11. Just in Case
11
JUST IN CASE
Leighton
“The Sports Network offered me a regular freelance spot. I’ll be covering the Renegades,” I say the second I step into my dad’s office, a bit breathless from rushing over. It’s early November, and I’ve been hustling nonstop for the last couple months.
I hand him the coffee I just picked up for him. His face lights up as he rises from behind his desk, his eyes twinkling in that way that tells me he’s genuinely thrilled. I’d texted him that I had news, and, since I was in the area, he’d convinced me to bring him coffee, declaring that the coffee in the arena “tastes like it’s been dragged through the locker room.” So here I am, playing delivery girl. Not that I mind.
“That’s fantastic! I’m not at all surprised. They loved you when you interned for them a few summers back,” he says, pulling me into a hug.
He’s not wrong. The producers there gave me glowing recs. “And look who’s making it on her own,” I reply, a smile tugging at my lips. My dad’s offered to help me out with rent more times than I can count, but, as tempting as it sometimes is, I’ve turned him down. Maybe I’m stubborn, maybe just proud, but I don’t like depending on him. And since I don’t have to, I choose not to. I’ve landed work on my own, and I’m making inroads by pushing hard.
He starts asking about my work, and we chat until he nods toward the open door, indicating someone’s here. For one electric second, I wonder if it’s Miles. My skin prickles at the thought, my pulse quickening as I remember our night together. But when I turn, it’s not him. It’s Everly Rosewood, the team’s publicist.
“Hey!” she says brightly, stepping in for a quick hug. I tell her my new job news.
“So, does this mean I can officially add you to my photographer roster now?” she asks.
Dad’s eyes spark in that knowing way, clearly pleased with the prospect.
“Of course,” I say to her, since I’d be a fool to turn down her suggestion. But I’m also not convinced anything will come of it.
After Everly leaves, Dad leans back in his chair, studying me. “Would you want to do that? Take on some work here?”
I hesitate. It’s a tempting offer, but there’s that nagging thought—if I work here, I’d probably see Miles around, maybe more than I’m ready for. Still, I’m practical, and I know how valuable connections can be. Denying Everly’s offer, especially when I can back it up with my talent, would be…well, foolish. The world runs on connections, and I’m hungry to prove myself. After all, I wouldn’t be wh ere I am without my father instilling confidence in me from day one.
“I think I’d be up for it,” I say with a dry smile.
“Thanks for making me wait for that answer though.”
“Someone has to keep you on your toes,” I shoot back, smirking.
“You say that like my players don’t.” He fixes me with a mock stern look.
Since the next question is safer signed, I switch to sign language, asking, Is someone giving you trouble?
He signs back, I work with a pack of grown men with elite skills. They always give me trouble.
Briefly, I wonder if he’s talking about Miles. But then, from what I’ve read, Miles is having a good season.
We exchange a few more signed words before his phone rings.
“It’s the GM—Clementine. I should take this,” he says with a wink.
“Even the boss has a boss.” I grin, turning to leave his office.
But as I step into the hallway, I walk straight into the man who left me these earrings in a pretty box in my building’s foyer. My stomach tightens as I meet Miles’s gaze. His stare is locked on me, like he can’t look away. He’s wearing workout shorts and a Sea Dogs T-shirt. He must be on his way to the weight room.
For a moment, it’s like that night all over again—the world narrowing down to the weight of his stare, the way he swallows roughly, clearly taken off guard to see me in my dad’s office.
Maybe I should move first, make this less intense, less charged. The hallway feels small and close, and his gaze is heavy, like he’s struggling just as much as I am to look away.
I glance at the stairwell and then nod toward it, wordlessly asking him to follow me. As we walk, I catalog the sounds—the hum of the heating system, the faint sound of voices from nearby offices. But when I open the door and it shuts, we’re shrouded in silence. I don’t mind it. Silence is comfortable for me.
“Hey,” he says, taking a big breath, then tilting his head. “You wear them.” He sounds mesmerized. Surprised too.
“Yeah, I do,” I say, my voice feathery and I lift a hand, the silver bracelet sliding down my wrist as I touch the tiny earring on my right ear. It sits above the long, dangling star earring that I’m wearing today. It’s a delicate, intricate flower given to me one morning by this man, along with the bracelet I left in a lockbox. “Every day,” I say.
And then I instantly regret it because it feels like I’m confessing far too much. Who admits something like this? That they wear something every day from a one-time-only lover? Apparently, this girl does.
But his lips lift, like I’ve said the exact right thing. “You do?”
“Well, yeah, they’re really, really pretty,” I say, as if that excuses the significance of wearing them daily. But then again, he’s the man who retrieved my bracelet from the lockbox the morning after. That’s why it was empty. He had both delivered to me along with a note— I wanted you to have your bracelet, so I got it for you. And then I couldn’t resist giving you these too. -M.
“I had a feeling they’d look good on you. They reminded me of you and your tattoos when I saw them that morning.” His gaze stays locked on my face. “They’re so pretty.”
My stomach flips, but my throat aches annoyingly. I say nothing.
He’s quiet for a spell too, rubbing the back of his neck, glancing at the stairwell door as if he’s aware time is slipping away.
Aware, too, that even talking here, like this, is a risk.
I shouldn’t linger in this stolen moment for too long. But something has always nagged at me since that morning—how quickly he must’ve pulled it off—retrieving the bracelet and getting me a gift. And, of course, I didn’t say anything because we haven’t been talking. “Did you just go out to the trail that morning?”
He smiles, like you caught me. “I did. I wanted you to have your bracelet back.”
“Even though I said it was no big deal?”
“It was yours. It belonged on you,” he says, like there was no other option but to retrieve it for me.
I love that he was so determined. And that’s why I admit the next thing. “I went there too,” I say softly.
“You did?” He sounds borderline thrilled, and I’m not sure why given that I returned the locket to the lockbox. “Why?”
“It didn’t feel right keeping the necklace,” I say honestly.
“Because it was someone else’s?”
“No. Because it reminded me too much…”
He pauses, absorbing that, then says, almost like he’s caught me on a technicality, “But you wear the earrings.”
I shrug. “With a note like that, it was kind of hard to resist. ”
A smile shifts his lips, and he says, “I understand that completely.”
And I suppose I do understand why he sounded borderline thrilled moments ago. Maybe because he suspected the real reason I went down that trail nearly two months ago. I don’t like letting down my guard. I don’t like showing myself to most people. But since Miles put himself out here this morning, I do something risky too. “But if I’m being honest, I suppose I went there because I was kind of stupidly hoping there’d be something left there. For me. ”
His smile widens but is tinged with regret. “A note? A trinket? A treasure?”
“Any of the above,” I whisper.
He takes a step closer. Close enough that I catch the scent of him. Soapy and clean, like he showered at home before he came here to work out with the guys. “I was in such a rush to get it done that I forgot to take something to replace the bracelet. I had to convince Birdie to take another bracelet later that day.”
I crack up. “The thought of your grandmother in a pink boa and heels trudging through a hiking trail in the Presidio doesn’t compute.”
“Trust me, it didn’t compute for her either. But she did it. She felt pretty bad about…everything.”
“It wasn’t her fault,” I say softly.
He scratches his jaw, glances at the door again. “She tells me you’re doing some work for her? Besides the photos you took?”
I smile. “I am. She hired me to take pics of her shop and the different drinks and food offerings every week—then she posts them on socials for the week. ”
“That’s awesome,” he says. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”
“Maybe,” I say.
He’s quiet for a beat, then perhaps resigned to this new normal, he says, “I should go. I really shouldn’t be here like this.”
I nod, understanding completely. “I know.”
Before he leaves, he tilts his head and says, “Do you know sign language?”
“I do. Did you see me talking to my dad in his office?”
“Yeah. But I didn’t know what you said,” he admits.
“That’s the point,” I tease. But I can tell he’s asking seriously, in the way that means he wants to understand me.
“Have you always?”
“I learned it in school.” I don’t usually share the next part either. I hesitate, unsure if I want to put myself out there like this, unsure if I want to admit this to anyone besides my family. Still, maybe there’s some safety in telling him. He’s not my boyfriend. He’s not a guy I’m dating. He can’t really hurt me. He can’t run away since we’ve already parted. “Just in case.”
His eyes flicker with something somber. “In case?” he prompts gently.
“Well,” I say, then I pause. “I don’t know what the future holds. I always want to be able to communicate with my family.”
He winces, his throat tightening. “I understand. I do.”
I’m not sure if he really does, but I appreciate how open he is about it, how comfortable and non-judgmental he seems. How caring he is when he talks to me. And how hard he tries .
“I should go,” I say, feeling the moment close in.
He leans in, like he’s going to kiss me, and honestly, I wouldn’t stop him.
I’m both sad and relieved when he doesn’t.