That sentence sounds like bullshit coming from a man who’s spent fifteen years wearing the same colors, sleeping in the same city, living inside rituals so specific they border on religion—same pregame meal, same sock order, same way I lace my skates like the game depends on it.
Still.
Change doesn’t scare me.Hell, I learned how to blend in before I could spell “Winthrop” without fucking it up.Adaptation’s easy when you know no one’s coming back for you.I was six when my parents sent me away.Six—old enough to understand I was being left, young enough to be told it was a gift.They called it an opportunity.Education.Structure.
They handed me a trunk, a hug that lasted three seconds too long, and a smile that tried very hard to sell the lie.
So I learned to be easy.Charming.Good enough that no one would regret sending me away.I learned how to need very little even when I had everything.That’s the trick with money—people think it fills holes.It doesn’t.It just decorates them.
I found family where kids like me always do.As I got older, the places changed.Locker rooms.Late nights.Teammates who turn into brothers because they see you fail and still tell you to get the fuck up.
And then there washer.
My Vesper.
She’s the constant I’ve orbited since I was sixteen.No matter the city, the era, or the version of myself I’m pretending to be.She’s home even when she won’t choose me.Home when she’s loud and reckless and enjoying life.Home when she’s quiet, brave, and pretending she doesn’t need anyone.
I would do anything for her.
Always.
Which is how I ended up in the back seat of an SUV, three feet from the one man on earth who makes me want to commit a felony with my bare hands—or do something far more confusing.The jury’s still out.
Alberto Montoya Navarro Wade.
Fucking Monty.
He’s infuriating.He’s closed off until you get close enough to feel the heat under it.He’s a challenge with shoulders too broad for his jacket and a stare that never blinks first.He’s a problem I used to enjoy from a distance.
It was easier when we only saw each other a few times a year.A handful of games where I could push his buttons, make him react, make him crack.Rivalry inside the rivalry.Clean lines.Clear rules.
Now?
Now we’re teammates.
Now we’re supposed to function like adults who don’t want the same woman.Like two men who won’t circle her when she’s bleeding herself dry trying to hold everything together.Like we won’t both try to save her from becoming her mother—running a camp until it runs her into the ground.
I hate how fast that instinct settles in me.
Protect her.Keep her safe.Even from herself.
The hospital parking lot comes into view, and Vesper changes.Her shoulders lift.Her fingers tighten around her cup.Her breath goes thin, controlled.
I see it.
I always see it.
Grief taught her this place means danger.Medical buildings took her mother and rewired the way she walks into places like this.
“Hey,” I say softly.“I’m here.We’ve got this.”
She doesn’t look at me, just nods once, like she’s accepting the words without leaning on them.
Monty’s out of the car before the engine fully cuts off, opening her door like it’s instinct.His hand hovers—careful.He helps her down without pulling her close, like he’s obeying her rules.
It should make me grateful, but instead, it makes my jaw lock.
Vesper steps out too fast and wobbles for half a breath.Both of us move out of instinct.His hand.My arm.
