Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
During the next week, Mac fell back into a routine as ingrained as the laces on her sneakers.
Every morning, when the YMCA doors unlocked at five thirty sharp, she was already there, hood pulled up, earbuds in, breath steadying as she crossed the threshold. The air inside always carried the same familiar scents of rubber mats, disinfectant and early-morning effort.
This schedule wasn’t optional. It had anchored her through seasons of pressure—wins, losses and reinventions.
Skipping it would feel like skipping oxygen.
Only once her lungs burned and her muscles hummed, once sweat slicked her skin and her heart found its rhythm, could she move on with the rest of her day.
That morning, the workout ran longer than planned with an extra set of weighted sled pushes and a few pride-fueled pull-ups she hadn’t meant to add.
She checked the clock and swore under her breath.
Mac jogged down the hallway toward the gym, already hearing the low, hollow thud of a basketball striking hardwood.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” she called, pushing through the doors and stopping short.
Connor.
He stood near the sideline, rolling a ball lazily from palm to palm as he talked with David Chapin. At the sound of her voice, he turned.
Gym shorts. T-shirt. Hair damp, as if he’d already been moving for a while.
A smile spread across his face, unguarded, unmistakably pleased.
Mac blinked, then felt her own mouth curve in response before she could stop it.
“Connor’s joining us today,” David said, clapping a broad hand on his nephew’s shoulder. “Hoping it becomes a weekly thing.”
Mac nodded, shifting her weight. “That’s great.”
The words came out a shade too bright, too quick. She let out a breath and reined it in, scanning the court. “Katie Ruth not playing today?”
“Some church thing,” Ryder Goodhue said, already peeling off his warm-up hoodie. “I’ve got to head out early.”
The teams filled fast. Shoes squeaked. A ball bounced sharply as David took charge, splitting teams with the easy authority of a man who still knew the paint—and how to own it. Though long past his college days, David still had skills and a competitive drive.
Mac respected that. She hoped she’d still play hard when she hit her fifties.
From the opening tip, it was clear this wouldn’t be a casual run.
Connor played smart—measured, efficient, always reading the court a beat ahead. Mac played fast and relentless, pressing on defense, cutting hard on offense.
Midway through the first game, she drove down the lane, cut left, spun and rose into a clean jumper over a defender who had at least four inches on her.
The ball snapped through the net.
As she backpedaled, she caught the look in Connor’s eyes—quick, appreciative, sharpened by respect.
Two possessions later, he surprised her.
He timed her crossover perfectly, stripped the ball clean and glided into a lay-up that kissed the glass and dropped with irritating grace.
“Oh,” Mac said, circling back for the inbound, lips twitching. “So that’s how it’s going to be.”
Connor’s grin was quick, confident. “You’re not the only one who came to play.”
They pushed harder after that, trading buckets, blocks and quiet jabs. Neither pulled back. Neither expected the other to.
Mac felt her blood pounding, not just from the game, but from the rhythm of it—the shared language, the unspoken challenge.
This was why she loved basketball. For moments like this, when the court stripped everything down to effort and instinct and trust in your body.
Mac could have ended the game three possessions ago.
But this wasn’t the league.
She liked the way the game belonged to everyone.
The score crept up until they were tied, 10–10. Game point.
No one said it out loud, but the air shifted. Everyone felt it.
Connor took the ball at the top of the key, dribbling with easy control, eyes narrowing as he assessed the floor.
Mac dropped into her stance, arms loose, breath steady despite the sweat sliding down her spine.
He faked right. She stayed put.
Pivoted left—sharp, quick—but she was already there, cutting off the lane, closing the space.
He kept coming.
She held her ground.
The collision was inevitable.
Shoulder met shoulder. Their chests brushed. The ball slipped free, skittering between them, suddenly forgotten.
For a beat, neither of them moved.
They were too close. Close enough that Mac could feel the heat rolling off him, see the change in his eyes. Focused. Intent.
Something shifted. Not the game. Something else.
The ball bounced once. Twice.
Then David dove in, scooped it up and laid it in clean.
Game over.
Groans and laughter broke out around them, hands clapping, voices rising, but Mac stayed still. So did Connor.
“Nice defense,” he said at last, voice low.
She exhaled through her nose. “You leaned in.”
“You didn’t back off.”
She stepped away first, swiping sweat from her brow. “Didn’t need to.”
He gave a small nod, mouth curving with something that looked a lot like acknowledgment.
They walked off the court side by side, close but not touching. Mac’s pulse still thundered in her ears.
It was just the game, she told herself.
She said it again in her head when the first thought didn’t quite work.
Connor wasn’t sure how it happened that he and Mac ended up being the last two in the gym, trailing behind a group of men he’d known his entire life—some family, all familiar.
It felt strange not having Callum there. His brother was halfway through a honeymoon somewhere warm and far away.
“…isn’t it?”
Connor blinked, pulled out of his thoughts.
Mac stood beside him, eyebrows raised, a smirk tugging at her mouth. “You didn’t hear a word I said.”
He considered bluffing but didn’t. “Sorry. I was thinking about my brother’s wedding.”
“It was lovely,” she said, slowing as they neared the women’s locker room door.
“I had fun at the reception,” he said.
A small smile lifted her mouth. “Me, too.”
He hesitated, then asked, “You have somewhere you need to be after this?”
“Not really.” She tipped her head. “What are you thinking?”
“That we grab breakfast at Muddy Boots?” His smile came easily. “I don’t know about you, but I’ve worked up an appetite.”
Muddy Boots was humming when they stepped inside.
The bell over the door jingled, followed by a rush of warmth and familiar, comforting smells—coffee, bacon, fryer oil and something sweet baking.
Morning light poured through the front windows, catching on red vinyl booths and Formica tabletops worn smooth by decades of elbows, plates and conversations that had mattered more than people realized at the time.
“Well, look who the wind blew back in.”
Connor barely had time to react before Helen appeared from behind the counter, wiping her hands on a towel. She took him in with a quick, appraising look, then pulled him into a hug that smelled like cinnamon and strong coffee.
“Hey, Helen,” he said, laughing as she squeezed. “Still tackling people before sunrise, I see.”
“You deserve it.” She stepped back, eyes softening. “We’ve all been waiting for you to wander back through that door since you came back.”
Mac watched the exchange, curiosity flickering across her face, a small smile curving her mouth.
“It’s good to see you again,” Helen said, turning to her. “Having a celebrity in one of our booths is always good for business.”
Mac laughed lightly. “Good for business or not, I love the food here.”
It wasn’t something she indulged in often. Years of nutrition plans and strict routines had trained her instincts. But mornings like this—after a hard workout, with the smell of coffee in the air—she let herself want pancakes or waffles without negotiating with herself about it.
“Well, it’s good to have you both here,” Helen said, already reaching for mugs. “Sit wherever you like. Coffee’s coming.”
Connor slid into a booth across from Mac, stretching his legs with the easy familiarity of someone who’d done this a hundred times before. “Muddy Boots wouldn’t be the same without her.”
“She’s efficient,” Mac said, lifting a brow. “I respect that.”
Helen dropped off two mugs and menus. “If you need them.”
Mac didn’t reach for a menu. Connor did—pure reflex—then paused and set it aside.
“Blueberry pancakes,” Mac said to Helen. “Short stack.”
Connor smiled. “Scramble. Bacon. Hash browns. And whatever pastry you’re trying to get rid of.”
Helen grinned. “Smart man.”
When she walked away, Mac lifted her mug and took a slow sip, eyes drifting toward the window where Main Street was waking up—tourists wandering with maps in hand, locals moving with purpose, as if the day had already claimed them.
“Do you come here a lot?” Connor asked.
“Once a week at least,” she said. “My friend Bella loves it. We’ve got a standing lunch date here every Wednesday.”
He nodded, filing that away.
They settled into the booth. Steam curled from their mugs. Outside, a pickup truck rumbled past. Inside, a couple at the counter argued amiably about pancakes versus waffles, voices rising and falling like background music.
Connor leaned back, one arm along the top of the seat.
“I’m guessing this isn’t your usual postgame meal.”
“No,” Mac said, smiling. “But when I decide to indulge, I don’t do it halfway. I spent so many years being strict about everything—training, food, schedules—that sometimes it feels good to step outside the lines.”
Before Connor could respond, a man passing their table slowed.
“Sorry,” he said, hesitating. “You’re Mac Lockhart, right?”
Mac looked up and gave a polite smile. “Guilty.”
“I watched that championship game,” he said. “That shot at the buzzer? Unbelievable.”
“Thanks,” she said easily.
The man grinned, wished them a good day, and moved on.
Connor shook his head with a quiet laugh. “Guess that answers my question about the championship.”
Mac shrugged lightly.
“People think the pressure ends when the game’s over,” she said. “It doesn’t. You spend your whole career proving you deserve the spot you're standing in.”
“And you’re not going back to the pros.”
She shook her head. “My agent still calls, hoping she can change my mind. But I needed a change.”
She took another sip of coffee.
“This spring I helped out at the high school. A teacher went into labor early, so I took over her gym class and coached for a while. It surprised me how much I liked it.”
Connor studied her, thoughtful. “Sounds like you found something that fits.”
“Maybe,” she said. “Or maybe I’m still figuring that out.”
They talked easily after that. Not about the wedding or the game. About work. About the town—how it felt both familiar and different. About the strange pull of a place that remembered you even when you weren’t sure who you were anymore.
Their food arrived, hot and generous. Mac ate with focus, unhurried. Connor followed suit, realizing he’d been hungrier than he’d thought, and not just for breakfast.
Eventually, the conversation slowed, though it felt natural rather than awkward. They drank their coffee and let the diner noise carry the moment.
Mac checked her watch. “I should head out.”
Connor nodded. “Yeah. Same.”
At the register, Helen waved him off. “Beck will yell if I take your money.”
Connor didn’t argue.
When Mac tried to pay, she got the same response. She returned to the table and left a larger tip, slipping it beneath her mug.
Outside, the morning had fully arrived. Sunlight bounced off shop windows. The air smelled faintly of lake water and pine.
They stood on the sidewalk together a moment longer than necessary.
“I’m glad we ran into each other today,” Connor said, shifting his weight.
Mac met his gaze. “Me, too.”
“We’ll have to do this again sometime,” he added. “When we’re not already sweaty or running on caffeine.”
“That sounds like a good idea.” She smiled, then turned toward her car. “See you around, Brody.”
He watched her go, aware of the way the day felt subtly rearranged around him.
Mac felt his eyes on her as she walked away and smiled again, even as she told herself not to read anything into it.
Not yet.