“Yeah.”
Something unexpected blooms in my chest, pushing aside the dread and shock that have been my companions all day. Pride. Pure, undiluted pride for her.
She always talked about it back in New York, usually late at night when the city lights painted patterns on our bedroom ceiling. Her own clinic, she’d say, where she could help people the way she wanted to, not the way insurance companies dictated. When she got sick—when the chronic fatigue syndrome started stealing her energy spoon by spoon—that dream seemed to slip further away with each flare-up.
But she did it. Despite everything, despite me, she actually did it.
My eyes scan the pizzeria, searching through the Friday night crowd for that familiar cascade of brown hair. Part of me wants to find her, to tell her how incredible she is, how proud I am. The other part—the smarter part—knows she wouldn’t care what I think anymore. She made that clear with the way she fled the bar. Either way, she’s vanished into the maze of booths and tables in the crowded restaurant. Maybe it’s for the best. Knowing me, I’d just stumble over my words and make things worse.
“We didn’t… end well.” The understatement trips off my tongue, a pathetic summary of how spectacularly I destroyed us.
“I’m sorry.” Niall’s voice carries genuine sympathy. He pauses, swirling his drink. “For what it’s worth, you’re both amazing people. I should know. I consider you two of my closest friends.”
The irony isn’t lost on me. How many Friday nights did Niall and I text about games while he was here and I was in whatever city my team was playing? How many times did he mention his boss who was building something special with her clinic? And Devin—how many times did she probably mention her friend Niall who worked with her, never knowing he was the same guy who’d been my teammate in college? We’ve been living parallel lives, sharing our joys and struggles with the same person, never knowing he was the bridge between our separate worlds.
The world is fucking crazy sometimes.
“How big is Pine Island again?” I arch an eyebrow at him, trying to calculate the odds of avoiding her in such a small place. I’d specifically chosen this area—living on Pine Island, working at Portsmouth High School just across the bridge—because I thought it would keep me under the radar. After the last two years of my life imploding in public, anonymity is what I desperately need.
“A few thousand people.” He nudges me with his elbow, a knowing grin spreading across his face. “But, hey. Unless you’ve suddenly developed an affinity for knitting or yoga, you probably won’t run into Devin. When she’s not at work, she’s at the knitting shop or teaching yoga classes.”
I force out a breath that’s supposed to sound relieved. “Yeah, those aren’t my scenes.”
But I’m lying through my teeth. Because despite the smart part of my brain screaming at me to stay away, I want to run into her. I just have no idea what I’d say beyond “I’m sorry.”
And then what? We shake hands and become friendly island neighbors who wave when we pass on the street? Who make small talk at the grocery store about the weather?
God, she looks good. Her thick brown hair has grown out past her shoulders, catching the bar lights like spun bronze. Her light brown skin glows with health, that soft sweater and those fitted leggings unable to hide the strong yoga body underneath.
How is the chronic fatigue syndrome? Has she found ways to manage it better? It must have been hell opening her own clinic while dealing with the crushing exhaustion, the headaches that would leave her in dark rooms for hours, the sleep that never quite refreshed her no matter how much she got.
Where does she live on the island? Some cozy cottage with a garden? An apartment overlooking the water? Is she—my stomach hardens—seeing anyone?
I bite the tip of my tongue until it stings. The truth is, I was awful to her. My head was shoved so far up my own ass I couldn’t see what she was really going through. Every time she couldn’t make a game, I took it personally. Every time she needed to rest instead of celebrating with the team, I acted like she was choosing to hurt me. If I’d just listened, if I’d believed her, if I’d been the partner she deserved, maybe?—
“Oliver Paxton?” A woman’s voice slices through my self-loathing.
I blink back to reality. A young woman stands beside me, practically vibrating with excitement, her smile stretching impossibly wide. “Oliver, from the Snow Falcons?”
Well, damn. So much for going unnoticed in small-town New Hampshire.
“Uhh…” For a split second, I consider denying it. But her eyes are already gleaming with certainty, and we both know she wouldn’t buy it anyway.
“Can I get a picture?” She’s already pulling out her phone,not waiting for an answer. The camera app opens with a soft click.
“Oh.” My palm automatically goes to my head, an old nervous habit. “I don’t really take pictures anymore.”
Either she doesn’t hear me or she doesn’t care. The phone is raised and ready, and she’s waving frantically at her friends across the restaurant. “Becca! Colleen! Get over here. It’s Oliver Paxton!”
The words might as well be a starter pistol. Heads turn throughout the pizzeria like dominoes falling. Conversations stop mid-sentence. Even people who probably don’t know a hockey puck from a dinner plate are leaning in, drawn by the electric current that runs through a room when someone famous is spotted.
“He doesn’t take photos.” Niall’s smile is still there, but it’s gone tight around the edges, his voice carrying a warning. If it were a guy instead of young women, he probably would have already stepped between us.
“It’s fine.” The words come out resigned. I’ve learned the fastest way to make them leave is to give them what they want. So I stand, forcing my mouth into that practiced photo smile—the one that got me through countless team events and sponsor obligations. Her friend snaps several shots while she presses against my side. Then all three of them crowd in for a selfie, phones extended at arm’s length.
But more people are moving now. The excited murmurs spread through the pizzeria like wildfire, each whisper drawing more attention. A couple gets up from their booth. Teenagers at a nearby table are pointing. Even the older couple by the window is craning their necks to see what’s happening. They form a semicircle that keeps tightening, bodies pressing closer, everyone wanting their piece of the moment.
There’s too many of them. Too many faces, too many voices overlapping into white noise, too many hands reaching out. Thewalls of the pizzeria seem to contract. The lights get brighter, harsher, like the arena lights that used to beat down on me during games.
