Tessa
The coffee shop buzzes with the usual campus noise—the hiss of the espresso machine, the clink of spoons, and boots thudding by the door. It’s the kind of background noise that somehow makes it easier to think.
I’m tucked in my usual corner, laptop open, notes spread out like I’ve been working for hours. But I’m not doing homework. I’ve been scrolling through course lists, trying to figure out what it would take to change my major.
Ever since Christmas, the thought’s been stuck in my head—this pull to do something that feels likeme.
I felt it when my niece climbed onto my lap with her picture book, her little voice stumbling through each word. I felt it again watching my nephews outside, so proud of the lopsided snowman they built.
I’d forgotten how much I love being around kids—teaching, encouraging, and watching their faces light up when something finally clicks.
So I made an appointment with a guidance counselor next week. I want to shift my degree from early childhood development to elementary education. It’s not a huge change, but it feels like the right one. Like I’m finally moving toward something that fits.
I scroll through the list of required classes again, jotting down the names of the ones that catch my eye, trying to picture what next semester could look like. But it’s hard to focus. My pen keeps tapping against the notebook as my thoughts drift back to Clay. The way his hand gripped my waist and how he said my name like it meant something to him.
And then I hear it.
Two girls sit at the table next to mine, cheeks flushed from the cold, scarves still draped around their necks. They’re chatting over steaming mugs when I catch the name that makes my stomach drop.
“Did you hear who they hired as the new hockey assistant coach? Clay Barlowe.”
My pen slips out of my hand, clattering against the table. My heart stutters at the thought of him being back on campus.
The second girl laughs, scrolling on her phone. “Of course it’s him. He’s a legend on campus, even with his reputation as a hothead. I guess he’s back on his hands and knees, trying to reclaim his glory days. And they’re handing him a whistle like it's charity.”
She turns her screen toward her friend, and I see it with my own eyes. Clay’s photo at the top of a Kolmont press release. He’s wearing a familiar black polo with the Kings logo, his jaw locked and eyes serious. It’s a kind of photo that’s supposed to look confident, but it mostly just looks like someone trying to keep their emotions in check.
I shouldn’t be surprised, considering he was in town before winter break and left early to head homefor work.Still, hearing it out loud cuts deeper than I want to admit. I grab my coffee just to have something to do with my hands, but the bitterness sits heavy on my tongue.
But all I can think about is how fast news travels in this town. And how, for better or worse, I won’t be able to escape my feelings for him now that we’re being forced back together again.
“They must be desperate if they’re picking him. There goes our chances of making it far this season. At least it’s interim. Maybe he will blow this like his knee, and they’ll can his ass.”
A sarcastic laugh sticks in my throat. I duck my head, letting my hair fall forward so they don’t see my face. Part of me wants to speak up, same as I did at the gala when that reporter ranhis mouth. Tell them they don’t know him, that they don’t get to pick apart a man who’s fought his way back from worse than they’ll ever understand.
But the words stay locked in my chest. Because as much as I want to defend him, another part of me stings harder.
He left early. Packed up, flew back to Kolmont without me, and didn’t say a word. Not where he was going. Not why. Just silence and a ticket left behind like that was supposed to make it okay.
And now here he is—back on campus, in my world, and still in my head—and I had to find out from a couple of catty girls in a coffee shop.
The room feels smaller, and my skin is damp from the heat spreading through me. My stomach twists, and I can’t tell if it’s anger, embarrassment, or both.
For days, I’ve been telling myself I should move on. Burying myself in work and school—anything that made me feel normal again. What happened in that cabin was supposed to stay there. But now he’s here. His name, his face, everywhere.
And underneath it, the sting hits hard. He didn’t tell me. He couldn’t even warn me. Just left, disappeared, and now he’s on campus like it was nothing.
Was I just a week to him? Just a mistake he was hoping to leave behind? Something temporary before real life started again?
The coffee shakes in my hand, and I set it down before I spill it. My pen slips from my fingers and hits the floor, but I don’t bother picking it up. All I can hear is his name looping in my head—Clay Barlowe, Kolmont’s new interim coach.
I stare at my notes, but the words blur. He’s all I see now. There’s a dull ache in my chest from the way he left, and now this—finding out where he went like this.
I pack up my things without really thinking, shoving my notebook and laptop into my bag. Everything feels automatic, like I’m just moving through the motions. The next thing I know, I’m outside. The cold hits, the bell over the door rings behind me, and that’s what finally snaps me out of it.
He didn’t tell me.
Of all the things he said that night—the promises, the way he told me he wanted me, how much it meant that I was there when the reporter tried to get under his skin—he left this part out. That he’d end up here. That I’d have to see his name everywhere I turned.
