Chapter Thirteen #2
“Storage units in two cities,” I answer.
“Most of my real stuff is in Birmingham. I ship the essentials and figure out the rest when I land. The teams usually help with temporary housing at first, but then you’re on your own to find an apartment with a lease flexible enough for someone who might disappear overnight. ”
Nicole glances around my living room, then back at me—at my legs stretched out, my shoulders pressed a little too close to the arm of the couch.
“And those places,” she says slowly, “are they ever… actually built for you?”
I laugh. “Goodness, no. My feet hang off every bed. Shower heads hit me at chest level. Kitchens are useless because we’re either traveling or on strict meal plans.
” I pause. “But beyond the apartments themselves, you’ve also got to figure out which neighborhoods make sense based on practice facilities, learn where to buy groceries and where to get your car maintenance done.
It’s like being a professional visitor. You learn just enough to get by, but never enough to belong. ”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“I think the hardest part is realizing how fast everything can change,” I admit. “One call, and suddenly you’re the new guy again. New city. New teammates. New expectations.”
“They always make it seem like players land somewhere new and immediately thrive.”
“That’s what’s expected,” I say. “You show up grateful. Locked in. Ready to go. But … it’s weird, you know? You spend your whole life chasing this—playing at the highest level. And then you get here and realize talent isn’t the hardest part.”
“What is?”
“It’s … the loneliness.” The admission feels raw, like I’m exposing something I usually keep carefully hidden.
“I guess I never considered how isolating it must be,” Nicole says quietly. “Constantly starting over.”
“Most guys cope by creating bubbles—team friends, maybe a couple locals who get it. But it’s usually temporary.”
Nicole nods slowly, her eyes distant like she’s processing something. “It almost seems like athletes could benefit from housing specifically designed for them.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Like … a dorm for grown men who make millions?”
“No.” She laughs. “More like luxury apartments with flexible leases. Built for athletes but designed to feel like home. Community.”
“So instead of being the weird giant guy in a normal apartment building, you’d be surrounded by people who get it.”
“Exactly!” Nicole’s eyes light up. “It could offer flexible lease terms. Furnishings that actually fit. Built-in security. Soundproofed walls for when you need to rest while your neighbor is hosting a mop concert…”
I can’t help but laugh. “And doorknobs high enough that certain dogs can’t open them.”
“See? I’m providing market research through my most embarrassing moments.
” She grins. “It could have recovery facilities on-site. Meal prep services that understand nutrition requirements. But most importantly, you’d have a built-in community of people who know what it’s like to be traded overnight or live on the road for weeks. ”
I lean back, picturing it. A place where I wouldn’t have to hunch under shower heads or get side-eyed by neighbors. A place where I’d have access to everything I need under one roof, surrounded by people who get it. A place where I could belong.
“We could customize based on each athlete’s unique needs,” Nicole is fully animated now, talking with her hands. “Base apartments with add-on options. Need a hyperbaric chamber? We can install one. A sauna? We’ve got space for it.”
“We?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
Nicole blushes slightly. “I mean, hypothetically. The theoretical company that would do this.”
“Which would be…?”
“I don’t know,” she says, but something in her expression has shifted. There’s a focus there now, a spark. “But it’s actually not a terrible idea, is it? Could start small in one city. A pilot. Somewhere with multiple teams.”
“Cities where trades happen constantly,” I add.
“Yes.” She nods, excited. “Where athletes cycle in and out, but the community stays.”
The conversation flows naturally, bouncing between practical considerations and increasingly elaborate amenities. Nicole pulls out her phone to make notes, her fingers flying across the screen as she captures ideas.
I’m honestly struck by the transformation.
She’s focused, thoughtful, seeing connections and possibilities I never would’ve considered. I find myself getting caught up in her enthusiasm, offering insights from my own experiences and those of teammates.
“Do you really think this could work?” Nicole asks after we’ve been talking for what feels like hours. “Not just as a cool concept, but as a viable business?”
“I do. I mean, I don’t know much about the business side of it all, but I think it’s definitely worth looking into.”
She nods.
And suddenly, what started as a passing idea begins to feel like a real possibility—like a place that might actually change things.
“You should do it,” I hear myself say.
She laughs nervously. “Yeah, right. Because my track record with businesses is so stellar.”
“This is different,” I insist. “You saw a problem—and you’re building a solution around real people.”
Something shifts in her expression—a vulnerability that matches my own from earlier. “You really think so?”
“I know so. Look at how excited you got just talking about it,” I insist. “And selfishly? I wish this place had existed five years ago.”
Her smile softens. “Then maybe I am onto something.” Nicole looks down at all the notes she made on her phone. She lets out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “I really didn’t expect to come up with a new business concept when I knocked on your door tonight.”
“Life’s full of surprises.”
“It sure is.” She scrolls through her notes again, slower this time. More deliberately. Like she’s seeing them differently now.
For a second, she doesn’t say anything.
“You know what’s funny?” she finally says. “I’ve spent so much time chasing things that I thought would prove something about me.”
I glance at her.
“Beauty products. Skincare lines. Stuff that looked impressive on paper. They always felt … fine. But never quite right.” She exhales.
“And even when Glow Girl stopped making sense, I kept pushing. Everyone told me it was okay to quit. But I was so focused on proving I could make something work, I never stopped to ask if it was the right thing.”
She looks back up at me, more grounded than before.
“But this?” She taps her phone. “This feels like it could be different. I’m not forcing it. And I think it’s something I could be good at.”
“Sometimes the right path isn’t the one you planned.”
Her eyes meet mine, holding for a beat longer than necessary. “Yeah. Exactly.”
The moment stretches between us, comfortable and charged all at once.
What surprises me most isn’t the idea we just talked through, or how easily the time slipped away.
It’s the way she looked at my life—not as something enviable or impressive, but as something that could be made gentler. More livable.
It’s rare, I realize, to be seen not for what you do, but for what you carry.
The awareness lingers. Long enough to notice how close Nicole is, how the light catches the soft gold in her hair, how her eyes seem to change when she tilts her head.
The laundry room flashes through my mind. The cold tile, her breath against my skin, the way neither of us moved even when we should have. This feels the same. Only now, the stillness isn’t caused by gravity or surprise. It’s by choice.
Cocoa breaks the spell by jumping off the couch to investigate something in the corner, and Nicole glances at her watch.
“I should probably go,” she says reluctantly. “It’s getting late, and I’m sure you need your rest for … whatever professional athletes do in the morning.”
“Run until we throw up, mostly,” I say with a straight face, and she laughs again.
I walk her to the door, Cocoa trotting at her heels. She pauses in the doorway, turning to face me.
“Thank you,” she says, her voice sincere. “For the brainstorming session. For taking my idea seriously.”
“It’s a good idea,” I reply honestly. “Really good.”
“I’m going to look into it,” she says, standing a little straighter. “Do some research, crunch some numbers.”
“Let me know what you find out.”
“I will,” she promises.
She turns toward the door, Cocoa already angling himself to follow, and I let it happen for half a second longer than I want to. Long enough to recognize the familiar instinct—to keep things easy, let the moment end cleanly, tell myself this was enough.
But it isn’t.
Whatever is happening between us feels unfinished, and I’m not ready to let it end.
“Hey, Nicole?” I blurt out before I can stop myself. “Are you free tomorrow evening? For that, uh, dog training session?”
Her eyes light up, then a smile slowly spreads across her face. “Yeah. I’d love that.”