Because the truth is, I’d take a hundred autograph seekers over this gnawing uncertainty about Devin. Every interaction from today plays through my mind in excruciating detail. The way her face lit up when I brought those maple donuts to her work. That small, private smile we shared before the game when she thought no one was looking. The easy conversation in the locker room afterward, her laugh echoing off the concrete walls when one of the kids cracked a joke.
Had I misread everything?
I take a deep breath, the words forming on my tongue—Sophie would understand, she’d tell me if I’m being an idiot—when the pizzeria door swings open with its familiar chime.
Mark Bailey walks in like he owns the place.
He hasn’t changed much since our playing days. Same calculated stride, shoulders thrown back, chin lifted just enough to make sure everyone notices him. The overhead lights catch the expensive watch on his wrist as he scans the room. His leather jacket probably cost more than most people’s monthly rent, and he wears it with the casual arrogance of someone who’s never had to check a price tag.
Our eyes meet. His face splits into that practiced media smile, all teeth and no warmth, and he makes a beeline for our table.
“Hey, Paxton, surprised to see me?”
Every muscle in my body tightens. “Bailey, what are you doing here?”
He pastes a wounded look on his face, pressing a hand to his chest like he’s genuinely hurt. “I just happened to be in the area and thought I’d drop by to see my old teammate. I read an article about you getting a coaching gig on this little island and wanted to see it for myself.”
Little island.The condescension drips from every word.
“Well, thanks for stopping by.” My voice comes out rigid, formal, nothing like the easy conversation I’d been having with my friends’ moments ago.
Bailey’s mouth opens, probably to deliver another barb disguised as friendly banter, but the door chimes again.
Devin walks in, and the entire world tilts on its axis.
The black dress hugs every curve I remember and some new ones I don’t. It stops mid-thigh, revealing legs that seem to go on forever, ending in heeled boots that click against the floor with each step. A faux-fur coat drapes over her shoulders, giving her an air of casual elegance. Her brown hair, usually falling loose around her shoulders, has been swept up and pinned back, exposing the graceful line of her neck. The makeup—not overdone, just enhanced—makes her eyes appear larger, darker, and her lips...
Bailey mutters something and retreats to a booth across the restaurant, but I barely register his departure.
My jaw goes slack. I’m that cartoon wolf, eyes bulging, heart pounding so hard it might burst right through my chest. She moves through the crowded pizzeria like she’s floating, weaving between tables with effortless grace, and with each step closer, my pulse ratchets up anothernotch.
“Hi.” The single syllable rolls off her tongue like honey when she reaches us.
My throat constricts, dry as sandpaper. “Hey.”
“Hey, Devin.” Sophie’s appreciative whistle is low but audible. “You look amazing.”
“Thanks.” Devin’s hand rises to touch one of the pins in her hair, a gesture so achingly familiar it makes my chest tight. The slight flush on her cheeks only makes her more beautiful, if that’s even possible.
“Can I get you a drink?” The words tumble out, my body already moving before my brain catches up.
“Sure. I’ll take a cranberry and soda water.”
I nod, grateful for the excuse to move, to do something other than stand there gaping at her. She falls into step beside me as we navigate toward the bar. The crowd has thickened since we arrived, bodies pressed together as everyone angles for a view of the game on the mounted TVs. The energy in the entire room crackles with anticipation between the game and the celebration.
We join the queue at the bar, at least six people ahead of us. I scramble for something to say, but my brain short-circuits every time I glance at her. The way the dim bar lighting catches the gloss on her lips. The subtle perfume that wasn’t there this afternoon—something floral with an undertone of vanilla.
“So you don’t drink.” The words escape before I can stop them. “That’s good. A healthy choice.”
Christ. I might as well have commented on the weather. Or her tax returns.
“It’s not recommended with POTS.” She pauses at my blank expression, then clarifies, “Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome. It can make me dizzy and lightheaded. I’ll pass out if I’m not careful.”
The casual way she says it—like it’s just another fact about herself, like mentioning she’s left-handed or allergic toshellfish—makes my chest constrict. “I’m sorry. Is that related to the chronic fatigue syndrome?”
“Probably.” Her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes this time. “It showed up seven months ago. I’ve had to... adjust things in my life. Again.”
That single word—again—carries so much weight. How many times has she had to reshape her world around her body’s betrayals? And where was I when she needed someone?
