Mothers & Memories
Chapter twenty-five
Declan
Americans and their relentless need to talk—about everything, all the time, for absolutely no reason. It’s maddening. Pointless. A national obsession with feelings and over-explaining.
And yet, here I am.
Sitting in the over-decorated office of Dr. Saunders—Coach Saunders—because Coach Jones said if I didn’t, I’d be benched.
No therapy, no game time. That was the deal.
And with cameras already catching me unraveling, the club’s PR team apparently thinks a few deep breaths and a talk about my feelings will fix me.
Good luck.
It’s been two weeks since I found out who Marlow really is and where she’s been this whole time.
And while I spent the better part of three months tearing through every lead, chasing the ghost of the woman who disappeared on me, convincing myself the way she left had to be some kind of drunken mistake, she was busy figuring out how to erase me from her life.
Because I wasn’t the memory. I was the regret. The mistake.
“Declan,” Coach Saunders begins, folding her hands in her lap like she’s about to gently deliver a harsh blow.
“I remember how excited the team was when we found out you were joining. You were bold, sharp, great with the press. A clean slate. No drama, no attitude. And unlike some of our other players, I was told you came with no baggage.”
Her voice is calm, but there’s an edge of curiosity beneath it. Not judgment, just confusion she’s trying to wrap words around.
“No history of behavioral issues. No tension with the media. So help me understand…” she leans in slightly, eyes steady. “What’s going on?”
I lean back in the chair, arms crossed, jaw tight. Every part of me wants to shut down, stay silent, ride this out until the hour's up. But something in her voice, measured, professional, not loaded with pity or judgment, cracks through the wall just enough.
So I speak.
“I was seven,” I say, slowly. “My brother was twelve. Our mother left. No fight, no warning. Just… gone. One day she was tucking me in, and the next, nothing.”
The words feel foreign coming out of my mouth. I’ve never said them out loud. Not like this.
Sasha and Anton never pushed. In all the years we’ve known each other, they gave me space, not questions. And my brother Niko, he shut down completely. After she left, he turned to stone. Unshakeable. Unreachable.
So talking about our mother became the thing we all silently agreed to avoid. It wasn’t a rule, just a shared instinct. A wound we learned to walk around. History we preferred to leave buried.
But I’ve never been in this situation before. Never felt this off-balance.
So maybe it’s time I try something different. Maybe it’s time I talk.
“I’m sorry that happened to you,” Coach Saunders says softly.
I nod, eyes down, fingers tugging at the hem of my shirt. Why the hell am I nervous?
“We were still trying to make sense of it. Her leaving. How she left. No goodbye.”
I pause, jaw clenched against the memory.
“My father came into our rooms in the middle of the night, told us to pack. We moved to Argentina the next day. New language. New life. Same hole in my chest.”
I pause, staring at a point on the floor, but I’m not seeing it. I’m back there—in that room, confused and scared, clutching a backpack and watching my brother try to be brave for both of us.
“My nonna helped raise us. My dad did what he could. He worked, he tried. But the message stuck: women leave. They love you, and then they leave.”
I glance up. Her pen is still, her gaze frozen.
“I’ve kept women at arm’s length my whole life. I don’t trust easily. And then this night in Vegas happened.”
I let out a dry laugh. It’s sharp and humorless.
“I don’t know why, but I trusted her. And she turned around and proved me right—and left me soaking in my own regret, and in her actual vomit, for good measure.”
Coach Saunders chokes. “I’m sorry, who did what again?”
“Fucking Maddy. Marlow! My wife!” I snap, throwing my hands in the air.
Her eyes go wide, but she recovers quickly, smoothing her expression into something neutral.
“I see,” she says, clearing her throat. “And Maddy is…”
“I married her in Las Vegas. She said she’d stay. Said she wasn’t going to leave me like my mother did.”
“She said those exact words?”
“Not word-for-word, but close enough,” I mutter. “Now she’s demanding a divorce and call me petty, doc, but I don’t want to let her have it.”
Coach raises an eyebrow. “So what, you’re stalling?”
I shrug, damn near proud of it. “Let’s just say I’ve made it complicated. I ‘accidentally’ gave my lawyer the wrong spelling of her name on the first draft.”
She shakes her head, but I don’t miss the faint flicker of a smile tugging at her lips.
“Well,” I add, “she gave me the wrong name when we got married. So technically, that one’s on her.”
“Sure. Let’s go with that,” she says, clearly humoring me. “What else have you done to drag out what should be a pretty quick procedure?”
“I sent her all the divorce papers in Italian and made her have them translated.”
She lets out a sigh, fighting a laugh. “Why, Declan?”
“Because I’m not done with her, doc,” I say, matter-of-fact. “And if she wants out, she’s gonna have to work for it.”
She starts scribbling something in her notes, probably labeling me emotionally unstable, unhinged, or whatever the clinical term is for irreparably broken hearted with a petty streak, but I keep going.
Because if I stop now, I’ll have to admit what all this really is.
Grief.
Love.
And the absolute refusal to let her become just another person who left.
“Then I had my lawyer add clauses that didn’t make sense. Like custody of a dog we never had; Nutmeg. I may have spent two full days in litigation arguing over visitation hours. That one was my personal favorite.”
Coach Saunders puts the pen down and just stares at me.
I stare right back.
Unapologetic.
Still not signing those papers.
She’s blinking slowly like she’s trying to process whether I’m serious or simply clinically unwell.
“Declan,” she says carefully, “you have me at a loss.”
“Thank you,” I reply, leaning back like I’ve just won something. “Means a lot.”
She shakes her head. “Yeah, that wasn’t a compliment. Have you tried talking to… Maddy?”
“Marlow,” I correct sharply.
“Right, sorry,” she says. “But have you? Really tried talking to her?”
“Have I tried?” I scoff. “Of course I’ve tried. I’ve called, texted, emailed. I sent flowers to her office. Even a singing stripper gram with a man who looked like me, wearing my jersey.”
“You did what?” she nearly yells, leaning forward like she misheard.
“It was the only way I finally got her attention.”
“And what did she do?”
“She threw a soccer ball at my head. But at least she reacted.” I pause. “Still wants the divorce, though.”
“Go figure.”
I run a hand down my face, the frustration eating me alive. “I don’t know what else to do, doc. Is it crazy that I love her? That my breathing hasn’t been right since the morning I woke up and she was gone?”
She doesn’t answer right away. Just watches me with something almost soft. Understanding?
“It’s not crazy at all, Declan,” she says finally. “But for a marriage to work, both people have to want it. And it doesn’t seem like she does. Maybe it’s time you let her go. Maybe it’s time you find someone who wants the same thing you do.”
I snap.
“What the fuck don’t you get, Coach Saunders?
” I shoot to my feet, fists clenched at my sides.
“There is no one else! You keep asking why I’m off my game, why I’ve suddenly got ink crawling up my neck like I’m unraveling—it’s because of her!
I don’t want to be like this. I don’t want to feel out of control.
But for the fucking life of me, I can’t figure out why I’m not right without her. ”
I pause, chest heaving. “So no, I reject your nice, neat little suggestion. I found her. And I’m not ready to let her go.”
I turn, ready to storm out, rage burning hot in my throat. But the next thing she says lands heavy, even though it’s the calmest thing she’s said to me.
“Then maybe,” she says, “it’s time you show her what she’s missing without you, too.”
Maybe it is.