Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
Amelia
I didn’t know a heart could physically ache the way mine does.
It’s not dramatic. It’s not poetic.
It’s real.
Heavy. Hollow. Constant.
I cried until there were no tears left Friday night. Then I cried again Saturday. And Sunday.
Kamden knocked more than once. Called. Texted.
I’m here if you need me.
I didn’t answer.
I couldn’t.
Because if I started talking about it out loud, it would become real.
And I’m not sure I’m ready for that.
Now it’s Monday morning.
The stadium looms in front of me like it’s daring me to step inside.
My reflection in the glass doors barely looks like me. Puffy eyes hidden behind makeup. Lips pale. Shoulders slumped despite my best effort to stand tall.
I square them anyway.
I am still a professional.
Even if I feel like I’m bleeding internally.
The hallway feels colder than usual as I make my way to Susan’s office. Every step feels like walking through mud. My stomach twists tighter the closer I get.
When I reach her door, I hesitate.
Then I knock.
“Come in,” she calls.
I push it open.
She looks up and immediately freezes.
“Oh, Amelia.”
Her voice softens instantly.
She stands, walking around her desk. “Sit down.”
The second I sit, the mask I’ve been wearing cracks.
“You saw him,” she says gently.
I nod.
“At the bar.”
Another nod.
“With someone else.”
That’s the one that makes my throat close.
“Yes.”
Her eyes search my face, and I see something there.
Not just sympathy.
Something heavier.
Guilt.
I draw in a shaky breath.
“I don’t know how I got here,” I whisper. “I don’t know how something that felt so real. So safe. Turned into that.”
Susan doesn’t interrupt.
“He told me he loved me,” I continue, my voice breaking. “He stood in your office and said it. He said he’d leave the team for me. And then two days later I walk into a bar and he’s letting some girl hang all over him like I never existed.”
My chest tightens so hard it feels like I can’t breathe.
“I keep replaying it,” I say, pressing my fingers into my temples. “Was it all a lie? Was I just convenient? Was I na?ve?”
“No,” Susan says firmly.
Tears spill over anyway.
“I feel stupid,” I whisper. “Kamden warned me. You warned me about players. About optics. About consequences. And I still let myself fall.”
She kneels slightly in front of me, lowering herself to my eye level.
“You are not stupid for loving someone,” she says quietly.
I shake my head.
“But I knew the risks,” I say. “I knew my career was on the line. I knew the perception would fall on me harder than him. And I still chose him.”
My voice cracks completely now.
“I thought he was different,” I whisper. “I thought what we had was real.”
Susan’s lips press into a thin line.
“It was real,” she says.
I look at her sharply.
“You don’t know that.”
She hesitates.
And there it is again.
That guilty look.
“Amelia,” she begins carefully. “Wilder was in this office Friday afternoon.”
My heart stutters.
“He was told,” she continues slowly, “that if he loved you, he needed to walk away. That staying with you would destroy your career.”
The room tilts.
“What?”
“Coach Carson said it plainly. Kamden said it bluntly. The league made it clear.”
My breath becomes shallow.
“He asked about transfers,” she adds. “He didn’t argue about himself. He argued about you.”
I stare at her, trying to process.
“So you told him to leave me?” I whisper.
“I told him to protect you,” she replies, her voice tight. “There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” I ask, a hollow laugh escaping me. “Because it feels the same.”
She closes her eyes briefly.
“He didn’t want to,” she says softly.
That hurts more.
“Then why did he look so comfortable?” I demand. “Why did he act like I meant nothing?”
“Because he knows how to wear a mask better than anyone I’ve ever worked with.”
Silence stretches between us.
The realization crashes over me slowly.
He didn’t look happy.
He looked numb.
My heart squeezes painfully.
“I told him to prove it,” Susan admits quietly. “If he truly loved you.”
Tears slide down my face again.
“You don’t get to decide that for us,” I whisper.
“No,” she agrees. “But I get to protect my intern.”
I let out a broken breath.
“I didn’t ask to be protected.”
“No,” she says gently. “But you deserved to be.”
I press my palms into my eyes again.
“I feel like my soul got ripped out of my chest,” I whisper. “Like I lost something I didn’t even know I could lose.”
Susan rests a hand on my knee.
“You loved him,” she says.
“I still do.”
The words slip out before I can stop them.
And that’s the worst part.
Because even after seeing him at that bar and watching him let me walk away…
My heart hasn’t caught up to my pride.
Susan studies me carefully.
“You need to decide,” she says softly, “whether you want a career without him or a fight with him.”
I let out a shaky breath.
For the first time since Friday night, I understand something clearly.
He didn’t walk away because he didn’t love me.
He walked away because he thought it was the only way to save me.
And somehow, that hurts even more.
By the time I get home, the sadness has burned itself out.
What’s left behind isn’t heartbreak.
It’s fury.
I drop my bag on the counter harder than necessary and pace my apartment, heels clicking against hardwood.
They all decided.
Kamden.
Coach Carson.
Susan.
Wilder.
They sat in a room and determined the course of my life like I wasn’t even in it.
Like I’m still sixteen.
Like I’m fragile.
Like I need protection from myself.
My hands curl into fists.
I am not a child.
I am not the girl screaming on a baseball field anymore.
And I am not some weak intern who fell into something she didn’t understand.
Yes, my heart got involved.
But that doesn’t erase my degree.
My training.
My skill.
My work.
If anything, it proves I can separate the two.
Because Wilder didn’t spiral when we were together.
He didn’t miss practice.
He didn’t lose control on the mound.
He didn’t become reckless.
He became better.
Calmer.
Focused.
The league loved that version of him.
I stop pacing.
Enough.
If they want to protect my career, then I’ll protect it myself.
I grab my phone.
Two days later, I’m sitting in a conference room at league headquarters.
Neutral walls. Glass table. Two representatives across from me. One older man with a silver tie and sharp eyes, one woman in her forties with a tablet open in front of her.
They’re polite.
Measured.
Careful.
“Miss Bronwyn,” the woman begins, “we understand you requested this meeting regarding the conflict of interest concern.”
“Yes,” I reply evenly.
My voice doesn’t shake.
My posture is straight.
I am composed.
“From our understanding,” the man says, “you were involved romantically with one of the team’s primary players while serving as an intern under the Rebels’ psychological department.”
“Yes.”
“And you understand why that raises ethical concerns.”
“I do.”
Silence lingers.
I take a breath.
“But I also understand professional boundaries,” I continue. “And I am capable of maintaining them.”
They exchange a glance.
“With respect,” the woman says gently, “your personal involvement complicates perception.”
“Perception,” I repeat calmly, “is not the same as performance.”
That gets their attention.
“I have documented performance metrics from the past several weeks,” I say, sliding a folder across the table. “Player engagement increased. Voluntary session attendance increased. On-field behavioral incidents decreased.”
The man flips through the pages.
“You’re referencing Wilder Calloway’s performance?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“His ERA dropped during that stretch,” the woman notes.
“Yes.”
“He had no disciplinary flags.”
“Yes.”
I hold their gaze.
“He didn’t deteriorate under my influence,” I say. “He improved.”
They sit back slightly.
“I will not deny that my heart got involved,” I continue. “But I did not exploit my position. I did not manipulate sessions. I did not violate confidentiality. I maintained professional documentation.”
“And your solution?” the man asks.
“I will no longer sit in on Wilder’s sessions,” I say clearly. “Another professional can take over his case immediately. I will work exclusively with other players.”
“You’re willing to recuse yourself entirely?”
In other words, I’m removing myself from a difficult situation.
“Yes.”
“And the relationship?”
“That is no longer ongoing,” I say, forcing the words to stay steady.
The woman studies me carefully.
“You understand that even if you are not working directly with him, proximity still presents scrutiny.”
“I understand scrutiny,” I reply. “I chose this field knowing it would be male-dominated. Knowing I would be judged harsher than my male counterparts. I am prepared for scrutiny.”
The man folds his hands.
“You believe you can maintain professionalism despite personal feelings?”
“I believe professionalism is not the absence of feeling,” I say. “It’s the discipline to act correctly regardless of it.”
Silence.
I lean forward slightly.
“With respect,” I add, “I did not sleep my way into this position. I earned it. I will not allow the narrative to reduce my competence because my personal life intersected with my work.”
The woman’s expression softens.
“You are aware that stepping down voluntarily might have been easier.”
“Yes,” I say. “But easier is not the same as right.”
Another pause.
Finally, the man nods slowly.
“We can authorize conditional continuation,” he says. “You will be formally removed from any direct involvement with Mr. Calloway.”
“That is acceptable.”
“You will undergo quarterly review.”
“That is acceptable.”
“And if there are any further incidents, public or private, this decision will be revisited.”
“I understand.”
The woman closes her tablet.
“You’re confident,” she observes.
I meet her eyes.
“I’m capable.”
When I leave that building, the air feels different.
Not lighter.
Stronger.
They don’t get to decide my life without me.
Wilder doesn’t get to sacrifice himself without my consent.
Kamden doesn’t get to protect me from choices I’m willing to make.
I stop on the sidewalk, pulling out my phone.
My thumb hovers over Wilder’s name.
My heart still hurts.
But now?
I’m not broken.
I’m furious.
And determined.
If he walked away to save me, he’s about to find out I don’t need saving.