Chapter 5
FIVE
Amelia
I’m halfway out of my heels when there’s a knock at the door.
I freeze for a second, my pulse jumping, then I hear a familiar voice on the other side.
“Don’t make me eat this alone.”
I open the door to find Kamden standing there with a pizza box balanced in one hand, a six-pack dangling from the other. He looks relaxed now, out of uniform, out of game mode. Just my brother.
“Dinner to celebrate?” he asks.
I blink. “Celebrate what?”
He steps past me without waiting for an invitation, setting the pizza on the counter like he owns the place. Which, to be fair, he kind of does since he loaned me the money for it.
“Your big break,” he says. “And I want to apologize. I’m sorry for how I reacted today.”
I close the door and lean against it, studying him.
“Sometimes,” he continues, quieter now, “I still see you as that sixteen-year-old girl who didn’t know what the hell she was getting herself into.”
My stomach tightens.
It was a bad year.
I let one of the junior varsity baseball players get a little too close. He thought he was entitled to more than I was willing to give. He wanted to round home plate.
I didn’t.
We were on the baseball field when it happened. Empty. Dark. And Kamden heard me screaming from the parking lot.
I swallow and push myself upright.
“I’m not that little girl anymore,” I say firmly. “And I need you to stop bringing it up.”
He nods immediately. No argument. No excuses. Just acceptance.
“Okay,” he says. “I’m sorry.”
I step into the kitchen and grab two napkins. “But I do appreciate dinner because I’m fucking starving.”
That earns me a grin.
We eat straight out of the box, sitting on opposite sides of the counter like we did growing up. Pepperoni grease on our fingers. Beer bottles sweating onto the granite.
“So,” he says, “internship.”
I smile despite myself. “It’s intimidating. Exciting. Susan’s incredible. And terrifying.”
He laughs. “That tracks.”
We talk about Mom and Dad, about how weird it is that we’re both living our dream lives now. He tells me about the pressure this season, about how the team feels solid, how close they are to something big.
“You’re good out there,” I tell him. “You always have been.”
His expression softens. “Means more hearing it from you.”
We’re laughing about some stupid story from our childhood when my phone rings on the counter.
Susan.
I straighten instantly. “Hold that thought.”
I swipe to answer. “Hello?”
“Amelia,” she says, her voice gentle but serious. “I just got word that Wilder’s father passed away.”
My chest tightens.
“He’s going to need to talk,” she continues, “and he’s not going to want to. Do you think you’re ready for something like this?”
My heart breaks for him, but I don’t let it show in my voice.
“Of course I am,” I say evenly. “I’ll see you first thing in the morning.”
“Be prepared for a fight.”
I grin. “I always am.”
I hang up and look at Kamden.
“Wilder’s father passed away.”
He’s on his feet instantly. “Fuck.”
“What?” I ask as he grabs his jacket.
“He’s going to drink himself stupid,” Kamden mutters. “I need to go.”
He crosses the room, kisses my forehead, and is out the door before I can say anything else.
I stare at the closed door for a moment, my curiosity outweighing any worry.
Tomorrow morning is going to be interesting.
I wake up before my alarm.
The sky outside my window is still pale, the city quiet in that fragile space between night and morning. For a moment, I lie there staring at the ceiling, Susan’s words replaying in my head.
Be prepared for a fight.
I roll out of bed and move through my routine on autopilot. Shower, coffee, hair pulled back into a low bun. I choose my clothes carefully. Professional. Neutral. Nothing that invites distraction. I’m not here to be soft. I’m here to do my job.
Still, my hands shake slightly as I button my blouse.
At the stadium, Susan is already in her office when I arrive, glasses perched on her nose, a mug steaming beside her laptop.
“Morning,” she says, looking up. “You okay?”
“I will be,” I answer honestly.
She studies me for a beat, then nods. “Good. He hasn’t slept. Kamden texted me around three a.m. They closed down a bar.”
Damn.
“He won’t want to talk,” Susan continues. “He’ll deflect. Joke. Get angry. He may even walk out.”
“I know,” I say quietly.
“And Amelia,” she adds, her voice gentler now, “this isn’t about fixing him. It’s about letting him be heard, even if he refuses at first.”
I take a breath. “Understood.”
A knock sounds at the door.
Susan straightens. “That’ll be him.”
The door opens before either of us can speak.
Wilder Calloway fills the doorway.
He looks different.
No smirk. No swagger. Dark circles under his eyes. His shoulders are tense, jaw clenched like he’s holding himself together by sheer force of will. He hasn’t shaved. His Rebels hoodie hangs loose on his frame, like he didn’t bother thinking about what he threw on.
His eyes flick to Susan, then land on me.
Something shifts.
“Doc,” he mutters.
Susan stands. “Wilder. Thank you for coming in.”
“Didn’t really have a choice,” he says flatly.
She doesn’t react to it. “I’m going to step out. Amelia will sit with you.”
He frowns. “What?”
“I trust her,” Susan says simply. “And I’ll be right outside.”
She gives me a steady, encouraging look before slipping out and closing the door behind her.
The room goes quiet.
Wilder exhales sharply, dragging a hand over his face. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
I stay seated. Calm. Grounded.
“I know this isn’t what you expected,” I say. “But I’m here to listen. Nothing more.”
He scoffs, pacing once before stopping across from me. “I don’t need a babysitter. Or a shrink. Or—” He gestures vaguely at me. “This.”
“I’m not here as your friend’s sister,” I say gently. “And I’m not here to tell you how to feel.”
His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t interrupt.
“I’m here because something just happened that knocked the wind out of you,” I continue. “And pretending you’re fine won’t make it hurt less.”
Silence stretches between us.
His jaw tightens. Then he laughs, short and bitter. “You barely know me.”
“You’re right,” I say. “But grief doesn’t care about that.”
He stares at the floor, shoulders sagging just a fraction.
“Sit,” I say quietly.
He hesitates. Then, reluctantly, he drops into the chair across from me, elbows braced on his knees.
I don’t rush him.
When he finally speaks, his voice is rough.
“He wasn’t supposed to die yet.”
And just like that, the fight drains out of him, leaving something raw and real in its place.
I don’t move.
I don’t rush to fill the silence.
I let his words sit between us, heavy and fragile.
“He never is,” I say softly. “Even when you know it’s coming.”
Wilder’s fingers flex where they’re laced together, knuckles white. His shoulders are still tense, but something has cracked just enough to let the truth seep through.
“He was complicated,” he mutters. “Hard as hell. Never impressed. Everything was about toughness. About pushing through.” His jaw tightens. “I spent my whole life trying to prove I wasn’t weak.”
I nod once. “And did it ever feel like enough?”
He lets out a sharp breath, a humorless sound. “No.”
That answer costs him something. I can see it in the way his throat works, in the way his eyes gloss but don’t quite break.
I lean forward just slightly. Not invading his space. Just present.
“When was the last time you talked to him?” I ask.
“Two weeks ago.” His voice drops. “We argued. About nothing. About everything.” He laughs under his breath. “I told him I didn’t have time. That I had a game.”
Regret flickers across his face, fast and brutal.
“I keep thinking,” he continues, “if I’d just stayed on the phone longer…if I’d gone home more…maybe—”
I raise a hand gently. “Wilder.”
He stops.
“That kind of thinking feels productive,” I say carefully, “but it only turns grief into punishment.”
His eyes lift to mine. They’re raw now. Stripped of bravado.
“So what am I supposed to do?” he asks quietly. “Because everywhere I go, it’s loud. People want something from me. They expect me to be fine.”
I hold his gaze. “You don’t have to be fine in here.”
Something in his chest seems to cave at that. His shoulders slump, the fight finally draining out of him.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he admits. “I don’t know how to not keep moving.”
“That makes sense,” I say. “Baseball taught you motion equals survival.”
A corner of his mouth twitches. “Yeah. Guess it did.”
We sit there for a moment, the quiet no longer tense, just honest.
“I can’t promise this won’t hurt,” I tell him. “But I can promise you don’t have to carry it alone.”
He swallows hard.
“Why are you so calm?” he asks. “Most people either avoid it or try to fix it.”
I offer a small smile. “Because this isn’t something to fix. It’s something to survive.”
His gaze lingers on me, searching, like he’s trying to understand how someone like me, steady, grounded, unafraid of his mess, exists in this space.
“Thank you,” he says finally. It’s quiet. Real.
I nod. “You’re welcome.”
As he leans back in the chair, exhaustion settling into his bones, I remind myself of the line I can’t cross.
I’m here to help him heal.
Not to catch feelings.
Not to let the intensity in his eyes pull me somewhere dangerous.
Still as I watch him breathe a little easier for the first time since he walked in, one undeniable truth settles in my chest.
This man isn’t just grieving.
He’s unraveling.
And somehow, I’m standing right at the center of it.