Not the trade announcement, the press conference, or even the new jersey.Nope.
The moment I see her again.Because this time, the league won’t be the only thing asking for a decision.I need her to choose.Choose me, love me.
Unless it’s him she wants and then ...well, I’m not sure I can survive hearing her say it out loud.
ChapterThree
Vesper
I’m at Gate C12 pretending I’m a functional adult instead of a woman held together by caffeine, deadlines, and avoidance.I’m hunched over my laptop editing footage like my life depends on a clean cut—like if I can make the story make sense, I can make my own story make sense too.
It doesn’t.
What it depends on is the phone call I don’t see coming until it’s already ringing.It starts vibrating before I see the screen, and for half a second I convince myself it’s a producer, or a friend, or one of my brothers sending me a meme that says we’re fine while actively not being fine.
Then Dad’s name flashes across the glass.Along with his photo—him in a baseball cap that’s seen too many summers, squinting into the sun like it’s always in his way.
My father doesn’t call when I’m on assignment.He texts—short, practical, usually one sentence written by a man allergic to punctuation and convinced emotions are a luxury item.He’ll say things like:
Landed?
Eat.
Don’t die.
The most he’s written was last year with a:What’s my Netflix password?I had to remind him that he canceled his subscription because they stopped airing his favorite show.He had to reactivate his account.It happens a lot.Someone pisses him off, he cancels his service, and you know what?I love that for him.It keeps him entertained.
So when he calls, my first thought is:Someone’s dead.
My second thought is:It better not be him.
I answer on the first ring, because if I let it go to voicemail, my imagination will set itself on fire right here between the Hudson News and the coffee shop that smells like heavenly pastries.“If this is about you buying another truck you don’t need,” I say, going for sarcastic, going for normal, “I’m starting a GoFundMe for your impulse control.”
His laugh comes through, but it’s not his full laugh.It sounds like it had to fight its way out.As if it got stuck somewhere and had to be tugged free.
“Hey, kiddo.”
My stomach tilts.
Not from nerves.From recognition.
ThatHey, kiddoisn’t a greeting.It’s a door cracking open.
My fingers curl tighter around the phone.I stare at my timeline—paused on a frame of a teenage goalie in a dusty rink, eyes bright with that particular delusion boys have when they still think talent is enough.
“Dad,” I say, softer now, “what’s going on?”
The pause is long enough to make the airport dissolve around me.
A toddler shrieks nearby, high-pitched and furious, but it’s like I’m underwater.Someone drags a suitcase with a busted wheel and it thunks-thunks-thunks across the tiles.A gate agent repeats an announcement in Finnish and then English, but really, no one is listening to it.
All of it fades until it’s just my father breathing on the other end of the line.
My father doesn’t choose words unless there’s a problem.
I flick my eyes over my email, my messages, as if I’ll find a headline that explains this.I do a quick search out of habit—because my brain grabs for facts when my chest goes to war with my heart.
I check on my brothers, and Luther’s team might not make it to the playoffs.Creed might retire.Nothing about my family, because the press never really knows my brothers.They’re too private, too disciplined, too trained in the art of saying nothing and giving reporters even less.
