Straight into the waiting car out front like he couldn’t get away fast enough.
When I step out into the parking lot, Tatum is waiting by her car, her arms overflowing with emotional first aid.
Not a bat, thank God.
Instead, she’s clutching a massive bouquet of black roses and a string of black balloons that spell outFUCK HIMin shiny, inflated letters. I don’t just walk toward her, I nearly break into a run.
I collapse into her arms and let the tears finally break free, right there in the middle of the visitor lot. Her timing is hilarious, her choice of decor is textbook Tatum, and for a split second, the absurdity of it all almost makes me forget what we’ve just done.
But none of it numbs the truth.
It still hurts.
God, my heart.
It hurts.
Chapter Nine
Bourbon, Benches + Aso Ebi
Luca
The morning light over Cinnamon Grove is deceptive. Because it’s soft and gentle. Nothing like the storm twisting in my chest.
Yesterday, after mediation with Aspen and her lawyers, I went to my teammate Declan’s house and drank myself into a stupor. And since I rarely drink alcohol, I was very unpretty by the end of the night. He had to call his driver to haul my sorry arse home early this morning so I’d be semi-upright for today’s meetings.
It’s barely past 10 A.M. and I’m trapped in my penthouse “working from home.” For a professional athlete, that’s just a fancy way of saying I’m taking Zoom calls from the one presentable corner of my apartment, reciting PR-scrubbed answers to media requests. I spend the entire time pretending I don’t want to rip my own knee out of its socket every time a reporter asks how the healing process is going.
I tore my MCL during a crucial match, and between the physical injury, the relentless press fallout, and the absolutetrain wreck of my personal life, I’ve been benched. Literally. Figuratively. Emotionally.
So here I am. Sending emails from my “home office” with an ice pack strapped to my leg and my pride shattered across the headlines.
And still, all I can think about is her.
Apparently, I threatened to quit the team during my binge last night, so Declan called Coach Jones to come over and talk some sense into me. But no matter what he or anyone else says, nothing makes sense without her. Even if ending the marriage was my choice.
I’ve just ended a meeting with my agent and business manager when I let out an exasperated sigh. Coach Jones leans against the kitchen counter, coffee in hand, watching me like I’m a grenade with the pin halfway out.
He’s not just my coach. Lately, he’s been the closest thing I’ve got to a friend. Especially since things with Croix went sideways. Being a former player from Africa himself, he understands the unique pressure and the weight of expectations that come with this life, so I gravitated toward him pretty early on.
“You look like hell,” he says flatly, before taking a long, contemplative sip from his Novel Grounds coffee cup.
“Feel like it, too,” I mutter, my fingers tightening as I adjust the ice pack on my knee.
“So the divorce…the marriage…it’s really over?” he asks, his voice level but his eyes searching.
I nod, the movement stiff. “Yeah. It’ll be final in six months or so. We missed the annulment window, so the whole mess will be a public spectacle. The marriage, the fallout. Everything. And to add insult to injury, the show owns the footage to every excruciating detail that led to the dissolution of my marriage.”
Coach exhales slowly through his nose, holding my gaze with a heavy look. “So the world gets to watch your love story rise and fall on prime time.”
“Apparently.” I force a laugh. “My parents, too.”
He winces, but doesn’t laugh back. “I know this is tough. Especially with African parents.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I wish to God I knew why the hell you would sign up for something like this. But, now that we are here, I hope you know you’re skating on thin ice, Luca.”
