Page 38 of Forever Offsides

“I’d say two to three months, and probably on the lower end of that number with training. The new bone tissue will be fragile, and the surrounding muscles, tendons, and ligaments need time to recover as well. But since it’s such a minor injury, I do think you’ll be back in a couple of months.”

The kid curses. “Sorry, ma’am. I mean, Doctor.”

Quinn laughs and waves him away. “Don’t be sorry. It does suck, but if it helps, this really is the smallest fracture you could have. I see way worse than that all the time. Because it’s so small, and you have the best care with your trainers, you’ll be back and in top form before midseason.”

I smack the kid’s shoulder. “You’re going to have every play in the playbook running through your head so much you’ll dream about them.”

Avery smiles up at me, his white teeth gleaming against his dark skin. “No doubt, Coach.”

“Good stuff. Let’s get you booted up, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I leave the room and let the medical and training staff do their job, and go up to my office. I shower off a bad day and spend the next three hours with my coaching staff. By the time I leave, I’m beat, and the idea of going home to my townhouse and to all the boxes I still have yet to unpack isn’t ideal.

It’s ironic. Being alone and even lonely never bothered me so much before. Then I spent my evenings texting with a bright, funny, sarcastic, beautiful woman, and now everything without that feels colorless and bland.

I unlock my front door and step inside to look around. It’s a beautiful place in a great neighborhood. Considering I bought it without seeing it in person, I got lucky. It’s full of classic Boston architecture and charm with modern upgrades.

I toss my keys on the entry table, lock everything up, and head into the kitchen to reheat leftover Chinese food and finish up with the kitchen. There are only three boxes left in here, so it shouldn’t be too bad.

“Alexa, play Tim McGraw radio.”

Her annoying AI prep schoolgirl voice comes through the speaker, and a minute later, music fills my kitchen. I eat and unpack and organize and do everything I can not to pick up my phone. Or think about Quinn. I hate how hard up I am. It’s just disappointment though. And loneliness.

I considered her mine. My girl. My girlfriend.

But once she learned my age—the other bullshit aside—that likely would have sent her running. I’m a man in my mid-forties, and she’s in her late twenties. I’m at the midlife health screens and colonoscopy stage, and she’s barely out of college, living her best single-girl life.

Only… Quinn felt different. Older. More mature. Maybe that comes with being an Olympic athlete and graduating high school so early.

My food dings in the microwave, and I pull out the steaming bowl, letting it cool for a minute and giving in to temptation far too quickly for my liking.

I type Quinn Reyes Olympics into my search engine, and dozens of articles and videos pop up. I still can’t get over that she won gold. Wow.

There’s a video of her gold medal run, and I hit play. “Alexa, stop.” The music cuts off, and the announcers’ voices come through my phone’s speaker, talking about what a young and talented kid she is. How she’s the second youngest competitor in the sport, but her preliminary qualifying run or whatever scored her high enough marks to put her in first place for this final run.

Quinn covered in light blue—her favorite color and mine—snow pants, a white snow jacket, large goggles, and a helmet is at the starting point. Then she takes off, going down, then up through the halfpipe. The announcers are going nuts.

“The score she needs to beat tonight is an eighty-four, and I think she can do it, Carl.”

“I agree, Megan. She’s been fearless in these games.”

“Yes, and here she goes.”

“Look at all the airlift she’s getting with that backside 720.”

“Wow, Carl, a double cork, and she lands it. Amazing.”

“Megan, she wanted to knock this out of the park on run number one, and I think she just did that.”

She pumps her fist in the air after she finishes her run, and her parents and brothers are there, hugging her. They talk briefly about how Asher is a professional football player, but it’s all Quinn. The clip flips over to her on the podium with the biggest smile I’ve ever seen mixed with tears in her eyes.

I lock my phone and rub a weary hand across my forehead before I turn the music back on and pick up my chopsticks to shovel chicken and noodles into my mouth. I can’t text her. I can’t do it. Any communication is a bad idea and will only sink me further.

Seeing that video didn’t help. As if I didn’t already know it, she’s incredible. So smart and talented.

But she’ll never be mine. Not again.

The sooner I accept that, the better for everyone.