Chapter 35
Thirty-Five
Blair
A grin pulls at my lips as I arrive at Embers and Ashes—coffee in one hand, keys in the other, a whole list of things I wanted to tackle before sunrise. The gym always looks a little sleepy this early, like it’s holding its breath before the day kicks off. I love it like this. Quiet. Mine.
But this morning, something feels… not quite right. At first, I can’t place it as I walk to the front door. Something uneasy settle in my gut in the darkness of an early December morning.
Then I see the front window.
I stop walking. My keys dangle from my hand but my coffee hits the sidewalk, painting the snow and cement. The glass is shattered—spiderwebbed, like someone had gone at it with a bat. And across the front, black spray paint screams at me in blocky, uneven letters. FUCKING BITCH.
Closing my eyes, I take a few breaths—hoping it’s just a dream. But when I open them, the glass is still broken, and the spray paint is everywhere. Looking up, I see the name of my gym is also shattered, many of the lights no longer working.
My gym. The place I built. Fought for. The thing I’ve poured into for years of my life. My safe space which no longer feels that way. I look around, making sure no one is watching me—a typical feeling for most women simply trying to exist.
Taking a step closer, broken glass crunches under my sneaker. When I get closer to the front door, I find it’s red spray paint this time, NOT WORTH IT, smaller but still clear as day.
My stomach drops as the realization hits me but it’s not even that surprising.
Oscar. Or someone Oscar got to do his dirty work.
There’s no way this is a coincidence. Honestly, it has his cowardice all over it.
His smirk, the way he couldn’t handle a woman taking up space.
I should’ve known after the way he acted at the facility—that weird possessiveness about football, about grilling Dylan about the real reason I was there.
This is different. It’s not some dumb insult thrown across a practice facility or said loud enough that everyone could overhear. This was calculated. Violent.
I can’t move. My legs felt stuck in place, like if I walked any closer I’d see something even worse. My hand grips the strap of my bag so tightly my knuckles hurt. A thunderous heartbeat, one too fast, fills my ears as I try to catch my breath.
Putting my key in the lock, I slowly open the door, afraid someone may be waiting inside. I’m only a few steps in when I realize it’s untouched. Nothing looks out of place but instead like a typical morning, one I’ve had a hundred times.
Inside, it still looks like my gym. But right now, it doesn’t feel like it. And that’s what does it—this is what sends me over the edge. I dial 911 as tears stream down my face. As the operator answers, I rush to lock the door and turn on all the lights inside.
How is it in the place that I’ve built and designed, from scratch, no longer feels like my own?
I’m taking the elevator up to Tyson’s place.
After calling the police and dealing with the media—who couldn’t move fast enough to get pictures of the damage—I’m completely spent.
As if that weren’t enough, I just got off an emergency call with the Athlala board to discuss what happened and what this means for the future of our expansion sites.
They decided to postpone any work or plans on the new locations, just until things calm down, maybe until we have answers.
I didn’t tell them I already have an idea who did it. That’s between me and the police. After explaining my run-in with Oscar, paired with Benny firing him, the officers agreed it was enough to question him—and with help from Dylan and the Cosmos’ front office, maybe even get a search warrant.
It’s only eight in the morning, but it feels like I’ve already lived an entire day. When I called Tyson, he was out for breakfast with Teague. He told me to go to his place and that he’d be back soon.
The moment I close the door behind me, a wave of relief hits. I breathe in slowly, trying to steady myself. If I think too hard about everything, I’ll spiral. I just need a few quiet minutes—let the insurance company call, take the next step, one at a time.
I move to the kitchen, dropping my bag on the counter, and notice something rolled out across the bar. Blueprints. Or something close to it. I’m not snooping, not really—but when I see an envelope sticking out from underneath, curiosity wins. I pull it out.
Tyson—here’s the first couple of ideas for your property in Brindlewick.
Brindlewick. His hometown. His property. My heart dips. What property? Since when?
I look closer. The plans show layouts, a map, and some land markers. His parents’ home. The cabin. And right next to them—a new plot, labeled Tyson Bishop Residence.
He’s building a house.
I’m still staring at the lines on the page when the front door opens. Tyson rushes in, practically out of breath. He wraps his arms around me from behind, squeezing tight.
“Baby, are you okay?” he asks.
I turn on the stool to face him, holding the plans between us. “What’s this? Because It looks like it’s by your parents’ place. In Michigan.”
His expression shifts—just a flicker—but I catch it. He takes a slow breath. “Fuck. I didn’t know Teague pulled these out,” he says mostly to himself. “I was going to talk to you about it—”
“Talk to me about what?” My voice isn’t sharp, but it’s tired. “You buying land? Building a house? You relocating? Seems like we have a lot to talk about.”
“It’s not what you think.” He moves closer, his voice soft.
“I don’t even know if the land is buildable yet.
The contractor sent me those before he did his checks.
Nothing’s set in stone.” Tyson’s voice wavers, and he takes another step like distance itself might ruin his chance.
His hands lift, then fall uselessly, caught between reaching for me and not daring to.
“So… it’s just an idea?” I ask, but my throat feels tight. “Because from here it looks like you’ve got blueprints.”
“I took one meeting. And if you asked the contractor, he’ll tell you, I mentioned doing this with someone else. You,” he says quickly. “I was going to tell you, I swear. I just didn’t want to bring it up until I knew if it was even possible.”
I want to believe him. I really do. But I’m so tired—of press calls, of questions, of always holding things together. The thought of one more surprise, one more thing I didn’t see coming, makes my chest ache.
“I just wish you’d told me,” I whisper. “Even if it was nothing yet.”
“I get that,” he agrees, reaching for me. “I didn’t mean to keep you in the dark. I was trying to figure it out first, before making it a whole thing. It’s just land, Blair. No walls. No roof. Not a decision. Just… a maybe.”
Something inside me breaks a little when I think about Embers and Ashes. The new location. My current gym. How the hell would I do this if I didn’t live here? “Do you believe in me?” I ask quietly.
He looks confused. “What? Of course I do.”
“Then how could I run my gym, the one I’ve spent years building, if we’re suddenly in Michigan?”
He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. And that silence… it’s worse than an actual answer.
I look down, tracing the edge of the paper. The plans blur as my eyes fill. “Everything feels like it’s falling apart right now,” I admit quietly. “And I came here hoping this—us—would be the one thing that still made sense. Felt steady beneath my feet. But I feel like I’ve been blindsided.”
He steps forward, voice soft but firm. “Hey. We do make sense.”
For a moment, I want to let that be enough. But my heart is raw, and logic doesn’t feel like comfort. His words sound like he’s talking underwater. I’m overwhelmed and my brain can barely put this together after everything with the gym.
A strangled laugh sarcastically falls from my lips. “Really? Because none of this makes sense to me.”
He doesn’t move, but I feel it all the same—the ghost of being left. The absence takes a shape long before it arrives. My body remembers what my mind keeps denying. It doesn’t feel like he’s choosing me, and it’s the thought that could bring me to my knees.
The tears stream consistently down my cheeks, like the throbbing ache that’s threatening to crack open my chest.
“What do you need?” His words land soft, but they scrape raw. Like skin that never got the chance to heal right.
The air feels too thin, like I’m breathing through gauze. His words echo somewhere beneath my ribs, deceptively sharp, and I can’t tell if it’s grief or just fatigue making me tremble. “I just need a minute,” I tell him, backing away. “To breathe.”
“Blair, please—”
“Not forever,” I say, shaking my head. “Just right now.”
My feet move before my brain catches up. I focus on the sound of them—heel, toe, heel, toe—because thinking means feeling, and I can’t afford either.
“I love you. Don’t go.”
The words hit the back of my neck like heat. I close my eyes for half a second, swallowing the instinct to believe him. I’ve believed too many people who didn’t know how to keep me.
I stop, hand on the knob, but I can’t turn around. “Then just… don’t keep things like this from me,” I say, voice barely above a whisper. “No matter what.”
The door shuts between us, and the silence on the other side feels heavier than his words ever did.