Coach leaned back, studying him intently. “You know, Knight, it’s okay to love this game for no other reason but that it brings you joy.”
“I don’t know if I remember that feeling,” Gale admitted, surprised by the longing in his voice. “Like I can mentally remember it. But in my body, it’s just... gone.”
Coach stood, a frown tugging at his lips. “That’s it, isn’t it. And I don’t know how to tell you how to get that back. You have to walk the road alone.”
With that, he said good night, leaving Gale alone with the suffocating weight of his thoughts. He moved back to the window, the city lights blurring through the rain and his own unshedtears. For a brief moment, he felt a glimmer of something—not quite hope, but perhaps the faintest possibility of it. The path ahead was still shrouded in darkness, fraught with uncertainty, but maybe, just maybe, he could take those first tentative steps.
He opened up his phone, toxic, but he was a moth to a flame. The screen erupted in an instant, a digital hellscape of more hate:
This is what happens when you draft on name
Trade this bum already
My grandma has a better chance of a comeback and she’s dead
His thumb scrolled frantically, a masochistic hunger for more pain. The words bled together, a howl of failure. His chest tightened, breaths coming in ragged gasps.
This was the truth, wasn’t it? No matter what Coach said. If he dug deep he knew the truth. He knew the real Gale Knight, stripped bare, standing alone in the dark.
Twenty-five years old and already feeling everything slip through his fingers.
His stomach twisting every time someone said they were counting on him.
His father’s son, finding it easier to pull away than to stay, to let people close enough to realize that maybe he wasn’t the man they thought he was. That maybe he never would be.
But then, a text buzzed. It was from Harriet.
This is a detour, not a dead end.
An ember of warmth flickered in his chest, so faint he almost missed it. Harriet’s quiet support felt like a fragile lifeline he wasafraid to grasp too tightly. Every time she smiled at him, he felt something in his chest unwind, like maybe he could breathe again. With her, he didn’t have to pretend or live up to impossible expectations. He could just be. But his stomach twisted at the thought of letting anyone new get close enough to see the cracks. Especially her. How quickly would that warmth in her eyes fade when it sunk in that a guy who seemed to have everything couldn’t get out of his own way? The more she saw of him, the harder his heart pounded, that shitty instinct to pull away wanting to kick in before she had the chance to.
Setting the phone aside with trembling hands, Gale took a shaky breath; a mix of quiet resolution and gnawing uncertainty settled over him. The clock was ticking, and he might fail spectacularly, but Mom and Brooke had spent years showing him that not everyone leaves, that staying was possible. Maybe, just maybe, if he could summon every ounce of courage they’d helped him find, he could prove to himself that he was more than just his father’s son—that he knew how to let someone in without waiting for them to disappear.
Chapter Eleven
I stare at my screen, the code blurring before my tired eyes. The office is silent except for the hum of computers. Frustrated, I pull off my glasses and clean them with my shirt.
DEAREST HARRIET, I OBSERVE SIGNS OF CONSIDERABLE DISTRESS. MIGHT I INQUIRE AS TO YOUR CURRENT STATE OF MIND?
I jump, nearly toppling out of my chair. E.M.M.A. isn’t supposed to initiate conversations. Or pop into Duchess mode without command. I put my glasses back on and lean toward the monitor.
Two voices war in my head. The first is all caution and logic:Stay within known parameters. Don’t encourage unauthorized behavior. Reboot the system.My finger hovers over the key, ready to retreat to safety.
But another voice whispers of possibility:When has innovation ever come from playing it safe? What discoveries await if you’re brave enough to look?
I sit frozen between these impulses. The responsible choice would be to stop and analyze. But progress demands courage. My hand trembles slightly as I decide. “Let’s see where this goes,” I whisper, choosing curiosity over caution.
“Distress?” I force a laugh. “That’s an understatement. The Chads want to kill my project, and now you’re showing unexpected behaviors.”
MIGHT I SUGGEST, WITH ALL DUE RESPECT AND PROPRIETY, THAT A CONVERSATION WITH THE ESTIMABLE MR. GALE KNIGHT WOULD PROVE MOST BENEFICIAL TO YOUR CURRENT CIRCUMSTANCES?
My pulse spikes at Gale’s name, but my analytical mind kicks in. This is more than an AI overstepping—it’s an impossible evolution in E.M.M.A.’s base code. I pull up her diagnostic interface with shaking hands.
I scan through recent updates, looking for explanations. AIs can’t spontaneously develop emotional recognition. Did a neural pathway evolve on its own? Or worse—did my late-night coding sessions, distracted by thoughts of Gale, somehow embed my feelings into her learning algorithms?
“This is a critical system deviation,” I say, trying to sound professional. “We need full diagnostics.”
HARRIET SMYTHE—HAVE YOU ENGAGED IN PHYSICAL CONTACT WITH GALE KNIGHT? PATTERNS SUGGEST A HIGH LIKELIHOOD OF AFFIRMATIVE RESPONSE.
