy, tapping her taped calf gently. “Remember to ice it tonight after practice.”
Emmy grabs her bag, hopping down from the table with the easy grace of a teenager who doesn’t yet know what chronic pain feels like. “Thanks, Ms. D.”
Mikaela goes about putting the tape and scissors away, organizing the supply drawer with the methodical precision I’ve been teaching her. The metallic snip of scissors sliding into their holder fills the quiet as I head over to Oliver.
It’s been a couple of days since we had coffee at Rye Again, forty-eight hours that have somehow stretched like taffy while also flying by in a blur. I’d be lying if I said he hasn’t constantly been on my mind—popping up when I’m reviewing patient files, when I’m teaching yoga, when I’m lying in bed trying to fall asleep. Seeing him now unleashes a whole kaleidoscope of butterflies in my stomach, wings beating against my ribs. I feel more like a student here than an adult—a kid who has a high school crush on the handsome hockey player who just walked into her world.
“Hey.” The word comes out softer than I intended. Realizing I suddenly don’t know what to do with my hands—they want to reach for him, touch him, make sure he’s real—I stuff them deep into my hoodie’s pockets.
“Hey. How are you?” His eyes search my face, like he’s been wondering the same things I have for the past two days.
“Pretty good. How are you?”
“Good. I’m a little early for practice, but I wanted to pop in and say hi.”
