You’re enough for me.
I believe her.
I believe in her.
I’m honored that she believes in me.
For now.
But I can’t help worrying that eventually, she’s going to see me the way everyone here sees me.
And I don’t know how to keep going with that fear holding me back.
CHAPTER THIRTY
KAYLA
After three consecutive away series (to Raleigh, Asheville, and Richmond), I’m almost home when I get a call from Scottie.
“Hey, I know it’s late, but you have an email from Gordon Voss.”
I groan and rub my eyes. I probably should have stayed in Richmond one more night and flown home tomorrow, but after two weeks, I’m eager to be in my own bed.
“What could he possibly need now? Wasn’t crashing the Raleigh and Asheville games enough?” The man was more interested in grilling me on Mudflaps operations than he was the teams he was visiting.
“Along those lines, he said he’s flying out next Friday to discuss your leadership of the Mudflaps.”
My stomach clenches and my fingers tighten around the leather steering wheel. “Great. That’ll be fun.”
I can hear Scottie clicking her pen in and out—that mindless, rapid-fire rhythm she only does when she’s trying to stay calm. “Whatever you did to become a target to people like Aldridge and Serena, good for you.”
I chuckle. “I’m not sure that’s a compliment, but I’ll take it.”
“It is. I’ll ask around, do some digging. Clementine is plugged into all the gossip.”
“Clementine is? Our sweet, wholesome church organist friend who plays ‘Hot in Here’ on the organ—” I snort. “On second thought, that tracks.”
“Yup. She’s whiskey in a teacup. Fire whiskey, though.”
“Is it bad that I like her even better for it? Although, to be clear, women being utterly sweet and wholesome isalsocompletely likable.”
“Duly noted for women everywhere. Night, Kayla.”
I park in front of our place and stare up at the dark windows. Then I grab my bag and climb the stairs. The door creaks when I open it, but it sounds echoier than normal. Like without him home, there’s nothing but space and silence.
I thought I would be so happy to be home.
I’m not.
Sean has been gone for over two weeks at his training camp, but it feels like two years. At least when I was away, too, work could serve as a distraction. Although, normally, he’d come with me on these trips—sleep on the second bed, stare at the same ceiling with me, talk through the night.
If he were here, I don’t know if I’d want to be in a different bed anymore.
The weight of missing him is like a living thing, a boa constrictor draped around my shoulders, slowly squeezing me. And worse, it’s wrapped around my heart too. Texting him isn’t enough. Phone calls aren’t enough. Even FaceTime feels like watching the life I want play out on someone else’s screen.
I drop into an armchair and snap him my daily selfie with a kissing face, because, well, obviously I wish I were kissing him. Or cuddling him. Or falling asleep in his arms with my cheek on his chest and his heart beating that familiar, steady rhythm.
KAYLA
