Chapter 25
SEAM PASS: A PASS THREADED THROUGH DEFENDERS TO CREATE A SCORING CHANCE
For the first time in a long time, the future didn’t feel like a game I already knew the score to. It felt like a fresh shift—new timing and the chance to make the right play.
Between my visit to her classroom and what I’ve heard around town, I learn more about the woman Amy’s grown into as a result of the trauma she endured.
Her valor takes my breath away.
She somehow managed to evolve into the most compassionate woman I’ve ever known when she so easily could have let herself become embittered by the past that was forced upon her.
It causes me to wonder about something I’m not certain I have a right to in Dr. Halvorsen’s office, during my twice weekly therapy session. “This isn’t to absolve what I did.”
He leans back. “Okay.”
“Do you think it’s possible for two people to build a stronger relationship the second time around?”
He considers the question. “If both partners are willing to work at it, yes. If only one is, then no. It’s a long, hard road to recover trust.”
My chest tightens at his honesty, but there’s hope there too. “Regardless,” I say carefully, “I’m glad I’m doing this for me.”
He smiles slightly. “That’s why you’ll change.”
I exhale, shoulders loosening. For once, the road ahead isn’t littered with recrimination and regret.
It’s glowing with opportunity.
We run into each other outside The Blue Plate Café after school. Literally. Amy’s arms are full of binders and her laptop is slung over her shoulder. She looks surprised—and pleased—to see me.
“Hungry?” I ask, unable to suppress the hopefulness in my voice.
Her smile lights my heart. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”
We enter the diner and I can’t stop the grin from spreading across my face. After our plate of fries and drinks lands in front of us, I decide to assuage a bit of curiosity. After chewing a fry, I mention, “So, at first people didn’t like me.”
“Should I apologize?”
“Nope. This is my shocked face.” We both crack up as I affect a serious mien. “But ever since that day in your class, I've been bombarded.”
She looks worried. “As in ‘Can I have your autograph?’”
“No. Most of it’s about you.”
“Really?”
“I’ve never gone into a hardware store—”
“Had you before you moved here?” she teases.
“Cute. Still, I left with three opinions about zoning, a donation request for the youth center, and a dissertation about your teaching methods.”
She’s not even fazed by my words. Instead she asks, “What did you need?”
“I needed to get one of those S screwdrivers.”
I’m surprised you weren’t offered to be set up on a date.”
I left that part out and Amy knows it judging by the way she howls with laughter. “I’ve lived here most of my life and some things never change. Fortunately, Ms. Irene is one of them.”
“Like?” I take a sip of my drink.
“Ms. Irene offered to find me a date for my eighth-grade dance.”
I slap a hand over my mouth so I don't spit all over her. “Are you kidding?”
“Nope.”
“Did you take her up on it?”
Amy rolls her eyes. “I did okay for myself.”
I shake my head as I absorb another nuance in small town life. Then I share, “The fire chief cornered me about the charity skate.”
She sips her drink. “Did he? Are you planning on skating?”
I shrug. “I have to wear a special helmet now.”
“I didn’t realize that.” Her hand reaches across the table and rests on mine. “Is it because of the…”
“Yeah.” I’m torn between wanting to flip my hand over, grip hers, and pull her toward me for a quick kiss and just absorbing the sensation flowing under my skin at having her fingers reach for mine voluntarily again. “But even if I don’t skate, I’m happy to help out.”
“You’re being so kind.”
“Says the woman who’s involved with—” I pause to scan the labels on her binders. “The library fundraiser. The food drive. Math club grants?” I tilt my head. “How many things do you have your fingers in, exactly?”
“Enough to give back to the people who supported me.”
“A little birdie also indicated your name should be etched on the sports annex,” I add.
Her eyes flick to mine, surprised. “Who told you that?”
“Assistant football coach. He indicated it was from your settlement.”
She huffs out, “My only problem with Willow Creek. An anonymous donation lasts six minutes.”
This time, I give into the urge and clasp her hand between both of mine. “You really gave away your entire settlement?”
“I didn’t want their money, Brennan. I wanted validation.”
“That’s… so you,” I say, meaning it as the compliment it is.
She directs the attention away from herself gracefully, asking, “What about you? What’s it like living here versus OKC?”
The words come out of me before I even know they’re there. “For the first time in a long while, I don’t feel lonely.”
She scoffs, “Oh, come on, Brennan. Lonely?”
“The paparazzi made it look like I was living the dream. Big house. Teammates. Events.”
“Not to mention your dating life.” There’s a bite to her voice I don’t miss.
“I wasn’t a monk, but most were just there for the paparazzi show at Mark’s urging.”
“Still, you were lonely?”
“But there were maybe a handful of people who cared about me, not Brennan McCallister from the Kings.” I tick them off on one hand. “My parents and Mark—or so I thought.”
Her hand squeezes mine. “Is he still trying to reach out?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
Instead of answering, I unlock my phone and hand it to her after opening the text.
She reads aloud, “‘Listen, I know I should have told you years ago. But I want to talk to you about everything. I messed up. Bad. Text me as soon as you can.’” She hands my phone back before remarking, “Looks like he’s in his guilt era. Do you feel like you need closure? To hear him out again?”
“Right now, I’m working on being a better man for me so I can face myself in the mirror again.”
Her eyes hold mine. “I’d disagree you weren’t a good man, Brennan. If you weren’t, then what happened between us wouldn’t have hurt so much.”
Her words aren’t forgiveness—an honor I don’t feel I’ve come close to earning. Yet, Amy cares even though my bad decisions compounded her own trauma. My head twists to the side. “I don’t deserve your grace, my queen.”
Silence wraps us in a bubble as the nickname I used to call her slips out. Her fingers haven’t twitched within my grip. Instead, she surprises me when she asks, “If you could ask me one thing, what would it be?”
“I’d ask you to dinner,” I blurt out.
She slips her hand from mine and I immediately feel the loss. She folds her fingers together and rests her chin on her raised fist. “Why?”
I wait a beat. “Because dinner isn’t an apology. It’s an opportunity, but it’s not a promise.”
She watches me, unreadable.
“It’s a chance for some real conversations—”
“You mean we’re not having that right now?”
“We are. It’s just, I don’t ever want you to feel like you owe me a yes. I want you to have a choice,” I conclude my words on a whisper.
“Is there a specific outcome you expect from this dinner?” she asks.
“No,” I reply immediately. Then I amend it, because honesty matters. “Nothing from you. Something from myself.”
She quirks a brow.
“I want to show you I’m not the same person who let you down.”
“What does that entail?”
Still encouraged she hasn’t shot me down, I offer, “I could make dinner and show you?”
“Or get take out so you don’t poison your guest?” She eyeballs me. “I assume you haven’t quite mastered cooking?”
I grin, unrepentant. “Very true. Probably a safer idea.”
“Sounds…intimate.”
“I want us to be in a quiet space to discuss the hard things.”
She waves her hand back and forth “We’ve laid out the worst of it, Brennan.”
While I’m grateful for her response, I reassure her, “I want to answer any of your questions from then, from now. I want to listen to you and learn about the woman you are without an audience.”
“And if halfway through I decide I’m done?” she questions.
“Then I’d thank you for coming and I’d walk you to your car.”
Her shoulders ease—just a fraction. “Dinner,” she repeats, testing the word.
“A meal. No expectations. No rewriting history.”
She studies me a moment longer, then exhales. “I’ll call you when I’m ready. We’ll figure out a good time.”
“You let me know when you can make it and I’ll be waiting,” I vow. I want to do a fist pump at the table. Hope is exploding in my chest. I tap her binders, “In the meanwhile, tell me more about these special projects you’re working on?”
Amy tells me about the three different fundraisers she’s coordinating. I listen intently before asking, “How can I help?”
Her lips part. “I would never exploit you like that, Brennan.”
“I’ve learned something from all of the people willing to talk about you.”
“What’s that?”
“If it’s on your radar, it’s important to everyone who lives here on some level.” I stare at her. “So, tell me if you can use my help.”
She bites her lip, making me want to lean forward and kiss her to stop. You can’t. You may never be in a place you can. She has to guide who you are to her in the future. Still, the urge to lean forward and capture her lips beneath mine is in full force.
“I’ll gladly take your help,” she says.
“I’m here for you to use.” I confess. In any way you want me. “I’m trying to be a better person.”
Her mouth curves into a small smile. “I can see that.”
I flush under the flattery.
She lifts her drink in a small toast. “To the future.”
I clink mine against it. “To collaboration.”
For the first time, it doesn’t feel like I’m chasing the past. It feels like I’m heading in the direction of the future.