I flinch. The idea of standing in front of those kids who think I'm some kind of superhero when I can barely limp to the kitchen makes me sick.
“I can't do it, Tatum. Tell them I had a setback with the physical therapy. My knee is flaring up.”
“Absolutely not,” she snaps, her eyes narrowing. “The owners were very clear. If you still want that captain’s armband when you’re cleared to play, you have to fix the optics. You’re not just a player right now. You’re a brand in crisis. Your only job right now is to show up, smile, and inspire whenever they tell you to.” She pauses, her voice softening just a fraction. “You know Croix is going to be there, right?”
“I'm aware,” I say, my jaw tightening.
The name alone is enough to bring it all back. Three months ago, when that door opened and Croix saw us, the world didn't just crack, it shattered into pieces. Everything we had—years of friendship, brotherhood, loyalty—was disbanded in an instant. Then all hell broke loose.
Croix started picking fights at training, in the locker room, anywhere he could get close enough to spit the word traitor in my face. He insisted I’d stolen Aspen from him, despite the fact that both of us kept trying to remind him that he’d already agreed they were better off as friends.
But the breakup wasn't what killed him. Like he and Aspen agreed, they were better off as friends. What hurt Croix was the secrecy. He couldn't wrap his head around the fact that I’d kept it from him, even if it had only been a week. He believed I should have told him the second I knew, and he’s right. I should have. Instead, I let guilt turn me into a coward.
I couldn’t face my friend the way I should have, and I couldn’t choose Aspen as simply or as completely as I’d demanded she choose me that morning in the bathroom. Instead, I tried to hide her, tucking our life into the shadows until I turned a brilliant, vibrant woman into someone insecure and hidden.
She wasn't a secret, but I treated her like one because I was on a fast track to ruining my career and my bond with my best friend. I needed time. She needed certainty. Especially with everything she had going on with her career and her business. But the longer I stalled, the more she suffered and the harder it became for her to wait while I avoided the consequences of choosing her. She deserved better.
In the end, I did what I thought was the noble thing. I let her go. I didn't want her waiting around while I tried to piece my life back together. I thought it was strength. Now, I just realize we're both miserable. On the bright side, Croix and I are finally, glacially, on the mend. Mostly because there's no Aspen in the middle for us to fight over.
Tatum taps her pen against the tablet, the sharp clack-clack-clack snapping me back to the present. “This Young Strikers appearance? It’s important. For all of us. Be there, be charming, and for the love of God, try to look like you've shaved and showered?”
“Fine,” I grunt.
A short, beat of silence settles between us. I know I should let it go. I know that opening this door only leads to a room I'm notallowed to enter anymore. But the question is already burning at the back of my throat, and I can't swallow it down.
“Tatum?” I ask. “She’s good? She’s…happy?”
Tatum lets out a weary breath. “Why don’t you ask her yourself, Luca?”
“She doesn’t want to hear from me,” I say, the memory of our final legal meeting flashing behind my eyes. “You didn’t see her that day at mediation. The way she looked at me.”
“Actually, I did,” Tatum says, a dry, knowing smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth. “You’re lucky you only got a cold shoulder. You almost got your tires slashed and your windows busted out that day, buddy.”
I frown, my brow furrowing in genuine confusion. “I’m sorry? My tires?”
She shakes her head, waving the comment away as she stands to leave. “Never mind. You’re lucky she’s classier than I am and her mother didn’t raise her fighting boys like mine did.” Her expression softens then, the professional mask slipping just enough to show a flicker of pity. “But yeah, Luca. She’s good. She’s doing just fine.”
She packs up her things, heading for the door, but stops at the threshold. “One more thing. Do you want me to look into some private referrals for a new nurse? Someonequieterthan the last few?”
I look around the empty, messy expanse of the apartment, feeling the throb in my knee and the ache in my chest.
“Sure,” I say quietly. “I’ll give them a shot. Send them over.”
Chapter Seventeen
Bertha, Martha’s Vineyard + Biological Clocks
Aspen
“I’m just saying, the Vineyard in September is spectacular, and Clarissa has gone above and beyond with the catering,” my mother’s voice filters through the Bluetooth speaker, sounding far too crisp for eight o'clock on a Tuesday morning.
“I said I’ll do my best to be there, Mom,” I say, pouring my second cup of coffee. Don’t judge me. I’ve been up since five a.m. going over patient billing and your girl is over this day already. "I just don't understand why she has to have it there when we do Thanksgiving there every year!
Because she's a stuck-up, attention heffa-whore.
“What difference does that make? It’s just nice to see her so...settled, you know? There’s a certain peace that comes with a predictable life and a husband with a pension.”
“I’m happy for Clarissa, Mom. Really. But maybe I prefer a life that doesn't involve matching sweaters and discussing PTA presidents at Sunday brunch.”
