I shake my head, my hands resting on her waist. “It’s not about the game,” I tell her, my voice quieter now, just for her. “This. This is what I’ve been waiting for. You. You came to me.”
Her cheeks flush, and she looks away for a second, like she’s embarrassed by the intensity of my words. But I don’t let her hide. I tip her chin up gently, forcing her to meet my gaze.
“Thank you for being here,” I say, and it’s more than just gratitude. It’s everything I can’t quite put into words yet.
“Always,” she whispers, her fingers curling into my lapels.
I lean in, brushing my lips against her forehead, then her temple, taking my time, savoring the moment because I don’t want to rush this. And when I finally press a kiss to her lips, it’s slow, deliberate, filled with all the things I haven’t been able to say.
Her lips are soft, warm, and familiar in a way that feels like coming home. The kiss deepens, and I pour every ounce of love, every moment of missing her, into it. She sighs against me, her hands tightening their hold like she’s afraid I’ll slip away. But I’m not going anywhere.
The time apart solidified it for me—she’s my forever. I don’t just love her. I am hers in every way that matters. She’s the onlyperson who’s ever seen all of me and chosen to stay, even when I wasn’t sure I deserved it.
When we finally pull apart, our foreheads rest against each other, her breath mingling with mine in the cold night air. My voice comes out low, teasing. “So, did you wait out here just to see me in a suit and get a kiss?”
Her laugh is soft but genuine, her hands sliding up to adjust my tie like it’s an excuse to stay close. “Maybe,” she says, her eyes sparkling. “But can you blame me? You do clean up well.”
I grin, leaning back just enough to give her a full view. “Well, I aim to please.”
“Come on,” she says, slipping her hand into mine. “Let’s go home.”
“I heard from Coach that you rearranged my lift to Portland,” I say as we walk toward the car.
She shrugs, her lips twitching into a sly smile. “My agent seems to know a lot of people. Even the owner of the Seattle Summits helped,” she adds, giving me a wink.
And just like that, the night feels perfect.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Ophelia
The humof the jet engine fills the silence between us, not stifling but charged, like the air before a storm. It’s the kind of quiet that carries a tension just waiting to crack.
Haydn sits across from me, leaning back in his seat, his tie loosened and the faintest shadow of stubble tracing his jaw. He looks worn, the kind of tired that no amount of sleep can fix,but his eyes remain fixed on me. He’s waiting. Patient. Always waiting.
I curl my fingers around the warm mug of tea in my hands, the heat grounding me. “I realized during therapy that I’ve been avoiding a lot of things,” I say, my voice soft, almost drowned out by the engine. But he hears me. His posture shifts, subtle but significant, as he leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t push. He just waits, giving me the space I need.
I stare into the tea like it holds the answers I’ve been avoiding. “Talking about Keane . . . It was easier for me to hide behind the NDA,” I continue, the words coming slower than I want them to. “But I could’ve said more. It was just . . . hard. Not because I still love him—I don’t—but because I convinced myself I didn’t need to think about it anymore. That I was fine. That I was past the pain the relationship and the loss had caused. After he died I erased all the bad and kept the good moments.”
Haydn’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. His hands clasp togethert.
“Keane was . . . complicated,” I say, my voice trembling despite my best efforts. “His childhood was . . . traumatic. His parents neglected him, exposed him to too much too soon. He did things most people don’t do until they’re adults. He carried so much hurt, and it followed him everywhere. He used to say I helped him find himself. I wanted to believe that.”
I glance at Haydn, my voice steadying just enough to push through. “I made it my mission to save him. I thought if I loved him enough, if I tried hard enough, I could fix what had been broken. I thought I could be enough to make up for all the things he’d lost.”
Haydn’s jaw tenses, and the emotion in his eyes is unmistakable. He’s angry—angry for me, for the girl I used to be,the one who thought her love could be a salve for wounds she didn’t cause.
“It wasn’t all bad,” I add quickly, because it’s true. “He could be so sweet, so thoughtful. He had this way of making you feel like you were the center of the universe when he was with you. But there was always something simmering beneath the surface—a pain, an anger he couldn’t escape. He tried to drown it in alcohol and drugs. That’s when things were . . . bad—the mood swings, the fights, the times he would disappear.”
Haydn leans back slightly, his gaze unwavering. “And you stayed,” he says quietly, his voice low but resolute. It’s not a question. He already knows the answer.
I nod, the truth settling heavily between us. “I stayed. For five years, I stayed. I thought if I left, he’d fall apart completely. I thought if I just held on a little longer, loved him a little harder, he’d heal. But . . . I wasn’t what he needed. And it wasn’t my job to save him.”
The words sting even as I say them, but they’re true, and I need to say them out loud.
“And then the accident happened,” I continue, my throat tightening around the words. “He was in a coma, and we lost the baby.”
Haydn tries to keep his reaction controlled, his concern etched into every line of his face. “Pia . . .” His voice is low, thick with emotion.
