Chapter 23
“Relax,” I say. “You’re not getting cut in the first ten minutes.”
Ryan Broadwater shoots me a look that’s half gratitude, half terror and wipes his hands on his shorts like that might steady them.
He’s tall, all limbs and nerves, light brown hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, and he has that look I remember too well—the one where confidence and fear are arm-wrestling inside your chest.
Easy to spot in a rookie. Easier when you used to be one.
“You don’t know that,” he mutters, bouncing on the balls of his feet. His accent slips out stronger when he’s stressed, vowels stretching like elastic. “Coach’s got that face.”
Coach does, in fact, have that face. Arms crossed, jaw set, eyes sharp. It’s the same face he always has. Ryan doesn’t know that yet.
“He always looks like that,” I say. “If he smiled, I’d be worried.”
Ryan snorts despite himself, which I count as a small win.
Practice whistles back in, and we jog to our spots.
The drill starts fast and stays there—hard cuts, quick passes, defensive switches that demand trust as much as speed.
Ryan misses a rotation early, overcorrects on the next one, then settles into the rhythm like his body finally remembers what it knows how to do.
By the end, he’s breathing hard but grinning, adrenaline bright in his eyes.
He made it through.
Coach blows the final whistle and calls us in.
A few corrections, one barked warning about sloppy feet, a nod in my direction that would have meant everything to me a year ago and now just registers as information.
When he dismisses us, the mood shifts instantly.
Laughter bleeds back in. Someone throws a towel at someone else. The tension cracks.
Ryan lets out a long breath. “Bloody hell,” he says. “Thought I was gonna throw up.”
“You didn’t,” I point out.
“Low bar,” he says, but he’s smiling now, shoulders looser.
We head for the locker room together, the noise rising around us. Someone claps Ryan on the back and calls him “Aussie” like it’s a compliment and a nickname all at once. He beams, trying to play it cool and failing.
It hits me, somewhere between the showers and the lockers, how different this feels.
I’m not the new guy anymore. No one calls me “LA” now.
No sideways glances, no measuring looks.
I know where my locker is without thinking.
I know who likes music on during tape and who needs silence.
I know which assistant coach hates questions and which one pretends not to.
I belong here.
That realization lands quietly but solidly, like something finally locking into place.
The last season with the Eagles was almost all of it—long, grinding, unexpectedly good. I found my footing early, stayed healthy, played my role and then some. Closed quarters. Started games when injuries hit. Earned trust the boring way, through consistency.
More importantly, I stopped waking up every morning feeling like the world was sitting on my chest.
I’m always on top of my game now, but the difference is, I don’t feel like one wrong step will send everything crashing down. I play hard. I recover. I move on.
It’s… easier. Which is a dangerous thing to admit.
“Oi,” Troy calls from across the room. “You packing your sunscreen or what?”
I roll my eyes. “You’re just jealous.”
“Of LA?” he scoffs. “Please. I’ve seen your weather apps.”
Dom chimes in, tying his hair up. “He’s flying out, right? Three days off and he bolts.”
“I’ll bring you souvenirs,” I say. “Like traffic.”
They laugh, good-natured and loud.
We do, in fact, have a rare three-day break. Early February, right around the All-Star lull. Enough time to breathe, not enough to lose momentum. Coach announced it this morning, and the room practically vibrated with relief.
I told them I was flying out. They didn’t need to ask where.
“You seeing your rock star friends?” Troy asks, eyebrows waggling.
“Someone needs to give them a dose of reality,” I say, playing along and focusing on me being friendly with the Steel Saints band rather than being married to the front man.
Ryan glances between us, curious but smart enough not to pry.
“Have fun,” Dom says. “Try not to bring the California chaos back with you.”
I promise nothing. But even as the jokes bounce around, there’s a tightness in my chest that doesn’t quite ease.
It’s been three months since I’ve seen Rafe. Three months of long-distance calls and trying to stitch intimacy together out of pixels and time zones. I hate it. I miss him in the dull, aching way that doesn’t always announce itself but never really leaves.
And at the same time—this is the part I don’t say out loud—I breathe easier without constantly looking over my shoulder. Without having to do the math every time we step outside together, and without the fear of being seen.
That relief comes with a cost. It always does.
I shower, change, and check my phone as I pull my hoodie on. Still nothing new from Rafe. That’s been the pattern for the past year since returning from the world tour and then winning two LUMINA Awards.
He’s been out more. Seen more. Always in a group, always laughing, always photographed with a drink in his hand and someone famous or adjacent nearby. The gossip cycles through my feeds whether I want it to or not, headlines framed just ambiguously enough to make my stomach tighten.
Nothing damning. Nothing concrete.
Just enough.
I’ve brought it up as carefully as I can more than once. He brushes it off every time. Tells me he’s fine. Tells me it looks worse than it is. Tells me the industry magnifies everything and that he’s allowed to blow off steam now that the tour’s over.
I want to believe him. I mostly do. But the stories have been stacking up over the past year, and I can’t shake the sense that something is slipping. Not dramatically. Not in a way that would make anyone else panic.
Just… quietly.
Two days ago, Miles texted me out of nowhere.
Miles: You flying in this break?
I stared at the message longer than I should have.
Rafe had mentioned a big party that clashed with the night I’d land—tonight—if Coach did give us the go-ahead for a break. Some private party. Big names. Not my scene, and definitely not something I wanted him to cancel on my account.
I wasn’t even sure then if I was going to fly out. The thought of being the quiet, grounding presence while everyone else buzzed around made my heartbeat falter in a way I couldn’t quite name.
So I hedged.
Me: Maybe. Still figuring it out.
Miles took a while to reply.
Miles: If you can make it, I think it’d be a good idea.
No explanation. No pressure. Just that.
I asked what he meant, but he didn’t answer.
Since then, I haven’t been able to get hold of Rafe. Calls go to voicemail. Texts sit unread longer than usual. When he does reply, it’s brief, affectionate, distant in a way I can’t quite pin down.
I tell myself I’m overthinking it. That we’ve been doing this long enough to survive a rough patch.
Still, I booked the flight and told Miles I was coming, and he arranged a car to pick me up from LAX like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Now, standing in the locker room with my bag slung over my shoulder and the noise of my team around me, the weight of the decision settles in my gut.
I’m flying in and hoping for the best. Hoping that whatever Miles didn’t want to say will make sense once I’m there.
I’m also hoping that Rafe answers the door.
As I head out, Ryan jogs up beside me. “Hey,” he says, a little awkward. “Uh. Have a good break.”
I smile at him. “You too. Don’t let them scare you.”
He grins. “No promises.”
I step into the cold Minnesota air a few minutes later, breath fogging instantly, and pull my jacket tighter around me.
Three days, a flight west, and a feeling I can’t quite shake, sitting heavy in my chest, as I jump into my SUV to catch my flight and wait for the car Miles says will be there when I land.
The fact that it’s Miles waiting when I walk out of LAX is the first sign something is wrong.
Not a driver with a placard. Not one of the security detail alone, half smiling and professional. Miles, in a black jacket, hands shoved into his pockets, jaw set tight like he’s bracing for impact. Vinny stands a step behind him, scanning the terminal with practiced ease.
My stomach drops. “Hey,” I say cautiously.
Miles’s eyes flick to my face, sharp and assessing, like he’s checking for damage. “Hey.” He pulls me into a quick, rough hug that’s over before I can return it. That’s the second sign.
“What’s going on?” I ask immediately.
Miles glances at Vinny, then jerks his chin toward the exit. “Let’s get in the car.”
That’s the third.
The night air outside is mild compared to Minnesota, but my skin prickles anyway. Vinny takes my bag without asking and stows it in the trunk. Miles opens the back door and waits until I’m inside before sliding in beside me. Vinny gets in the front.
We pull away from the curb, the city lights blurring past the tinted windows.
No one speaks for a full minute. I can feel my pulse in my throat. “Miles,” I say finally, “you’re freaking me out.”
He exhales through his nose, scrubs a hand over his face. “Yeah. Sorry.”
“Is Rafe okay?”
Miles hesitates just long enough to tell me everything. “He’s at a party,” he says carefully.
“Okay.” I suspected he would be since I haven’t been able to get hold of him. I’d just hoped he would have read my message about me flying in and chosen not to. “That’s not—” I stop myself. “You said it’d be good if I came.”
“It is,” Miles replies. “It really is.”
“But?”
Miles looks straight ahead, jaw tightening. “But he’s been… difficult.”
I swallow. “Define difficult.”
“He’s been trying to ditch security,” Miles says flatly. “Getting pissed when Vinny or Robyn won’t let him wander off. Drinking too much. Saying shit he shouldn’t.”
My body goes still. “How long?”
Miles’s mouth twists. “Long enough.”