Chapter 2
The team had booked the top floor of the Huxley. The rooftop was the only place in the building where I could stop hearing the party and think about my contract.
Rick had texted during the eighty-first minute, when I still had athletic tape stuck to my face: *Front office wants to talk extension. After they “see how the body holds up.” Call me tomorrow.*
I read the message twice in the tunnel, set the phone face down on the bench, and went back out.
I helped set up the tying try with my ribs burning.
We won. The city celebrated with a foghorn app, and nobody mentioned the math veteran players do: flankers don't get retired all at once.
First they cut your minutes, then come the polite conversations, and one day you look up and the league has already found someone younger.
I was turning thirty-three the same month my contract was up.
Upstairs, the guys were singing along with the DJ. A rookie was giving interviews with a towel draped over his head, and I’d already logged my forty minutes as vice-captain: shaking hands, smiling for photos, laughing at the right moments. I was still too wired to head home.
I climbed two flights of stairs.
On the rooftop, the propane heaters rattled overhead, and a row of scarves lined the railing.
Right in the middle of all that celebrating, there was a high-top that seemed completely detached from the match.
Coaster aligned with the edge of the table.
Blazer neatly arranged over the back of the stool.
A woman was watching her whiskey like she expected it to offer an explanation.
The stool across from her was open. I’d rehearsed a line on the way up the stairs, and I delivered it before I could lose my nerve.
“Is this taken, or are you saving it for someone more entertaining?”
She looked at me like she was evaluating a poorly drafted proposal. When she moved her blazer aside, I sat down and ordered water.
“Noted,” she said, after I explained the part about my kidneys.
A single word, dry and exact. I liked it immediately.
A kid in an oversized scarf materialized beside the table and held out his phone, completely tongue-tied.
You learn how to handle those moments pretty fast: turn around, crouch down, smile, hand the phone back with both hands.
I’ve looked like a giant to six-year-olds since I was fourteen.
You can learn to be careful, or you can get used to people being afraid of you. I chose the first one.
“Best night of my life!” the kid announced when we finished.
I told him to blame his dad for the defensive calls, and he bolted toward the railing.
“So, the flanker thing,” Kate said. “Explain it to someone who knows nothing about rugby.”
Most people ask how much I make, how bad it hurts, or if we’re on television. She wanted to understand the job.
“I get in the way. The other team tries to run an offense, and I make their choices harder.”
“You’re a consultant.”
I’d never been insulted with such precision.
The conversation stretched on. Over by the railing, they started chanting my name, and Kate’s thumb worked the clasp of her watch: open, shut, open. Gold flashed under her sleeve. I wanted to ask why she did it, but there was tension around her mouth, and it didn’t feel like a question I’d earned.
In my family, we try to fix things before we understand them. Dad could tear down an engine in the middle of the night, but he never asked Mom anything more intimate than “Where does it hurt?” Over the years, I learned to recognize the reflex. I still don’t always know how to stop it.
That time, I did. I rotated my glass until it lined up with her coaster.
Kate caught the motion. Her shoulders dropped just a fraction, and we kept talking.
She asked about next season, and I told her I didn’t plan past Saturday. It was the line I used with reporters, fans, and overly observant relatives. She recognized it for what it was, but she didn’t push. She just took a sip of her drink.
That made me want to tell her the truth.
I didn’t.
Instead, I asked about her interview. She described a clinic network paralyzed by paperwork, and when she mentioned the budget figure, a laugh slipped out of her.
It wasn’t loud, and nobody else would have found it especially funny.
It completely disarmed me. Up until that second, Kate had guarded every word, every gesture, even the placement of her glass. That laugh came out without permission.
I wanted to hear it again.
At eleven, she stood up and announced her terms with the same calm she would have used to close a meeting: one night, no breakfast, no numbers, and no looking for each other afterward.
My first thought was that I’d have traded the night for breakfast.
In my family, we feed what we don’t know how to fix.
My dad drove over a hundred miles to drop off a crate of apples on the porch of a cousin whose marriage was falling apart.
He rang the bell and walked back to the truck before she opened the door.
No Callahan ever says something hard if he can make a lasagna instead.
I was already picturing Kate in my kitchen at seven in the morning. Which was why I answered with a joke.
“The ‘no breakfast’ clause almost makes me reconsider.”
In the truck, she held out her hand.
“Your phone.”
“You said no numbers.”
“I said you wouldn’t have mine. Give me yours. In case of amendments.”
I rattled it off. She saved it with the screen tilted toward herself, and I understood I wasn’t getting anything in return.
* * *
I bought the house on the lake for the dock. The kitchen was the second reason, and after three years, it had nearly overtaken the dock. I told her that on the drive over, and Kate said the place sounded like a lie I’d repeated to myself during the mortgage signing.
“You haven’t seen it yet.”
“Which is why I said ‘sounded.’”
“You’re very rigorous.”
“I try to maintain standards.”
From anyone else, the line would have sounded cold. From her, it was a dare.
When we got there, the dock planks were icy under our shoes. The air smelled of damp cedar, and the bridge lights shivered over the black water. My paddleboard was still propped on the sawhorses, one edge weathered soft by the winter.
Kate rested her hands on the railing and looked out at the lake. The wind pulled another strand free from her chignon. I had to shove my hands into my pockets to keep from brushing it out of her face.
I didn’t offer a guided tour. I tossed my keys on the counter, flipped on the hallway light, and waited.
She walked through the first floor, taking in the doors and windows. She stopped in the kitchen, in front of the six burners and the butcher block counter I oiled on Sundays.
“You said the kitchen was close to winning.”
“And I was right.”
“I’m still evaluating.”
“Take your time.”
She looked at me then. Without the table or the crowd between us, the bedroom felt wide open.
The bedroom faced the water. I’d left the blinds up, and the amber light from the bridge cut across the bed. Kate stopped in the doorway, slipping off her blazer.
“Are the terms still active?”
“I’m willing to review amendments.”
“Amendments are made in writing.”
“Write slowly.”
She stepped closer, took my hands, and put them where she wanted them. I didn’t need a clearer answer, but I looked at her anyway.
“Yeah?”
“Yes.”
I kissed her.
Her mouth tasted like whiskey and lime. Kate gripped my shirt with both hands and pulled it up over my head. When my fingers found the zipper of her dress, I stopped.
“Can I?”
“Yes.”
She pulled her hair aside to give me room. I drew the zipper down slowly, kissing the skin as it opened up. She turned before I finished and pushed me back toward the bed with one hand flat against my chest.
At first, she set the pace. She decided where to touch me, when to close in, and when to make me wait. Her burgundy nails dug into my wrist when I slid my hand beneath her underwear.
“Tell me if you want me to stop.”
“I want you to keep going.”
She guided me with a shift of her hips and a quick motion of her hand. I followed her lead until she stopped watching my face and rested her forehead against my shoulder. Her breathing turned ragged. Every time I eased the pace, she pulled me back in.
I laid her down only when she pulled me with her. The mattress gave under our weight, and the light from the bridge crossed her stomach. I opened the nightstand drawer and took out a condom. Kate watched my hands until it was on; then she locked her legs around my waist.
“Like this?” I asked.
“Closer.”
I slid in slow. Her fingers closed over my shoulder, and I waited until she started moving beneath me again.
I let her set the speed. At times she kissed me to keep me quiet; at times she pulled her mouth back and told me exactly what she wanted.
Then she lost the thread of her own instructions.
The flush crept up her neck, and her body pulled tight against mine.
“Still with me?” I asked.
“Don’t stop.”
I didn’t stop until she said my name without a trace of the steady voice she’d used for all her terms. When her legs loosened, I stayed over her long enough to make sure she was all right, then rolled to the side so I wouldn’t crush her with my weight.
She took off her watch herself and set it on the nightstand, face turned toward the wall. I didn’t touch it.
Later, in the dark, she laughed at something I didn’t catch. Just once. She went quiet immediately, startled by the sound. I wanted to ask what it was, but the question might have closed down whatever had just opened up.
We didn’t get much sleep. Around three, we were drinking water in the kitchen. Kate sat on the counter with her knees pulled up, and I made toast that she didn’t eat. I had a dozen questions, and I managed not to ask a single one.
“Your kitchen is winning,” she admitted at last.
“I’m going to frame that statement.”
“It wasn’t an official statement.”
“I’ve got a witness.”
“Your skillet doesn’t count.”
I looked at the skillet.