Chapter 10
NOAH
The charter dropped through a sheet of cloud like a stone and then eased into the glide.
The cabin lights were dim, half the guys were out cold, and I stared at a dark tablet that wasn’t teaching me anything I didn’t already know.
We had won, my body had done its job, but my mind wouldn’t shut off.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw my living room—the blue TV glow, Sassy draped over Miles’s knees, and Em in my sweatshirt laughing at something the kid said.
I kept telling myself to sleep. I kept telling myself it was dumb to need to be home this badly.
The thoughts of them kept the flying nerves away though. That helped.
The wheels touched down. The plane roared and shuddered, and the seat belt dug into my hips.
Somewhere behind me, Jordan snored through the landing.
My hand was already on my phone even though the crew hadn’t told us we could turn anything back on yet.
The second the little airplane symbol switched to bars, my lock screen flooded with texts.
I ignored the ones from Booth, Ivy, my friends.
Even ignored Oliver’s stupid-ass gifs. I went to the ones I knew would piss me off.
Ripping the Band-Aid off or some shit like that.
Mom: We’re glad you’re back.
Mom: We need to talk about what’s best for Miles.
Mom: Our attorney advised us to serve you this week so it’s official. Please be reasonable.
The word serve punched under my ribs like a helmet. I read it. I read it again because maybe it would change the third time. It didn’t. Another text sat above those I hadn’t opened last night because I’d wanted one hour of quiet. Dad’s tone was dressed up as concern.
Dad: It’s stressful for everyone when you’re gone. We can give him stability.
Dad: Let us help.
Dad: Call today.
The aisle started moving, and I stood because everyone stood. My fingers were stiff around the phone. There was a photo from Em too—Miles smiling outside his school that morning. I wouldn’t get to see him until later that day, and I wouldn’t be able to relax until I could hold him against my chest.
On the days being a guardian got hard, I wanted to punch a wall and beg Nat for a reason.
Why did she leave him with me and not our parents?
I knew they disagreed on everything and they were selfish, but this?
They had experience with kids. They would know what to do.
Did she know it would cause this horrific drift between us?
Did she foresee this happening? I hated how my parents had turned into different people with her death.
They weren’t thinking about Miles. They were focused on themselves, and their selfishness ate at me. Why were they acting like this?
Why? Just… why?
Fuck. I rubbed my forehead. The pressure grew and grew, and I exhaled, making a note to find time to talk to Sloane. I had to or I would explode. I’d slept like shit the entire trip and now this crap with my parents…
Buses, duffels, fluorescent light. We shuffled through the tunnel at the stadium, and I went back on autopilot.
Trainers waved, equipment guys cracked jokes, the night-shift security guard told me his daughter had lost a tooth.
I floated through the actions. Booth clapped my shoulder once—solid, approving, final.
The second we were cleared, I bolted for the lot.
The morning sun shone across the skyline. The lake looked like metal. The tires hummed the same rhythm as my head. I hit a red on Wabash, and Mom’s thread lit up again.
Mom: We’re coming by this afternoon to drop off some of his fall clothes.
Mom: We can discuss then.
I typed and deleted three answers. I settled on nothing because anything I sent right then would start a fire. The light flipped, I rolled through green, and then I was home.
The lock clicked the same way it always did, but the sound went straight through me.
The condo smelled like cinnamon and popcorn and the faint lemon of the spray Em used because she said, “your bachelor soap doesn’t count.
” It was quiet—not empty, but quiet like a held breath.
Miles’s shoes were lined up crooked by the mat.
Sassy’s leash hung on the hook with a loop of glitter ribbon.
There was a new sticky note on the fridge in Em’s handwriting: THURSDAY—LIbrARY DAY. RETURN DINOSAUR BOOK.
My chest hurt in a way that wasn’t pain.
“Hey,” Em called, and her voice hit the room like light.
I turned, and there she was at the island with her glasses on, legs tucked into a chair, a legal pad balanced on one knee and her tablet open to the right.
She wore a soft gray sweater that slid off one shoulder and black joggers that hugged her skin.
Her hair was in a low braid. She had three fabric swatches fanned like cards, a tape measure looped around her neck, and my old mug that said WORLD’S OKAYEST COOK jammed with pens.
She looked focused, then happy to see me.
I stopped two steps into the kitchen because the feeling that moved through me wasn’t tidy. I’d seen her like this twice now—glasses, focused, lower lip caught in her teeth. A rush of heat went through me, seeing her soft and brilliant like this. This heat was a problem.
“You’re back sooner than I thought,” she said, pushing her glasses up with her knuckle. “Hi.” She smiled—not the polite one from the facility, not the shy one from the first night. This was the real one that showed in her eyes. The smile I knew well from all our years of being friends.
“Hi,” I said, and my voice came out rough.
I’d just faced down Dallas. Some of the meanest, largest, roughest guys in the league, and here I was nervous to take more steps into my own apartment.
The air felt heavy, and my feet had lead in them.
My heart pounded against my ribs as relief, joy, and peace all twisted into one.
Yes, I missed Miles. But I also missed her.
Her blonde hair hung around her face, and my fist twitched with the urge to walk to her cup her face.
I wanted to thank her, beg her to stay here.
Kiss her as a thanks. I wanted to say a million things, and nothing came out. Just a stupid hi.
“I’ll pick up my mess.” Her cheeks pinkened in the way I adored.
The blush made her blue eyes shine like summertime.
The color of the sky in the middle of a Chicago summer.
The little pout was gone, and she fidgeted.
“I’m sorry. I thought I had more time. I shouldn’t have taken this out of my room.
Not my room, your room. The guest room.”
“Shit, no, Em, you don’t need to clean up.” I let my bag slide on the floor, immediately heading toward her. “Show me what you’re working on.”
“Please.” She scoffed. “You’re tired. You need to rest. I’ll get out of here.”
“Em.” My voice had a bite to it, and she frowned, stilling as she tried stacking a bunch of papers. “I want to see what you’re doing.”
“You don’t want to … rest? Work out? I don’t know, watch TV?” She chewed that damn plump lip again, staring at me with questions swirling in her eyes.
I shook my head slowly, my breath coming out heavier. “I want you to tell me about your designs. I dare you.”
That did it.
Her uncertainty shifted to a naughty grin, and she patted the spot next to her. “I’ll bore you to death, I’m sure, but you insisted.”
“No, everything you do I find fascinating.” I placed a hand on the back of her chair as I sat down, closing my eyes as I breathed in her perfume and shampoo. She smelled damn good, like coffee and vanilla. And not leaning into her took all my effort. “Okay, talk me through this.”
She cleared her throat and held up her tablet, not shifting away from how close I sat.
Heat radiated off her like a steady hum, the kind that wrapped around you and didn’t let go.
She tapped the screen, and the first sketch appeared—clean, confident lines in her drawing, bold pops of color balanced with neutrals that made my eye go straight to the logo.
“This is the first look,” she said, her voice soft but quick.
“It’s a reworked game-day jacket, structured but lightweight—cropped option for women, standard cut for men.
See here?” She pointed at the shoulder seam, leaning in until her hair brushed my arm.
“This paneling isn’t just aesthetic—it’s functional.
Breathable mesh disguised under matte jersey.
People can wear it at the game, but also …
out. You know? Streetwear that doesn’t scream I’m wearing merch. ”
I watched her hands move, watched her light up. Her fingers danced when she talked. I wasn’t sure if I was tracking her words or the sound of them. “That’s genius,” I said, meaning it. “Fans would lose their minds for that.”
She grinned, dimples deepening. “It’s not just for fans,” she said, swiping to the next design.
“This one’s a modular hoodie—it has hidden zippers on the side panels so you can turn it into a cropped version or keep it long.
And the sleeves—look, this is my favorite part—detachable.
So, technically, it’s a hoodie, a vest, and a shrug all in one. ”
“That’s… I don’t even know what to call that,” I said. “It’s fashion witchcraft. Reminds me of your video two years ago? The one you made about Patrick Mahomes that went viral.”
She chuckled. “Oh yeah, that one! I almost died when he liked the video. Definitely unreal that I’m now partnering with the Rampage. What is my life?”
“You earned it, Em.” I placed my hand on her shoulder, squeezing and leaning into her for a hug. “Don’t question how or why. Know you worked your ass off and shot your shot.”