Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
When I pull up to the high school football field to meet Greta, the tightness in my chest climbs into my throat. The last time I set foot here was a Friday night in October during my seventh grade year.
Mom had taken a leave of absence from coaching because the chemo was making her too sick and unable to use her arms, so I sat with Annaleise’s family in the bleachers.
It was the first time I remember feeling off-kilter.
Until then, I believed that Mom would get better and life would return to normal.
But that night was a turning point. Mom didn’t even make it to Thanksgiving.
I’m early, so I pull in facing the slope of grass that leads to the stadium.
When Linden’s truck appears, Greta is behind the wheel, her hands at 10 and 2 and her eyes straight ahead as she pulls the truck next to my coupe.
Linden is gripping the open window frame like his life depends on it.
Save me , he mouths as Greta jerks the truck to a stop .
Though I laugh, there’s an awkwardness edging his smile. After we spent yesterday together, in and out of bed, he had plans with Greta last night so I returned home to catch up on sleep and prep for my next Alaska rotation.
We didn’t talk about us, or what’s changed, and a part of me is relieved.
It feels too new, too elusive to put into words.
But in the light of day, it’s like Annaleise’s warning is riding shotgun to my runaway thoughts.
And now that Greta’s here, it’s a very real reminder that she’s part of the equation, too.
While I adore her and love the small bits of time we’ve spent together, how does Linden feel about me being in her life as more than a neighbor she occasionally cat-sits for?
How does he feel about me being in his life?
Why can’t I be more like Quinn, who has no problem living in the moment?
Linden jumps down, dressed in a sleeveless t-shirt and long running shorts, his jawline dark with day-old stubble that should not get my blood pumping. His gaze drops to my lips for a fraction of a second before he wets his.
Memories of his sensual mouth and soft, skilled tongue on my body turns the sudden longing for him into something intense—it’s like he’s pumped adrenaline into every one of my cells.
So…maybe I should quit fretting? It’s not that I feel insecure. I just don’t want to be left out in the cold. Again. Though with Russel, that feeling likely had little to do with me.
Before my messy thoughts start clouding my judgement, I spin away and lock my car.
Greta tosses Linden the keys and he snatches them, his big palm like a catcher’s mitt.
“I’ll see you back here at noon,” he tells her.
“Okay!” she calls out as we fall into step toward the field entrance.
Walking past the two ticket booths followed by the arch in the fence pricks my chest with tiny barbs of emotion, but they fade the minute we step onto the track that circles the football field.
So empty and quiet, it feels very different.
Without the autumn darkness creeping in and the band playing and whistles chirping and rowdy students crowding into every space, it’s not the same experience at all.
If Greta makes the team, and Linden and I are still together this fall, would we?—
I shut that thought down. Linden and I haven’t even talked about tomorrow, let alone a month from now.
Greta and I warm up and stretch, then get to work. The cheer is simple, with a couple of turns and a catchy chant. The motions tickle a hundred memories of Saturday mornings I spent in our backyard helping Mom design new routines.
“Sharp,” I remind Greta as she runs through the arm movements. “It’s not fluid like dance. It’s precise and kind of aggressive.”
“I can do aggressive.” She tries again, and I gotta say she’s looking pretty good for someone who’s never done this type of thing before.
“It’s the big, stupid bow I’m not feeling,” she adds after she finishes, her hands on her hips.
“Because it’s girly?”
She takes a sip of her water and wipes her sweaty brow with the hem of her t-shirt. “Yeah. I don’t want people thinking that’s me.”
I get where she’s going with this but letting the fear of being judged steer her actions is a recipe for misery. “You could cut off your hair.”
She gives me a curious look. “True.” She flips her ponytail. “I like my pink tips though.”
“So you wear the bow,” I say with a shrug.
“And the short skirt. ”
“Who doesn’t love a short skirt?” I throw back.
She rewards me with a shy smile. “My friends are going to think I’m nuts.”
“Are they the kind of friends who’ll support you?”
After another long sip of her water, she nods. “With endless trash-talking, but yeah, they will.”
“Is this something you want?”
She huffs a full breath. “I love gymnastics, but it’s not as much of a team as I wish it was. Everyone’s kind of doing their own thing. I mean, we root for each other and stuff, but being on the cheer team…” She glances down the track, then out to the field. “If they want me, and I can fit in…”
There’s a yearning in her gaze that taps my heartstrings. Damn, this girl is brave.
I give my new bracelet a spin. It makes me appreciate him even more, knowing he’s pushed his daughter to reach for the stars. She’s a lucky kid, that’s for sure.
She shrugs. “I mean, I guess we’ll see, right?”
I smile. “Yep.”
We watch the video provided by the team captain for practice purposes, run through the cheer again, then move into the simple dance. It’s fun and a little saucy with hip rolls and a high kick and by the time we master it, we’re both smiling.
While Greta runs it from the top, with the music, I gulp water while catching my breath, then stretch out my hamstrings. People who say cheer isn’t a sport should spend an hour giving it a try.
“Yes, girl!” I call out when Greta rolls her hips with a sassy smirk, then hops from a V to a high kick that touches the clouds. When she finishes, beaming, I slip my pinky between my lips for a whistle—a trick my dad taught me.
From the stands comes a round of applause. I turn, shading my eyes. Sitting beneath the overhang is Linden, his long, bare legs and muscular forearms coated with a sheen of sweat. Did he go for one of his epic runs while we practiced?
His quick brown eyes flit from me to his daughter, a thoughtful expression on his face. How long has he been up there, watching?
He trots down the steps, emerging from the shadows.
The sunlight ripples over his arms, highlighting his tattoos.
I haven’t had the chance to count how many birds are etched across his shoulder, but there must be dozens.
Questions I don’t have the nerve to ask bounce around in my head, teased to life by the tiny scraps of what he’s shared.
A long time ago, a firefighter came to his rescue. Someone was there for me in a way that changed my life . What did he save Linden from?
And somehow, he knows about Trina’s past. Though she gained her freedom, healing from that kind of upbringing…it’s an uphill battle. Did Linden have a similar upbringing? Will he ever tell me about it?
I spin back to Greta. “What about your tumbling pass?”
Greta wipes her brow again. “I don’t need to practice that.”
There’s that bright confidence again. “I’ve got a layover in Anchorage tomorrow. We could FaceTime and you could run through it one more time?”
Her eyes light up. “You’d do that?”
Linden vaults over the stairway to the track, his easy grace momentarily snagging my attention. “You know it.”
Linden crosses his arms and squints at us both. “Can I interest either of you in a lake swim, maybe followed by lunch from the Sweet Spot?”
“Yes please!” Greta cries, bouncing over to the sidelines to pack up her things.
Linden gazes slowly up my body. “What about you, coach?”
It’s a harmless nickname, and appropriate considering the way I just spent the last two hours, but I can’t help the way my lips twist.
Linden’s eyes cloud, and he rubs down his chin, the stubble scratching against his callouses. “Shit. I didn’t think about…” He takes a step closer. “Your mom. You must have so many memories.”
I force in a soothing breath but the lump in my throat has grown little hooks. “I had a great time with Greta,” I manage.
Greta whips past us in a flawless cartwheel followed by a round off, then folds seamlessly into a handstand.
“From what I saw, looks like she had fun too,” Linden says. His smile is kind, easy. It lights up the gold flecks in his eyes and softens his features. It’s genuine. Disarming.
“Let’s goooo,” Greta chants from the exit, breaking the spell between us. “This homie’s hungry.”
Down at the parking lot, Linden takes my lunch order, then he hands the keys to Greta.
I follow them down the hill, and through the back window of his truck, I catch Linden’s profile when he talks to Greta, and though I can’t hear what they’re saying, I can sense the ease between them, almost hear their laughter.
Have they always been close, or did the divorce offer an opportunity?
It makes me think of my dad, and the unfamiliar landscape we were forced to navigate when Mom passed.
Would we have become so close if we’d still had Mom?
Even though Greta and Linden stop to pick up lunch, by the time I hurry into my house and change into my suit, they’re already scampering down to the water’s edge.
I soak in the way Linden’s calves flex when he plows the shallows before he dives beneath the surface.
Do I secretly love that we shared our own private swim together yesterday?
Yes, almost as much as this one, because the welcoming tug of belonging I’m feeling right now is making my heart hum inside my chest.
The sharp sand pricks my bare feet as I stroll to the shore, dropping my towel and yanking my ponytail free. My new bracelet catches the light. I decide to keep it on. It’s served me well so far. Maybe it will help me through the rest of this day.
Because my craving for him is like a hot ache inside me. What we shared feels like so much more than a hookup, but is that how he’s feeling about it? I don’t know that I want the answer. It’s easier to pretend I haven’t already given him too much of my heart.
Or that it’s too much to take back.