Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The call came at midmorning, when the house was quiet in a way Mac had come to recognize as temporary.
She’d finished her coffee and set the mug in the sink without rinsing it, meaning to come back later.
Her phone lay faceup on the counter.
She didn’t jump when it rang.
She answered on the second ring.
“MacKenzie Lockhart,” Paula said, sounding pleased in a way that made Mac brace. “You ready?”
She leaned her hip against the counter. “Go ahead.”
“Wisconsin wants you,” she said. “Primary color analyst. Home games and select travel. Studio work for the rest. One-year contract with an option to extend.”
Mac closed her eyes. Not in relief, not in shock. In recognition.
Paula kept talking, filling the space the way she always did when she thought momentum mattered. Numbers. Schedules. Visibility. A quick mention of how fast things were moving, how lucky the timing was, how cleanly it would all line up if she said yes now.
Mac listened without interrupting.
When she paused, finally, Mac opened her eyes.
“I have a few questions,” she said.
“Of course,” Paula replied, instantly attentive.
She asked about autonomy. About prep time. About whether she could say no to segments that felt performative or shallow. About whether her analysis would be trusted or filtered. About boundaries she hadn’t known she’d need five years ago.
Paula answered carefully. Honestly.
“That’s why they want you,” she said at last. “You don’t just talk about the game. You see it.”
Mac swallowed.
Silence settled between them. Not awkward, not rushed.
“Friday’s still the deadline,” Paula said gently. “But if you’re in, I should tell them today. They might not hold the seat.”
Mac looked out the window at the short stretch of sidewalk between her door and Connor’s. The distance was short enough that she could see the edge of his porch if she leaned just slightly to the left.
She didn’t.
She thought about the gym at night, empty and echoing. About the way she could read a play before it unfolded. About being glad, truly glad, not to be on the court anymore.
“I’m in,” she said.
Paula exhaled, a sound like relief and victory braided together. “Okay. Great. I’ll handle the rest.” She paused, then added, softer, “You good?”
Mac pressed her thumb against the edge of the counter, grounding herself.
“Yes,” she said. “I am.”
They ended the call.
She stood there for a moment longer than necessary, phone still warm in her hand. The house felt different now. Not heavier, not emptier. Just altered. As if something structural had shifted quietly while she wasn’t looking.
She didn’t text Connor.
Not because she was hiding.
Not because she didn’t want to share.
Because she wanted to understand what yes meant before she let it touch anything else.
Mac picked up her mug and rinsed it, watching the water swirl and disappear down the drain. Then she turned toward the rest of the day, aware that something had begun.
And something else, unspoken, was now exposed.
The lake was almost indecently beautiful.
The summer afternoon was the kind that felt curated—wind steady but gentle, sky scrubbed clean, the water stretching blue and untroubled in every direction.
Connor eased the sailboat away from the dock, letting lines slip loose with practiced hands, while Mac stepped aboard without hesitation, balancing easily as the hull rocked once, then settled.
“You steady?” he asked.
She nodded, smiling. “I trust your judgment.”
Something about the way she said it—casual, unguarded—lodged in his chest.
They moved into the open water, the sail catching the wind with a soft snap, then filling. The boat leaned just enough to remind them it was alive, responsive. Connor adjusted the tiller, eyes scanning instinctively, then relaxed as the boat steadied.
Mac kicked off her sandals and tucked her feet beneath her, resting one hand on the edge of the boat. Her hair lifted in the breeze, dark strands brushing her cheek before she tucked them back without thought.
She looked…at ease.
That was new enough to notice.
They didn’t talk at first. The quiet between them wasn’t empty. It was companionable, punctuated by the sound of water sloshing against the hull and the distant call of a gull overhead.
Connor glanced at her, then back at the horizon. “Addie’s been counting down to the start of school.”
Mac turned toward him. “Already?”
“Yeah.” He shook his head, half amused. “She’s excited. New year. New classes. New possibilities.” A beat. “Callum and I used to act like the end of summer was a personal betrayal.”
Mac laughed softly. “Same. Except I always knew what came next. Training camps. Tryouts. Schedules.” She shrugged. “There wasn’t much mystery to it.”
“And Addie’s got choices,” Connor said, more thoughtful now. “She’s trying to decide how hard she wants to lean into things. What she wants the year to look like.”
Mac nodded, gaze drifting back to the water. “That’s a good place to be.”
“It is,” he agreed. Then, after a moment, he said, “Even if it’s uncomfortable.”
She smiled at that, small and knowing, but instead of responding, she shifted, leaning back against the side of the boat, tipping her face toward the sun.
“So,” she said lightly, “how long until you admit you planned this day to make yourself look good?”
He laughed. “You caught me. I bribed the weather.”
“I knew it.”
The conversation moved on to books they’d been reading. Connor pointed out a spot on the far shore where he and Callum used to swim as kids. They talked about the way the lake looked different depending on where you stood. The easy things. The connective ones.
Still, Connor felt a subtle withholding on Mac’s part.
Not cold. Not distant. Just…contained.
He’d learned, over time, to recognize that feeling, not as rejection, but as a signal. Something being carried quietly, deliberately.
They drifted for a while, sail slackening as the wind shifted. Connor adjusted course, hands sure, movements unhurried.
Mac watched him, her gaze steady. “You look happy out here.”
“I am,” he said, surprised by how true it felt. “It’s easier to breathe on the water.”
She considered that. “Yeah. It is.”
They shared a smile—warm, genuine—and for a moment, the question he wanted to ask rose up but then settled back down again.
He didn’t need to ask it yet.
They turned back toward shore as the afternoon stretched on, the sun beginning its slow descent. Connor guided the boat in, easing it alongside the dock with care. Mac hopped out and steadied it, holding the line while he secured the cleat.
“You make that look easier than it is,” she said.
He shrugged. “Practice.”
She handed him the line, their fingers brushing briefly—nothing dramatic, just contact. But he felt it anyway.
They stood there on the dock for a beat, the boat rocking gently behind them, the lake wide and open at their backs.
“Thanks for today,” she said. “It was…exactly what I needed.”
He smiled. “I’m glad.”
And he meant it.
Mac shifted her bag higher on her shoulder.
“Bella texted,” she added. “She’s short-handed. I told her I’d swing by for a bit.”
Connor nodded. “Go rescue her.”
She stepped closer, brushing a quick kiss across his cheek before turning toward the parking lot.
“I’ll see you later.”
“Later,” he said.
He watched her walk up the dock until she disappeared past the boathouse.
Only then did he turn back to the boat.
But as he started gathering the lines, Connor felt the faintest tug of unease—not sharp, not alarming. Just the awareness that something had shifted slightly out of alignment.
She was still here.
Still warm.
Still choosing him in a hundred small ways.
But there was something she wasn’t sharing.
For the first time, he understood that staying silent might cost him more than asking the question ever could.