Tristan.
Leaning against the hood of his SUV in sweats and a black jacket, hands in his pockets, face shadowed and tired and waiting.
Not dressed up.
Not dramatic.
Not trying to fix it with flowers or words or overreach.
Just there.
My whole chest cracks open.
I stop walking.
For one second I think I might actually hold it together.
Then he pushes off the car and starts toward me, and the second he does my eyes fill so fast it’s humiliating.
He reaches me.
Doesn’t say anything at first.
Just takes my bag off my shoulder and sets it down, then opens his arms.
That’s all it takes.
I go into them like something cut loose.
Not pretty.
Not controlled.
Not graceful in any way.
He catches all of me.
One arm around my back.
One hand at the back of my head.
My face buried in his chest while the first tears of the night finally come hot and hard and angry into the front of his jacket.
“I know,” he murmurs.
That’s it.
Notyou played great.
Notyou’ll get them next year.
Not anything hopeful enough to feel insulting.
Just—I know.
Athlete to athlete.
I clutch the front of his jacket and cry into it for exactly as long as my body needs before the tears thin out into shaking breaths and exhaustion.
