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I nod and sniff and hold back the emotion building in my gut.

Callum goes to wrap an arm around my back, but as his eyes drop to his boxers, he thinks better of it and settles on patting my shoulder. “She’s accepting he isn’t in her life.”

“But she wants him?” I swallow. He never deserved her.

“She doesn’t know what she wants. Not in that sense,” Fran says. “She just wants to move forward with her life, find some semblance of normalcy.”

I nod, my head bowed like a child in trouble.

“Maybe we should tell her about you,” Callum says.

“She doesn’t want that.” My throat aches with the truth of those words and the emotion I’ve forced back.

Fran’s eyes crease and her mouth forms a sad smile. “I think it would overwhelm her.” She’s right, but I’d hoped she’d disagree with me. She walks over to the cupboard and pulls out a plate, setting a blueberry muffin atop it. She sets it in front of me. “Orange juice?”

“Sure.” I sit on one of the barstools at their kitchen island, slumping in my seat and pouting into my pastry.

Callum sits next to me, sliding over his own plate. “Are you coming to practice today?” He’s changing the subject. But this topic is only slightly better than the last.

My leg pinches, the pain traveling from my tibia to my thigh. “You mean the practice that I’m not cleared to train at yet?”

“Yep. That’s the one.”

I exhale a sigh. “Yeah. I have PT and then I’ll be there.”

I’m pretty sure my physical therapist has decided that his mission in life is to murder me. A slow, painful, tedious death. After an hour of torture, I limp out of Darwin’s office and hobble off to my car. I’m at the Red Tail training center with our team PT, however, after that workout, I’m not walking the half mile to the field.

My life feels like an aimless arrow right now. I have no idea the direction it’s going. My surgeon believes I’ll be able to play again, but he isn’t certain when. My leg is taking longer to heal and we don’t know why. While I’ve finally spoken to the love of my life for the first time in months, she still has no idea who I am. In fact, she might be pining for an ex who turned her life into a fiery furnace.

I pull out my phone before starting up my vehicle. I suck in a breath and instead of mindlessly scrolling on Instagram or YouTube, I do what my brain has made its autopilot function: I check Rosalie’s location. We shared our location with one another last year. It’s an app she must not check often, or she’d realize she’s following someone, too.

I zoom in on her moving little icon. “Wait,” I say aloud. “Bennett’s? She’s going to the bookstore. I told her about it.” I recommended it. So… surely seeing me there wouldn’t be too suspicious. Would it?

I start up my Audi and head in the opposite direction from the field. I have a book to buy. What am I going to do at practice anyway? Watch Lucca show off. I do that every day.

Ten minutes later, I pull up in front of the little book bar. Rosalie’s car is parked out front—I haven’t missed her. I step inside, my head reeling. I need an excuse to be here. One that isn’t the girl I’m attempting to get to know all over again—which is the actual reason I’m here.

I walk into the narrow shop, ceiling to floor lined with books. Wooden shelves stacked with new and old pages fill my lungs, settling my nerves. I run a hand through my hair, peering around in a not-so-subtle way.

Rosalie isn’t at the front of the store; she must be past the counter and in the back. I think the romance section is back there—that’s what I’ve seen her reading the past few months.

I can go back there… I don’t mind a decent friends-to-lovers romance. I one hundred percent relate to all that pining. Rosalie made me read more than a couple. However, she doesn’t remember that. So, let’s go with buying a gift for my mom.

On a mission, I strut to the back, ignoring the pink-haired clerk with her eyes on me. That’s when I spot my girl. I can see from the look on her face that she’s torn. She’s gazing at an Addison Adams novel and a memoir sitting on a decorative shelf just to her left. The shelf has multiple genres atop it, and Rose always loved a good memoir.

She gives her head a small shake and turns back to the romance book. “Happy endings,” I hear her mutter to herself.

“Can I help you?”

I jump in place. The clerk is by my side. I take my eyes from Rosalie and look at the girl. She’s grinning—widely—like she’s hungry and I’m lunch. “Excuse me?”

She sets her hand on my upper arm and smiles at me. “I’d love to help you out.”

Rosalie glances back, spotting us. I can see the recognition on her face, but she jerks herself back to the books on the shelves.

“I don’t need help. I know what I’m looking for.”

“You like romance?” the clerk says.