As if ruin is one thing.
As if it happens all at once.
I think of Peyton’s question in the dark.
If today had been ordinary, would you have stopped?
No.
I said it because it was true.
I still want her.
Wanting is not the dangerous part.
The dangerous part is how easy it was to make stopping look like honor when part of me liked being the one strong enough to leave.
I swing.
Clean this time.
The ball goes straight.
Not far.
Straight.
That will have to count.
For now.
All I can do is play honest.
Lead better than I did in Houston.
And wait to see if Peyton can tell the difference.
Peyton
Jennifer’s office is designed to make influence look tasteful.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the practice rink. Succulents line the sill. The desk is organized without becoming sterile. A framed photo of Jennifer with the team after the franchise’s first home win sits behind her right shoulder, exactly where a visitor can notice it without feeling forced.
Power with good lighting.
I respect the craft. I hate being inside it.
“Peyton, thanks for coming in.” Jennifer stands as I enter. Navy suit. Cream blouse. Smile polished enough to survive a deposition. “Coffee? Water?”
“I’m fine.”
“Of course.”
We sit across from each other and pretend this is a conversation.
“I wanted to touch base about the profile,” Jennifer says. “Your editor reached out about timing, which we appreciate. We want to make sure we’re aligned on approach.”
“Aligned how?”
