Chapter 36
DISTANCE (NATE)
The house is too damn quiet.
Game-day quiet is usually my sanctuary. Low lights, muted highlights looping on the TV, everything tuned down to the sound of my own breath. Ritual. Rhythm. Reset.
Not this week.
It’s been five days since social media turned our lives into a bonfire.
The first spark was a grainy clip from a restaurant in Montreal: me and Eden at a corner table, heads bent too close, smiles too easy.
From there it snowballed. The W Gramercy videos Jessica had buried weeks ago resurfaced and started looping.
My so-called “caveman routine” was everywhere.
And no matter how good Jess is, this time she couldn’t make them vanish.
But if social media has the attention span of a toddler, at least I’ve got Jessica, Rowan, and Joy in my corner.
Jess ran interference, Rowan handled the official lines, and Joy—the Defenders’ social media whisperer—flooded the ether with distractions and sleight-of-hand narratives.
Eden still took the hit, but the tide shifted enough to keep her from being completely swallowed.
It’s been four days since I met Leo halfway, impersonating an idiot who wanted to lose a girl. Four days since Eden told me she needed distance…and then proved she meant it.
She hasn’t picked up a single call. She’s texted, sure; polite, clipped check-ins about scheduling and the clinic. Busy with opening week. Please let me be for now. Every word a scalpel. Every “for now” a lifeline I can’t tell if I’m inventing.
The blender’s still out, jar sweating on the counter. Two glasses. Mine half gone. Hers waiting.
My phone lights up, and for a second, I brace for Eden calling to cancel our last session. She wouldn’t. She’s too professional for that.
It’s Ryan.
I swipe. “Hey, man.”
“I’m not asking how you’re doing.”
“Appreciated. Did you talk to Eden?”
“I did. And before you go there—no, I’m not asking her to call you. You fix your own mess. That’s why I wanted to talk to you.”
I drag a hand down my face. “Yeah. It’s a mess. She’s not answering my calls.”
Ryan snorts. “From what Leo says, he’s getting the same treatment. Sounds like you two put on a hell of a show in her clinic, so I’m checking in before one of you punches the wrong wall.”
A humorless breath escapes me. “Good to know I’m not the only sucker she’s icing out.”
“From where I’m sitting, you both earned it.”
“Probably.” I pause. “So, you talked to her?”
“Briefly. Enough to know she doesn’t want either of you circling her right now.” His tone hardens. “Best thing you can do is make it right with Leo and figure out how to get her back on track, not beat each other bloody. Think you can manage that?”
A growl slips out. “Leo—”
“Can it.” Clean, sharp. “You two sound like sulking royals stuck in opposite corners of the same castle. Grow up. She doesn’t need another tantrum. She needs the men who claim they love her to stop making it about themselves.”
I clamp my jaw. He’s always known. Even when I never said it out loud.
Ryan doesn’t soften. “Fix the mess—together. Or don’t and watch her walk away from both of you.”
Silence stretches. Then he exhales. “You’ve got a game tonight?”
“Yeah. Head’s not exactly in it.”
“Get it there. I’ll be watching on ESPN. Don’t make me regret turning it on.”
He hangs up.
I stare at the screen until it goes black.
Finally, the bell rings, and my pulse flies into a sprint.
Eden stands on my front step in black leggings and a slate sweatshirt under a parka, hair pulled back, clinic bag on her shoulder. Saturday casual. Posture set. Composed.
“Morning,” she says, a hint of softness before she levels out.
“Morning.” I step aside. She slips in, leaves the cold on the porch, and heads straight to the gym without glancing at the smoothies on the island.
She drops her bag by the treatment table, pulls out her tablet, flicks to her notes. “Let’s get started. How’s the hip?”
No small talk. Just the hip.
“It’s good. The treatment works.” And it does. I’ve never been stronger.
I climb onto the table. She eases into the work—cranial sacral release, breath cues, thumb at the base of my skull, then the hip glide. Her hands are steady and detached.
My body doesn’t care. Every press lands. Every shift in her stance tightens the ache in my chest.
“Baby—”
“Don’t.” She doesn’t look up. “Please don’t make this harder on me than it already is.”
I shut my mouth and let her finish. Forty minutes. Maybe fifty. I count each impersonal touch and try not to reach for more.
“Mobility’s where I want it. Tight warm-up, no extra sets—cut them if they’re off.
” She shuts the tablet and sets a printout on the table.
“Mercer’s got your progressions. He’ll adjust loads if the hip talks back.
I’m there tonight; after that, he’s your PT.
” Her eyes flick over me, then past. “Sleep if you can before call time.”
I stand with her. “Sit with me a minute. We need to talk.”
She shakes her head, finally meets my eyes. “I can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Both.” She adjusts the strap on her bag. “I need space, Nate. Time to figure things out without you in the middle of it. I’m repairing damage—to my reputation, the clinic, myself. You keep pushing through my no. It doesn’t help me right now. Give me space.”
The hit lands. “Are you breaking up with me?”
She’s quiet. “I’m asking you to let me be. Let me breathe and sort things out. I’m not ready to go back to what we were.”
I swallow. “It’s cruel, Eden. Knowing you’re here, knowing you exist, and not being able to touch you.”
Her mouth twitches—pain, not hesitation—then firms. “Cruel is me being forced to choose in the first place.”
She reaches for the door, pauses with her hand on the knob. “Jessica reached out. She’s helping me steady the narrative around the clinic.”
I don’t say that I asked Jess to run point. If Eden needs it to be her right now, I’ll let it.
“Don’t push,” she says, soft but final. “Let me breathe.”
The door closes with a click that cracks through my chest.
The house swallows sound again. I stare at her untouched smoothie, condensation sliding down the glass in patient, inevitable lines. I pick it up, tip it into the sink, watch the pale pink whirl vanish.
My phone vibrates once more. A text from Ryan.
Ryan
Square foot of ice. Breathe.
I set the glass down and do the only thing I can: inhale. Exhale. Again.
Tonight I have a game. And for the first time in a week, I finally understand the assignment.