“We’re not done, Americana.”
But I turn towards the door and don’t look back.
I just walk away, shutting the door behind me, leaving him in the dark.
Now to go air-dry my panties. Because apparently, he has more tattoos, andsweet hell, I had no idea ink could short-circuit my entire nervous system the way it just did.
Chapter twenty-five
Mothers & Memories
Declan
Americans and their relentless need to talk—about everything, all the time, for absolutely no reason. It’s maddening. Pointless. A national obsession with feelings and over-explaining.
And yet, here I am.
Sitting in the over-decorated office of Dr. Saunders—Coach Saunders—because Coach Jones said if I didn’t, I’d be benched. No therapy, no game time. That was the deal. And with cameras already catching me unraveling, the club’s PR team apparently thinks a few deep breaths and a talk about my feelings will fix me.
Good luck.
It’s been two weeks since I found out who Marlow really is and where she’s been this whole time. And while I spent the better part of three months tearing through every lead, chasing the ghost ofthe woman who disappeared on me, convincing myself the way she left had to be some kind of drunken mistake, she was busy figuring out how to erase me from her life.
Because I wasn’t the memory. I was the regret. The mistake.
“Declan,” Coach Saunders begins, folding her hands in her lap like she’s about to gently deliver a harsh blow. “I remember how excited the team was when we found out you were joining. You were bold, sharp, great with the press. A clean slate. No drama, no attitude. And unlike some of our other players, I was told you came with no baggage.”
Her voice is calm, but there’s an edge of curiosity beneath it. Not judgment, just confusion she’s trying to wrap words around.
“No history of behavioral issues. No tension with the media. So help me understand…” she leans in slightly, eyes steady. “What’s going on?”
I lean back in the chair, arms crossed, jaw tight. Every part of me wants to shut down, stay silent, ride this out until the hour's up. But something in her voice, measured, professional, not loaded with pity or judgment, cracks through the wall just enough.
So I speak.
“I was seven,” I say, slowly. “My brother was twelve. Our mother left. No fight, no warning. Just… gone. One day she was tucking me in, and the next, nothing.”
The words feel foreign coming out of my mouth. I’ve never said them out loud. Not like this.
Sasha and Anton never pushed. In all the years we’ve known each other, they gave me space, not questions. And my brotherNiko, he shut down completely. After she left, he turned to stone. Unshakeable. Unreachable.
So talking about our mother became the thing we all silently agreed to avoid. It wasn’t a rule, just a shared instinct. A wound we learned to walk around. History we preferred to leave buried.
But I’ve never been in this situation before. Never felt this off-balance.
So maybe it’s time I try something different. Maybe it’s time I talk.
“I’m sorry that happened to you,” Coach Saunders says softly.
I nod, eyes down, fingers tugging at the hem of my shirt. Why the hell am I nervous?
“We were still trying to make sense of it. Her leaving.Howshe left. No goodbye.”
I pause, jaw clenched against the memory.
“My father came into our rooms in the middle of the night, told us to pack. We moved to Argentina the next day. New language. New life. Same hole in my chest.”
I pause, staring at a point on the floor, but I’m not seeing it. I’m back there—in that room, confused and scared, clutching a backpack and watching my brother try to be brave for both of us.
