Chapter Twenty-Five #2
Juliette leans in closer. “I already talked to our medical board. We’re allocating budget for a full testing cycle next season. I just need a few samples for our review team, and then we’re off to the races.”
I scramble to remember my talking points.
“The headband model is the most discreet, but we’ve found that the helmet sensors perform better in terms of real-time alerts.
I also have a new calibration algorithm I’m testing for female-bodied athletes, because there’s a gender bias in the existing concussion scoring system. ”
Juliette snaps her fingers. “Exactly! That’s the kind of forward thinking we need. You mind if I follow up with your team?”
“My team?” I parrot, mildly panicked.
She laughs. “Oh, honey, you don’t have a team, do you?”
“Kepler does emotional support,” I offer weakly.
“Then we’ll get you one.” She grins. “Seriously, Minerva. You’ve got something special. Don’t let the boys’ club scare you off.”
I nod, even though my head is spinning. We shake hands, and just like that, she’s off again, already calling someone named Melvin about “brain tech with bite.”
I’m still clutching her card when Tristan finds me again. He takes one look at my face and steps in close.
“Good news?”
I hold the paper up to his face. “Very good. She wants to trial the device in the WHL next season.”
He whistles low. “That’s huge, Min.”
“I know.”
“You okay?”
I blink a few times. “I think I might throw up. But like, in a good way?”
He presses a kiss to my forehead. “That’s my girl.”
Something about the way he says it—that quiet pride, the steadiness of it—makes my throat tighten.
“This could be a thing, Tristan. Like, a thing thing. I might have to make a website. Hire people. Do business things. I don’t even own a blazer.”
He chuckles. “You could wear pajamas and still land the contract.”
“You say that now, but wait until I accidentally forward a proposal to my grocery list.”
“I’ll be there to stop you,” he says simply.
And I believe him.
Because for the first time in my life, I don’t feel like I’m on the outside of something, trying to claw my way in.
I am the thing.
And he’s right beside me, holding the door open.
I’m almost off the stage when the moderator grabs the mic and says, “Before you go, Ms. Marino, one last question. What inspired you to develop the Marino Method?”
Oh, no. That question wasn’t on the prep sheet.
My heart stutters, but I force my face into neutral. “That’s… a complicated answer.”
The audience laughs politely, and I catch sight of Tristan, arms crossed, that subtle smirk he saves just for me tugging at the corner of his mouth. He nods once. Encouraging.
Okay. Fine. I can do this.
I step back toward the podium. “Truthfully, I was trying to solve a problem no one else was solving. I saw athletes pushed to the edge of their endurance, celebrated for ‘toughing it out’ when they were actually suffering traumatic brain injuries. I watched players get sidelined after one too many hits, and I kept thinking—why are we letting this happen when we could measure it?”
A pause.
“And also… I was lonely.”
That gets their attention.
“I didn’t fit where I came from. I was always the weird girl with a ferret and a whiteboard. But when I started this work, I found something that made me feel useful. Something that gave me a reason to speak up, even when my voice shook.”
I glance at Tristan again. He’s not smirking anymore. His jaw is clenched, eyes fixed on me like I’m the only person in the room.
“And then I met someone who made me feel… seen. Not tolerated. Not handled. But cherished—brain and all. And being loved like that changes your chemistry.”
The audience is quiet now. Listening. Feeling.
“So I made a device that listens. That responds. That adapts. Because maybe, if we start treating brains like something precious, we can build a world where no one feels like they have to break themselves to belong.”
Applause breaks out—scattered at first, then stronger, swelling until it fills the hall.
I bob my head in a semi-awkward bow and step down. My knees are shaking a little. My palms are damp.
But I did it.
Tristan meets me halfway and pulls me into a hug that lifts me off the ground.
“You crushed the epilogue,” he whispers in my ear. “I’m so goddamn proud of you. I just sent the video to my family.”
“I almost threw up.”
“Still proud.”
“I said ‘cherished’ into a microphone.”
He pulls back to look at me. “You are cherished.”
I duck my head, cheeks burning. “I also might have accidentally soft-launched how weird your fiancée is to the entire Western medical tech community.”
“I’m fine with that. But I’m gonna need to soft-launch this too—”
He hesitates just long enough for me to see it—the hope, the wanting, the quiet terror of loving someone out loud. And then he closes the distance. Tristan kisses me right there in the hallway, in full view of a dozen nerds in lanyards and a man holding a tray of sparkling water.
And I don’t care.
I kiss him back like we’re the last two molecules in the universe. Bound by something unbreakable.
A theory finally proven. A formula that works.