25. “Choosing you could never be a mistake, Kat.”
“Choosing you could never be a mistake, Kat.”
Archie
I have to leave for the match, but I knock on Kat’s door again once more before heading out.
I’ve been trying for a few days, but she never seems to be home.
That, or she’s avoiding me. Well, I guess it doesn’t matter.
We’ll have a few days off next week for Christmas.
I’ll spy on her door all day and night if I have to.
I knock a few more times, listening for any noise coming from her apartment, but it’s no use.
Sighing, I drag myself over to the lift.
It opens with a ping, and like an apparition, there she is, holding a tote full of groceries.
Her hair is piled into a loose bun that’s half fallen apart, her eyes underlined with dark circles—yet she’s never looked so beautiful.
“Hey,” I say, waving like an idiot.
She blinks, caught off guard. When she finally steps out of the lift, her gaze drops as she brushes past me. “Hey,” she murmurs.
I freeze, not sure how to even begin this conversation. But when she grabs her keys from her bag, I panic.
“I don’t care,” I blurt.
She pauses, hand hovering near the lock.
“I don’t care that you can’t—and don’t want to—have kids.”
She lets out a breath, long and heavy. Like she’s been bracing for this moment. Hoping I wouldn’t say those words.
“I meant it when I said I’d never really thought about that possibility,” I say, taking a step toward her.
“But I have now. I’ve spent weeks thinking about it, even talked it out with Finn, and I came to this conclusion: Being a dad has never been a dream of mine.
But what we have is, and that dream could come true. ”
“Archie,” she breathes out, clutching the doorknob.
“Choosing you could never be a mistake, Kat.”
“You’ll change your mind,” she says, avoiding my gaze.
“I won’t.” I straighten my shoulders, more confident now. “Don’t get me wrong, I like kids—love them. But having some of my own? Frankly, the thought scares me to death. I’m more like the fun uncle, you know? I don’t need that, Kat. I need you.”
She swallows hard, looking down at her feet, then finally at me. Her eyes are soft and aching, like they’re torn between wanting me and pushing me away. “I don’t want you to settle for me, Archie.”
“I’m not settling,” I say, my voice firmer than ever. “I’m choosing you.”
She opens her mouth, then closes it. “I’m sorry,” she finally whispers.
She turns the key, slips inside, and shuts the door softly behind her, leaving me and my broken heart on the landing.
I don’t even know how long we’ve been playing. Minutes? Half an hour? The match is a blur. I just stand there in the box with my arms loose at my sides, waiting for the ball to fly toward me. Hoping I’ll react in time. Praying my muscle memory will do what my brain can’t.
The crowd is a wave of noise—cheers, chants, claps—but the clamour barely registers.
It’s muffled, like I’m hearing it through a pane of thick glass.
The only thing in perfect focus is the memory of Katherine’s face.
The way her mouth trembled when she said ‘I don’t want you to settle for me.
’ The way she refused to look at me when she shut her door.
The moment loops in my head, again and again, until I can’t tell if I’m furious, heartbroken, or just plain numb.
What do I have to do to make her understand that I want her? That I choose her?
How long do I wait for her to finally believe it?
A whistle blows, sharp and distant.
I blink hard, snapping back to the present. Players are sprinting toward me in a blur of jerseys. My body shifts instinctively, but my mind is still stuck in the corridor outside her door.
Focus, Archie. Just get through this game. Then you can fall apart in peace.
The striker barrels through the line. I register his movement too late. He’s already in the penalty zone, cutting past defenders like they’re wisps of smoke. He fires, high and hard, and I jump—pure instinct—punching the ball out of danger with both fists.
Clean contact. Solid.
But I barely have time to acknowledge the save before crack—his knee slams straight into my midsection with brutal, blunt force.
Everything stops. Then, the pain hits.
White-hot, sharp, wrong. Not just impact—inside pain. Deeper.
I hit the ground hard, curling onto my side and gasping, but I can’t catch my breath. Not fully. It’s like something’s pressing into my ribs from the inside, and I can’t shake it off.
The physio rushes over to me. I try to wave him off, but I can’t sit up. Can’t even speak.
The stadium blurs. Someone is talking to me now, but their voice sounds like it’s underwater.
And then, I feel it—the dizziness. A tidal wave of nausea. I lean forward and vomit bile onto the pitch.
Someone’s shouting for the medic cart as the pressure building in my gut intensifies.
They lift me onto the stretcher, and everything spins faster. My vision fades to black at the edges, becoming some twisted vignette. Harried shouts. Wailing sirens. Flashing lights. Hands press against my abdomen, and the pain is so overwhelming, I almost black out.
I try to stay awake—try to focus on the ambulance they just pulled me into—but everything is slipping through the cracks of my consciousness.
Katherine’s face is there when I close my eyes. It’s all the comfort I need to let go. And the pain finally stops.