The network wants it. Us. The thing that’s real. Private. His and mine. And underneath all of it, the old piece is still out there. Still mine, even if the name isn’t.
“Nothing,” I say.
He doesn’t push it.
His hand is still in mine.
I don’t look at him.
I don’t know which version of this ends well.
Chapter seventeen
Jax
She’sinmyshirt.
Not one of the good ones. Practice shirt, worn soft, number 31 across the back. Hair up. Coffee in one hand. Phone in the other. Bare feet on my floor.
I stand in the doorway and just — stop. Fourteen months on Bumble. Eleven dates. Paid every check. Came home alone every time. Brick on my chest. Quiet house.
Enough.
Until it wasn’t.
Until her.
I make coffee. She doesn’t hear me come in — deep in her phone, that frown she gets when something’s wrong. I put her cup onthe counter at the right temperature. Then I go right back to my tablet like any of this is normal.
“Thanks.”
She reaches for it without looking up. Drinks. Goes back to whatever’s wrong. Neither of us says anything.
Three minutes later: “This city has the worst sports radio in the league.”
“Which show.”
“The morning one. The two guys… the one with red curly hair.”
“Hendricks and Cole.”
“Yup. They just said the Cyclones won’t make it past the Conference Final because—” pause — “the goalie is a question mark.”
I look up.
Jaw set. The tight quality it gets when she’s already decided something is worth her time.
“Question mark,” she says again.
“They said that last year.”
“And?”
“We’re still here.”
She looks at me over her phone. Too early for a smile — but something shifts. “You’re very calm about someone calling you a question mark.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
