She was healing.
And every day she let me in a little more, I felt like I was winning something I hadn’t even known I was fighting for.
Then she got the all-clear.
Not full contact. Not game minutes. Not yet.
But light footwork. Controlled drills. Indoor scrimmages on the horizon.
She tried to play it cool when Tiffany told her, but Isa Calloway’s face betrayed her before pride could catch up. Her whole expression lit from the inside. Shoulders loose. Eyes bright. Mouth trembling around a smile she didn’t want anyone to see.
I stood beside the treatment table with my arms crossed and smiled so hard my face hurt.
“That’s good,” I said.
She looked up at me.
“Good?” she repeated. “That’s all?”
I shrugged. “Trying not to be dramatic.”
“You shoved Tristan Vale at a beach party.”
“Exactly. Growth.”
She laughed, and I almost kissed her right there in front of the training staff.
Almost.
Underneath the happiness, though, something low and ugly twisted in my gut.
Her season was starting back up.
Mine was already deep. Conference championship on the line. Scouts circling harder every week. Cameras finding me after games. Reporters asking questions like they already knew the answer they wanted.
Holidays were coming fast.
New Year’s Eve would follow quickly.
And I could feel the pace of us shifting even while we were still standing in the same spot.
She was healing.
She was getting stronger.
And some selfish part of me was terrified that when she got her real life back, she’d realize she didn’t need mine anymore.
We were on my couch two nights later, arguing over which Thai place had the higher protein count, when it came out of me.
“Need you to come home for Thanksgiving with me,” I said.
Too fast.
Too rough.
Too much like a play snapped before the offense was set.
Isa paused with her fork halfway to her mouth.
