Chapter 23
ETHAN
“Play it cool,” I tell myself. “We’re casual. Breezy. Definitely not overthinking everything.”
The door opens and Piper appears, and my brain short-circuits. She’s in jeans and a burgundy UMS sweatshirt, her hair still damp from the shower, and she’s wearing her backup glasses—thick black frames that make her look like a sexy librarian.
“Hi,” she says, and there’s this moment where we just stare at each other, the weight of last night hanging between us.
“Hi,” I manage. “You look—”
“Like I own multiple pairs of glasses?”
“I was going to say beautiful, but sure, that too.” I hold out her regular pair. “Greg kept them warm for you.”
She takes them, our fingers brushing, and we both freeze at the contact. Jesus, are we really this awkward now?
“So,” she says.
“So,” I agree.
We stand there like idiots until a car alarm sounds in the distance.
“Right!” I clear my throat. “Lunch. Food. Sustenance. Should we...”
“Yes. God, yes. Before this gets weirder.”
We start walking, and I deliberately bump her shoulder with mine. “Weird? Us? Never.”
She laughs, some tension breaking. “Where are we going?”
“I thought we could walk around, see what looks good?” I adjust Greg to my other arm, freeing up the hand closest to her. “Unless you have preferences?”
“No, that sounds perfect.”
We wander down Mass Street, the early spring air crisp but not cold. Every few steps, our hands almost touch, and it’s driving me insane. Are we holding hands now? Is that a thing we do? Why is this harder than when it was fake?
“This is weird, right?” Piper says suddenly. “Not bad weird, just—”
“Different,” I finish. “Yeah. But good different?”
“Definitely good different.”
I catch her hand, threading our fingers together. “There. Now it’s less weird.”
“If you say so,” she says, but she’s smiling and squeezing my hand back.
We pass a street musician playing guitar, and I stop abruptly, pulling her with me.
“What are you—”
I set my backpack, bow dramatically, and extend my hand. “Dance with me, Piper Renner.”
“It’s noon. On a public street.”
“Perfect dancing conditions.” I wiggle my fingers. “Come on. When’s the last time you danced on a sidewalk?”
“Never, because I’m a normal person.”
“Your loss.” I start dancing by myself, terrible swooping movements that are definitely not matching the acoustic guitar. A few people stare. I add in some spins.
“Oh my god, stop.” Piper laughs, grabbing my hands.
“Never!” I spin her under my arm. “See? Natural dancer.”
“You’re ridiculous,” but she’s letting me sway her now, right there on the sidewalk.
“Ridiculously charming,” I correct, dipping her dramatically.
She shrieks, laughing as I pull her back up. “I’m going to drop you in a fountain.”
“Worth it for that laugh.”
We keep walking, her hand in mine feeling more natural now. We find a little sandwich place with outdoor seating.
“So,” Piper says once we’re seated with food. “What happens now? With... us?”
“Well,” I say thoughtfully, “I figured we’d eat these sandwiches—”
She kicks me under the table. “You know what I mean.”
“I do.” I reach across, take her hand again. It’s easier each time. “I like you, Piper. Real like, not fake-boyfriend like. I want to keep doing this.”
“Eating sandwiches?”
“Smart ass.” I stroke my thumb across her knuckles. “Dating. For real. If you want.”
She bites her lip, and I track the movement like it’s my job. “I want. But I should warn you—I’m probably going to be weird about it. I haven’t done this in a while.”
“I’ll be weird right back. Balance.”
“Your solution to everything is balance.”
“It’s a good life philosophy. That and always water your plants.”
“Greg does look healthy.”
“It’s all the love. And occasional plant food. But mostly love.”
We eat in comfortable silence for a bit, feet tangled under the table. It feels easy, natural, like we’ve been doing this forever instead of approximately eighteen hours.
“Can I ask you something?” Piper says eventually. “About football?”
My shoulders tense automatically. “Sure.”
“Do you miss it? Really miss it? Not the answer you give everyone.”
I set down my sandwich, considering. Nobody’s asked me that in a long time. Not the real question underneath.
“You want the truth?”
“Always.”
“I was relieved,” I admit, the words feeling strange in my mouth. “When the doctor said I couldn’t play anymore. I sat in that office listening to him explain ligament damage and recovery times, and all I could think was ‘thank god.’”
Her eyes widen. “Really?”
“I know how that sounds. Everyone acted like it was this tragedy. Poor Ethan, lost his future.” I laugh, but it’s hollow. “But it wasn’t my future. It was my dad’s.”
“What do you mean?”
I pick at my sandwich, organizing thoughts I usually keep locked away. “My dad was a high school quarterback. Legend, actually. Full ride to State, NFL scouts sniffing around. Then my mom got pregnant senior year.”
“With you?”
“With me.” I nod. “They were eighteen. Had to make a choice—he could take the scholarship, leave us, chase the dream. Or stay, be a dad, go to community college part-time.”
“He stayed.”
“He stayed. Married Mom, worked construction while getting his business degree at night. Owns a hardware store now. Good life, solid life. But...”
“But not the life he planned,” Piper says softly.
“Every time he watched me throw a football, I could see it. That hunger. Living through me.” I finally meet her eyes. “He started training me at six. Private coaches, camps, weight training by middle school. And I was good at it, so I just... kept going.”
“Even though you didn’t want to?”
“I convinced myself I wanted it. Everyone said I did. Coaches, teammates, Dad. Ethan Prescott, future NFL star.” I shake my head. “Then my shoulder got destroyed, and suddenly I had an out.”
“But you said you could have—”
“I could have come back,” I admit, the secret I’ve never told anyone spilling out. “The doctor said with intensive PT, surgery, I’d probably get back to ninety percent. Maybe ninety-five. Enough to play college ball.”
Understanding dawns on her face. “But you didn’t.”
“I told everyone it was worse than it was. Said the doctor recommended I stop. Let my dad believe his dream died with my shoulder instead of admitting I killed it myself.”
“Ethan...”
“He gave up everything for me,” I say roughly. “NFL dreams, college experience, all of it. Just so I could have a family. How could I tell him I was throwing away the thing he sacrificed his own dream for?”
Piper squeezes my hand tight. “Because it's your life. Not his.”
“Easy to say.”
“No, it's not.” Her voice is fierce now, but there's something else there—a slight tremor, like she's holding something back. “But your dad made his choice. He chose you and your mom. That was his decision, his life. You don't owe him yours in return.”
“He's still disappointed. Comes to game day and asks about intermurals, mentions quarterback camps for 'when I'm ready.'” I laugh bitterly. “It's been four years. I'm never going to be ready.”
“Have you told him about game design, about what you really want?”
“I've tried. He nods and calls it a nice hobby. Asks when I'm going to get serious about my future.”
“Your future is serious. You're brilliant at what you do.”
“You've never even played my game,” I point out, half-teasing.
She goes completely still. Her hand twitches in mine, and her face does this thing—like she's swallowed something wrong. For a second, she looks almost guilty.
“I'd like to,” she says quickly, her voice pitched slightly higher than normal. “But even just how you are with storytelling, you're good, really good. So your dad's wrong. You found your thing. It just wasn't his thing.”
She's not meeting my eyes now, focusing intently on our joined hands. Her thumb is moving in anxious little circles against my palm—the same nervous tic she had when she talked about Miles earlier.
This is too much for her. I'm dumping all my family trauma on a lunch date, and she's clearly uncomfortable. She probably thinks I'm some mess who needs constant validation about my career choices.
I turn our linked hands over, studying them, trying to lighten the mood. “Sometimes I wonder what would've happened if I'd been honest from the start. Told him at ten that I hated football, loved video games instead.”
“He might have surprised you.” Her voice sounds strangled, and she's gripping my hand almost too tight now.
“Or he might have looked at me the way he does now, just sooner.” I force a smile, pulling back from the heavy stuff. She's practically radiating discomfort, probably regretting asking about my dad at all. “Sorry. This got heavy. We're supposed to be having a fun lunch date.”
“No, it's—” She starts, then stops, biting her lip hard enough that I worry she'll draw blood. “I mean, I asked. I wanted to know.”
But her shoulders are tense, and she keeps glancing at me sideways like she wants to say something else. Definitely overwhelmed by the parental trauma dump. I should have kept it lighter, saved the deep stuff for later when we know each other better.
She waits until I look at her. “This is a fun lunch date. Learning real things about you? That’s what I want.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Though if you wanted to dance badly on the sidewalk again, I don’t know if I could join in.”
“Your mockery of my moves offends me.”
She throws a chip at me. I catch it in my mouth because I’m smooth like that.
“Show off,” she mutters.
“You like it.”
“I like you,” she says simply, and my heart does something stupid in my chest.
“Good,” I manage. “That works out well with my whole liking you situation.”
We finish lunch, hands linked over the table, and I realize something. For the first time in four years, I told someone the truth about my shoulder. And instead of judgment or disappointment, I got understanding.
Maybe Piper’s right. Maybe it’s time to stop living for someone else’s dream. To stop being embarrassed and ashamed about my own.
“Ready to go?” Piper asks.
“Yeah,” I say, meaning more than just lunch. “I’m ready.”
Our hands find each other automatically now, no hesitation.