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“Cons of leaving.” I stopped pacing. “Crim. Patty. This team. This city. My condo I just signed a lease for. You’d hate the flight.”

She kept staring.

“And…” I sat on the bed beside her. “Him. If I’m being honest.”

Her purr kicked up.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

She headbutted my hand.

I patted her, staring at nothing.

Three days to decide my whole life.

No pressure.

The team was gone when I arrived at work the next morning, the bus taking them to the away game. I worked in relative quiet, then went home early.

Later, I sat on my couch in pajamas, Marzipan curled against my belly, staring at my phone.

11:43 PM.

I could look up the score. See if he’d played. If they’d won.

My thumb hovered over the browser icon before I set the phone down.

It buzzed.

I ignored it.

It buzzed again.

Marzipan’s ear twitched.

I sighed and picked it up.

Brashe had sent a series of texts.

I know you’re probably asleep.

Or ignoring me. Both fair.

But I need you to know that what I said was the opposite of what I meant.

You’re not just my physical therapist. You never were.

I’m a fool. A broken fool.

But I’m going to figure out how to be less broken for you.

My eyes burned.

I read the texts three times.

For you.

Those two words.