Chapter 16 #2
At Paul’s door, I knocked softly, not wanting to startle him.
“Come in!” he called, voice rough but not unfriendly.
I opened the door to find him sitting at his kitchen table, a mug of coffee beside him. Spread out before him were old photo albums—black pages curling at the edges, a life’s worth of memories captured in glossy squares.
He glanced up, then back down at a photo he was holding, his thumb brushing over the corner like it was made of glass. “These are from when Patsy and I bought this place,” he said quietly. “Feels like another lifetime.”
I stepped closer, Savannah stirring against my chest, and saw the picture—Paul and his wife posed at the front of the freshly painted deep red door, young and beaming.
He looked up again, smiling faintly. “You know, Claudia, this old house keeps more stories than people realize. I’d never forget a moment, but I sure am glad my wife loved to take pictures.
” He traces the side of her face. “She was beautiful here, but each day she grew even more so.” He looks up at me and shakes his head.
“No tears, sweetheart. I was the luckiest man alive because she loved me.” He rubs his hand on Savannah’s little back. “You and your mom will have that too.”
A tear slips from where I held them at bay as he looks down at his photo books. “I don’t need these to remember any of that.”
I look around his place and see his things in boxes, some we packed, but now there are more.
“You packed more?”
I had told him I’d do the rest after my meeting at the arena.
“Little bit.”
“Well, let’s get some more done before I need to head out, and then when I get back, it’s—”
“Moving day,” he smirks and rolls his eyes.
By the time I reached the arena, the city had shaken off its dawn haze and settled into a rhythm of noise and motion that is so uniquely New York.
There’s a pulse here, one that hums beneath the pavement, climbs up the walls of the brownstones and skyscrapers, and breathes through the horns, sirens, and snippets of conversation that blend into the city’s constant heartbeat.
It’s a long way from Houston.
For months, I thought Houston would be my forever place.
It had that easy kind of warmth, the kind that seeps into your skin and makes you forget what cold ever felt like.
The people smiled at strangers. The skies stretched wide.
The pace was gentle enough to trick you into thinking peace was permanent.
After years of bouncing through foster homes that smelled like other people’s laundry detergent, I wanted that. Predictable. Safe. Quiet.
New York is nothing like that. It’s messy and merciless and alive.
It doesn’t coddle you—it dares you to exist. It’s a place where I considered but knew I would have to fight for my place, and I had done that my whole damn life.
But since I boarded that plane in Hawaii, I haven’t fought a thing.
I’ve had to open my heart to people who didn’t owe me a damn thing.
And somehow, instead of breaking me, it feels a lot like the opposite.
Paul, with his quiet compassion and habit of fixing things that aren’t broken. Nalani, who makes a home feel like a heartbeat. Deacon, who is the kind of protective I never thought I would want, so I never looked for it, I became it.
Noelle, and her sweetness, Sofie with her fire, Koa claiming us as family, and Dash, the younger brother who is so full of charm and personality that you can’t help but want to be around him. Even the city itself feels like a found family—loud, imperfect, impossible to ignore.
Still, I can’t stop the instinct to brace for loss.
To build walls before anyone can leave. It’s the curse I’ve been trying to outrun since I found my mother on the kitchen floor.
That night, the world shifted, and I learned that love can vanish without warning.
Every move since then—every smile, every goodbye—has carried the echo of that truth.
I can’t let Savannah grow up with that. She deserves to believe in permanence, to trust that people stay, to know that love doesn’t always end in a closed door. So, I fight the reflex to pull back. I breathe through the ache. I try to believe that maybe this time, the good isn’t temporary.
A gust of wind snapped me out of the thought as I reached the staff entrance, my reflection caught in the glass—tired eyes, coffee in one hand, diaper bag slung over the other. I smiled faintly.
I smile for a girl who used to think she’d never have a home; I’ve somehow managed to find one in the middle of a city that never stops moving.
A tall man in a navy jacket—security, judging by the earpiece—checked my name on a clipboard and directed me toward the sign for tour groups in the main concourse.
“Ms. Holloway?” a woman calls, stepping forward with a bright, efficient smile. “I’m Dana. I’ll be showing you around.”
We started in the public areas, the sleek hallways lined with photos of past championships, a wall of retired jerseys, the faint scent of popcorn ghosting from the concession stands.
I’ve been here before. But the moment we passed through the frosted glass doors marked Staff Only, the atmosphere changed.
Dana’s tone dropped from peppy to professional as she guided me through the players’ wing: a gym that looked more like a science lab, therapy rooms humming with specialized equipment, and a lounge that could’ve doubled as a luxury hotel suite.
“Each player has a personal locker bay and private access to their recovery pods,” she explained, gesturing to a sleek row of chrome-trimmed doors. “The organization invests heavily in physical and mental wellness—something you’ll be part of, of course.”
I nodded, half-distracted by the sheer magnitude of it all. The walls were covered in framed motivational quotes, the kind that could sound trite anywhere else but here feels like gospel.
We continue down another corridor until Dana stops in front of a glass door etched with cheerful lettering: Little Bears Care Center.
“This,” she said, swipes her badge, “is where the magic happens for our smallest team members.”
The door opened to a sunlit suite that looks like something out of an architectural digest spread—soft neutral tones, low lighting, handmade mobiles, shelves of Montessori toys, and air that smells faintly of lavender and clean cotton. It is… over-the-top perfection.
Two women were inside. The first, a brunette in her thirties wearing a beige cardigan and calm like a superpower, smiled warmly. “You must be Claudia. I’m Marlene, head of the infant room. And this is Jo, my assistant.”
Jo waves, setting down a pastel teething ring. “We only have two littles right now,” she said. “Both under eighteen months. It keeps things peaceful.”
“Peaceful,” I repeat, glancing around. “That’s one word for it. I’m not sure Savannah will know what to do with all this serenity.”
They laugh, and Marlene gestures toward a cozy corner framed by soundproof glass. “You’ll love the privacy pods for feeding and naptime. Everything’s hypoallergenic, all products are organic. We’ve even got sound machines tuned to mimic a parent’s heartbeat.”
I smile, both impressed and slightly overwhelmed. “It’s… beautiful. Like baby heaven.”
“Exactly what we were going for,” Jo grins.
Marlene points up, “We have cameras and handheld monitors that parents can take to check in on their little bears.”
“We had an app,” Jo adds, “But for privacy reasons, we only want the parents to have access while their children are here.”
“As a parent, I appreciate that.”
After thanking them, Dana leads me through another set of corridors into the administrative wing, where the hum of voices replaces the hush of the nursery.
“This last stop is Human Resources,” she said. “You’ll meet Trina Lawson, the department head.”
Trina Lawson looked like she’d been carved out of composure itself. Mid-forties, her hair cut in a sleek bob, in a crisp navy suit. She stands when I enter and offers a hand.
“Claudia Holloway,” her tone is even and warm in that practiced HR way. “Welcome to the Bears.”
“Thank you,” I said, matching her handshake. “You run quite the operation here.”
Trina smiles, eyes glinting. “That’s one way to put it. I keep the machine running and the fires contained. Some days, I’m a therapist. Others, a referee. Most days? Both.”
I laugh, which earns me a knowing look.
“I hear you’re joining us as the staff psychologist,” she continues, motioning for me to sit. “Good timing. The team needed someone with a fresh perspective. Our last in-house psychologist left to start her own practice in Denver, but is now going back to school.”
“I’ve heard,” I say. “I’m looking forward to helping however I can.”
Trina leans back slightly, assessing me the way only a woman who’s seen every kind of crisis could.
“When the men are home, your schedule’s full—team sessions, check-ins, performance evaluations.
When they’re on the road, you’re only here if an employee has requested an appointment.
We prioritize flexibility. Family, sanity, that kind of thing.
Mrs. Costello mentioned you may be considering a small private practice as well. ”
Mrs. Costello had told me I should consider it, but it really wasn’t discussed; I’m not about to mention that, as her name is on the arena itself.
“If the team supports the idea of me having a small private practice, I may further explore that, but I would prefer to have my feet firmly planted here before making plans for that.”
Trina nods approvingly. “Perfect. You’re only required here three to four days a week when the men are in town. We encourage balance, and having a side practice keeps your skills sharp. As long as it doesn’t conflict with the team’s needs, we’ll even help coordinate scheduling.”
“That’s more than generous,” I say, genuinely surprised.