Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Iwoke to the clank and hiss of the radiator in my apartment.
With no real reason to be up early that morning, I’d foregone setting an alarm.
I lingered in bed and stretched out my limbs.
My legs were stiff and my lower back was sore from standing in heels the previous night.
I normally wore flats for broadcasts, but I’d stupidly wanted to impress my new team, as if high heels would make them respect me more.
I wouldn’t be making that same mistake again.
As I stretched, I let my gaze drift over the small first-floor rental.
The moving boxes stacked in the corners of the studio apartment should have made me feel claustrophobic—or at least compelled me to finally unpack my things.
But I had neither the desire nor the urgency to make my living situation feel more like home.
I didn’t want to get too comfortable living under my parents’ roof again.
Coffee felt necessary.
I rolled off the hide-a-bed, grimacing at the squeaks of protest from the ancient spring mattress. It’s only temporary, I reminded myself.
I fixed myself a black coffee—more out of necessity than personal preference.
There was no way I was going upstairs to borrow milk and sugar from my parents.
My mom would only cluck her tongue about me working too hard to go grocery shopping and my dad would convince me to stay for breakfast and taste-test whatever new experiment he was cooking up.
Actually, that part didn’t sound so bad.
I warmed my hands on my coffee cup while I sat at the little kitchen peninsula.
I let the rich coffee scent anchor me. My notebook from the previous night lay open on the countertop, scribbles and notes legible in the dim morning light.
I scanned the notes, not for content, but rather to remind myself: I had survived my first on-air interview with Dani.
The first intermission interview had felt like a test. She’d crossed a line by acting too familiar, but I had held it together on-camera. And I’d stood my ground when we were no longer on air, letting Dani know that her antics were unwelcome.
My phone lit up on the counter. I didn’t check it immediately; the first text message of the day could wait.
Outside, it had started to snow. Small flakes drifted down and collected on the rooftops across the street. I sipped my bitter coffee while watching the snow accumulate on the silent cityscape.
Eventually, I picked up my phone. The message was from my boss, Mark. The text was brief and professional—just enough to remind me that he was keeping tabs on the network’s newest employee without outright hovering.
Nice work last night. Remember to stay Switzerland.
I turned my phone over so I wouldn’t see any additional texts.
Switzerland. It wasn’t a new concept—to stay neutral, to not be an obvious homer—but the previous night had proven how easy it was to slip up.
A shared past didn’t vanish overnight; familiarity could creep into one’s tone or body language.
Switzerland.
I let the word run through my thoughts like a mantra.
There was a knock at my front door—soft, polite, and followed almost immediately by the familiar click of a key in the lock.
“Reese?” my mom called, already halfway inside.
I smiled despite myself and set my coffee mug down on the counter. “You know you don’t have to knock if you’re just going to let yourself in.”
“I do it out of courtesy,” she said, shrugging out of her coat. Snow clung to the shoulders, already melting in dark patches. “And because you’re technically a tenant now.”
“Right,” I said.
She looked around the apartment, taking inventory perhaps, and no doubt shoving down an offer to unpack my storage boxes for me. She turned to me with that same critical assessment.
“I watched the game last night,” she said.
I kept my features neutral. “Oh yeah?”
“Your first broadcast at the new job,” she noted. “Of course I watched.”
I fiddled with the handle on my coffee cup and waited.
“You were very good,” she said.
“Thanks.”
She leaned her hip against the kitchen counter and crossed her arms. “That must have been strange, interviewing Dani.”
“It’s part of the job,” I dismissed.
“I know,” she said quickly. “I just meant with your history.”
“It didn’t matter.”
“She seemed …” My mom paused, choosing her next words. “More serious than I remember her.”
“She’s a professional athlete,” I said. “She’s supposed to be.”
“Yes, but still.” She frowned slightly. “I worried she might make it awkward for you.”
I hollowed out my cheeks, feeling a little defensive. It was annoying that she thought Dani might still hold some influence over me.
“Well, she didn’t.”
“That’s good,” my mom said. Her lips twisted. “I always felt bad about how things ended.”
I kept my gaze on the window, the snow drifting lazily past the glass. I took a slow sip of coffee, letting the heat give me something else to focus on.
“It was a long time ago,” I eventually said.
“She hurt you,” my mom said gently. “And now you have to stand there with a microphone and pretend none of it ever happened.”
“I wasn’t pretending,” I said carefully. “It really didn’t matter last night.”
My mom didn’t look convinced, but she nodded anyway.
“Well,” she said, straightening, “your dad’s making beef bourguignon for dinner tonight. He’s very proud of himself.”
I smiled fondly. “I bet.”
“Will you be joining us?” she asked.
Boston’s team had the night off, so technically so did I.
“Yeah,” I said. “That sounds nice.”
Relief flickered across her features before she smoothed it away, like she had been bracing for a rejection.
She reached out and squeezed my arm. “I’m proud of you, sweetie.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
She grabbed her jacket, but paused at the front door, her hand on the handle. “Just … be careful.”
I knew she didn’t mean icy sidewalks or late-night driving.
“I will. I am.”
She nodded once and let herself out.
After she left, the apartment felt quieter than before. I stood for a moment, coffee mug cooling in my hands, thinking about how easily a story could harden into fact when no one corrected it.
My phone vibrated with another incoming text, the outside world interjecting itself into my thoughts.
You free for a drink?
I stared at the unknown number. It wasn’t the same set of digits Dani had texted me from earlier in the week—not that I’d memorized her phone number or had programmed it into my phone.
Who is this?
Three dots appeared almost immediately.
It’s Cat.
I stared at the screen. First Dani, and now Cat somehow had gotten my number. Was it on a bulletin board in the locker room? Maybe scribbled in a bathroom stall somewhere?
I considered ignoring the text, letting it sit without a response, but the quiet apartment, the snow drifting outside, and the lack of anything else to do that day made the decision easy.
Yeah. I’m free.
I let Cat pick out the bar.
The sign was the same—green, flickering slightly on the O—but the windows were cleaner, and the sticky floors I remembered had been replaced with something pretending to be wood.
Still, when I pushed the door open, the smell hit me all at once: old beer, fried food, and the ghost of a hundred bad decisions made after midnight.
Cat was already at the bar, seated on the same side we used to crowd around after Friday night games. For a second I just watched her, struck by how familiar she looked even with the extra years layered onto her face.
She turned in her chair and spotted me, her grin spreading slow and real. I headed toward her, eliminating the space—and time—between us, my own smile growing the closer I got.
Cat hopped off her stool and pulled me into a hug. This time, though, both of my feet stayed on the ground.
We pulled apart, still smiling, that brief awkward beat where you both register how long it’s been and decide not to say the number out loud.
“This place hasn’t changed,” I said, slipping onto the stool beside her.
Cat lifted two fingers toward the bartender. “Which is why I still don’t trust their taps,” she said. “Bottle okay?”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “Whatever you’re having.”
A moment later, two bottles of light lager were clinked down in front of us.
Cat lifted hers. “To running into people from your past when you’re absolutely not prepared for it.”
I laughed, a little too relieved to be laughing at all. The last few days had left me tightly wound.
We clinked bottles. The first sip settled something in my chest.
I smiled. “You look good.”
“Careful,” she said. “I’ll get emotional.”
There was a comfortable pause, the kind that only existed between people who had once known each other deeply and didn’t need to rush to fill the gaps.
Cat glanced around the bar and then back at me, smiling into her beer. “Look at us. Living our best lives. Making a living doing what we love. Who would’ve thought?”
“I stand next to sweaty people and ask them how it feels to win,” I said flatly.
“Famous sweaty people,” Cat countered. “Big difference.”
I rolled my eyes.
“I’m serious,” she went on. “A few years back I was hanging out with this girl, had some sports thing on in the background. Wasn’t even watching. Then I look up and there’s this hot chick reporting on the sidelines. And then I realize—oh shit. That hot chick is you.”
My face warmed. “You’re lying.”
She held up her right hand as if taking a solemn oath. “I swear on my sizable bar tab. I even tried to explain who you were to the girl I was with, but I think she just got jealous.”
“You hanging out with anyone these days?” I asked, keeping it casual.
Cat snorted. “Asking me as a friend or as a reporter?”
“Always as a friend.”
I didn’t feel like much of a friend, though. Fifteen years was a long time, and I’d done a piss-poor job of keeping in touch with people who’d been like family during college.
Cat leaned in and waggled her eyebrows. “I married that girl, dear reader.”
“What! You’re a married woman!” I slapped her shoulder. “I don’t see a ring.”
“I don’t wear a ring when I play. Too superstitious—it might throw off my feng shui.” Cat leaned back in her chair. “We’ll have you over for dinner some time. Assuming that’s not against the rules.”
“Against the rules?” I echoed.
“You’re a fancy reporter,” Cat observed. “I just assumed reporters and athletes aren’t supposed to hang out. Conflict of interest and all that.”
“Switzerland,” I said without thinking.
She squinted at me. “Come again?”
“Neutral,” I clarified. “I can hang out with you and still pretend I’m an objective pillar of journalistic integrity.”
Cat took a slow sip from her bottle. “Love a woman with flexible ethics.”
“They’re extremely situational,” I quipped back.
Her eyes drifted toward the TVs over the bar, where a local channel replayed sports highlights from the night before.
“It still feels weird sometimes,” she said. “That this is real. That this is my job. But I love it,” she added. “I like my teammates. I like that kids come up after games and ask for my autograph.”
“That part’s cool,” I said, nodding.
“Yeah,” she agreed. “That part’s really cool.”
Her gaze flicked back to me.
“You being back doesn’t hurt either.”
“Wow,” I teased. “Married and still flirting?”
“Lightly,” she said. “Respectfully.”
I nodded toward her, genuflecting. “Thank you for your professionalism.”
The bartender slid a basket of fries toward us. Neither of us questioned it.
Cat stole one and held it up. “You still eat these with ranch like a criminal?”
“Absolutely.”
“Good,” she grinned. “I was worried you’d changed.”
We ate in companionable silence for a minute.
I kept waiting for some accidental mention of her name.
For anything that would force me to reveal whether I was ready to talk about her or not.
But Cat never went there, not once. And somehow, that was worse than if she had.
I realized, regrettably, that a part of me wanted permission to talk about her—or at least wanted the opportunity.
I’d already thought about Dani more in the last twenty-four hours than I’d let myself think about her in years. But Cat just sat beside me, stealing fries, bumping her knee against mine occasionally, and letting the night be what it was.
Old friends.