Page 108

“Katie, please, just let me⁠—”

“No. Not right now.” My grip tightens on the edge of the door. “You need to figure out what your priorities are. If this is something real, it won’t disappear just because we take a step back. We’ll talk when you’re ready.”

I let out a ragged breath. “I meant it,” I say, my voice barely a whisper. “When I said I loved you. I just didn’t realize how vulnerable it would make me.”

“Katie—”

“Don’t.”

I close the door, lean my back against the wood, and sink down until I’m sitting on the floor, burying my face in my knees. I meant every word.

I just don’t know if love is enough when someone doesn’t have room for it.

I lie awake for hours, tossing and turning until the sheets are a tangled mess. Every time I close my eyes, I’m back in that pub. I see Max staring at the script like a ghost, his face pale and hauntingly distant.

In the dream, I’m paralyzed in the doorway, unable to move or reach him. It’s like I’ve been flash-frozen inside an ice cube. I shout his name until my throat burns, but he never looks up. He can’t hear me over the sound of his own thoughts.

By the time my alarm finally cuts through the stillness, my eyes are gritty and my head feels like it’s packed with cotton. Despite the anger and the way he shut me out, I still find myself wondering if he’s okay. Whether he slept at all. Or whether his mum had managed to drag him home long enough to get a proper meal into him.

I stare at my phone for a long moment before finally giving in.

Katie

Don’t forget to eat today.

Three dots dance across the screen.

Max

You too.

Max

Good luck at training today.

It hurts how badly I still want things to go back to normal.

The crisp air on court two at the Stratford Sports Club does nothing to wake me up. My reaction time is sluggish this morning. My feet feel heavy and half a second late. And playing a practice set against Adala isn’t helping. We’ve been at it for about ten minutes, and she’s showing me absolutely no mercy.

Thwack.

I swing, but my approach shot clips the tape and drops straight back onto my side of the court.

“Stay low,” Drew shouts from the sideline. “Stop backing off the baseline.”

I take a deep breath, shoving aside my growing frustration, and bend my knees. A month ago, I would’ve spiraled after a start like this. I would’ve let the irritation overwhelm me and started playing safe just to avoid looking foolish. But as I look across the net at Adala, I realize I have to experiment.

Everything in my life right now is new and shifting, and that means taking chances. I can’t manage this transition. I have to live through it.

I widen my stance and stay lighter on my feet, forcing myself to take the ball earlier instead of hanging back and reacting late. The moment I stop trying to overpower every shot, everything starts making more sense.

The next rally stretches longer. Five shots. Seven. Nine. For the first time all morning, I stop feeling clumsy and start feeling adaptable. Like a mountain goat. The sure-footed part. Not the beard part.

Short slice. Deep crosscourt. Recover. Reset. If I can keep the rally alive long enough to create an opening, I can still control the point—even here.

I still mistime a few shots. One ball rockets past my racquet before I can fully react, but I refuse to let myself freeze again. I reset. I realize that even when I fail, the world hasn’t stopped spinning. I’m still here.

Adala rushes forward, expecting another drop shot, but at the last second, I disguise the flick of my wrist and send the ball whistling into the open court behind her. The ball lands cleanly inside the line. Winner.