“Best decision I’ve made all summer,” Ivy said, stepping away. “I’ll let you two catch up.” She high-fived Miles, as did Sloane, and they disappeared through the double doors.
Silence pressed in around us, the kind that felt too heavy to fill with small talk.
“So…” Em nodded toward Miles, her blue eyes curious. “Is this the famous nephew? The more famous Abbott?”
“This is Miles,” I said. “Miles, this is Em.”
He peeked up from where he’d been hiding his face against my shoulder. “Hi.”
Em’s whole face softened. “Hi, buddy. You look sharp in that jersey.”
He grinned shyly and hid again.
I smiled, rubbing his back. “He’s tired. Long day hanging out here. We also just moved and are trying to find schools. His routine is off,” I rambled, scolding myself for sounding so lame. My face heated as I cleared my throat, but Em didn’t seem to care.
Em laughed quietly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I heard about your sister, Noah, and I’m so sorry. You’re a good man,” she said, jutting her chin toward Miles.
I nodded, throat tight. There wasn’t much to say to that. I swallowed hard and forced a small smile. “Thanks.”
“I didn’t know if I should reach out,” she said. “After… well, after that night. I wanted to, but?—”
“I get it.” I waved my free hand in the air, wanting this conversation to stop. My stomach squirmed, and I wanted to pull her into a hug, breathe in her coffee and vanilla perfume and go back to that night, to the pier. To want go back tomy lifefelt so selfish when Miles needed me. And whenever I wished forbefore, guilt ate at me and made me feel like the world’s worst person. I’d been to Dr. Mercer’s sessions weekly to deal with these feelings, but therapy wasn’t helping. “Really happy for you, Em. Glad to see you’re with the team.”
She blinked, put off by my direct tone. My voice was too sharp, and I couldn’t stop it. “Thank you. For p-pushing me to email her.”
Shit. Her stutter. I closed my eyes, hating myself for making her nervous just as Miles whined against my shoulder. “I’m hungry. Can we go home?”
“I’ll leave you guys, but Miles, hey, if you ever want your own jersey, let your uncle know. I’ll hook you up.”
“With my name on it?” He lifted his head and looked at her. “That’s cool!”
Em grinned and nodded. “Oh, totally your name on it.”
“Yeah! I want one! Can I, please?”
“I’ll work on it right away.” Em’s smiled didn’t quite reach her eyes, and I wanted to demand a real one. But I had to leave. I was tired. Miles was tired.
“Look—” I said, but she stopped me.
“I’ll see you around, Noah.” Her gaze softened, but something like disappointment washed over her features before she went back through the double doors, leaving me in the parking garage alone. I’d wanted to date her for four years back at school, and the one night I had my chance, I blew it.
Now I wasn’t sure I’d ever get that opportunity again.
5
EM
Sassy tilted her head from where she sprawled on the couch, tail wagging against the cushions like she understood. I tugged my hair into a bun and washed my face, watching foundation swirl down the drain. Today had been… a lot. My dream, my goal, all of it was happening because Noah Abbott told me to send an email.
Two months ago, I was stitching custom hoodies in my apartment after work, trying to convince myself that going viral twice meant something. Now, I had an official contract with the Chicago Rampage as a seasonal apparel designer.
The position wasn’t full-time, but it was the first step. The job started with developing a small player-led capsule collection—five pieces that blurred the line between fan gear and streetwear. The front office wanted “wearable pride,” outfits that players and fans could both love. I reported to the team’s director of brand and community relations. My responsibilities were straightforward but endless: sketch, source, sample, and approve. Coordinate with the licensing department for brand compliance. Attend team meetings for player feedback. Work with marketing on the rollout.
My schedule meant early mornings at the practice facility and late nights at my sewing machine. It meant standing beside Ivy Emerson during fittings, talking fabrics and sizing while NFL players cracked jokes about rhinestones. It meant translating a franchise identity into textures and seams.
This opportunity was everything I’d wanted.
But seeing Noah today had twisted my stomach. He seemed different—bigger, broader, older in a way that had nothing to do with age. He’d always been steady, but now there was a weight to him, like he carried more than his pads. The kid, Miles, looked so much like him it hurt. The missing tooth, the wide grin. I didn’t know the full story yet, just that his sister passed and he was taking care of his nephew. Going through that had to be hard, but I saw the ache in Noah’s eyes when he looked at the kid. It made my heart clench.
