Chapter 5
I opened it standing in my kitchen while the kettle began to rattle on the burner. Outside, Capitol Hill gleamed with wet asphalt. The windowsill basil had dropped another leaf overnight. My phone, face down next to the sugar bowl, hadn’t lit up in thirty-seven minutes.
I hadn’t looked at it since the call with Cole.
Not because I was enforcing some rule. Just because every time I thought about it, the back of my neck went rigid and I found something more urgent: measuring coffee grounds, checking the latch on the window, verifying that the front door was locked.
I checked it twice. On the third attempt, I forced myself to drop my hand.
I opened the slides.
Halcyon Health and the Seattle Sentinels.
A community health initiative designed to strengthen post-discharge follow-up in three neighborhoods where emergency rooms flooded with patients who had nobody to call when a prescription changed, transportation fell through, or written discharge instructions proved useless in a household where two languages were spoken.
The title slide showed rugby players gathered around a table with kids. On the far right, slightly apart from the group, Cole Callahan held a child’s bike helmet while a kid attempted to strap it on backward.
The photo had to be months old. I’d known for less than a month that his hands were gentle even without an audience.
The kettle whistled. I cut the burner too fast, splashing boiling water across the counter.
“Very professional,” I muttered.
I brewed coffee, let it cool, and got dressed in a gray blazer, black slacks, and a blouse that felt aggressively white that morning. I picked my grandmother’s watch. The clasp clicked shut on the first try. I put it on anyway.
My phone buzzed just as I stepped onto the landing.
Cole: Did you get any sleep?
The question came without instructions or solutions. It just sat on the screen.
Me: Enough to pass as a functional human being.
Cole: High bar for a Monday.
Me: My company is partnering with the Sentinels.
He took a few seconds.
Cole: Small world.
Me: Diane wants me running operations.
Cole: Then we’ll have to learn how to share conference rooms without discussing your calendar.
I read the text leaning against the peeling paint of the stairwell landing. I could have answered with a joke. I could have told him my calendar was none of his business. Instead, I typed:
Me: My appointment is Wednesday. Nine in the morning. They gave me a slot at First Hill.
The three dots appeared and vanished twice.
Cole: Thanks for telling me.
Cole: Do you want me there?
There was no elevator in my building, so I couldn’t pretend the ding of closing doors forced me to keep moving. I stood there with my bag over my shoulder, watching a raindrop swell on the toe of my shoe.
Me: Yes.
I sent it before I had time to draft it into a conditional clause.
Cole: I’ll be there.
He didn’t add anything else. He didn’t ask if he should pick me up, if I wanted him to call, or if I needed him to bring anything. The relief was so immediate it irritated me.
I shoved the phone into my pocket and took the three flights of stairs down with the taste of cold coffee still lingering on my tongue.
* * *
Halcyon’s large conference room was already occupied when I arrived. The screen displayed the company’s green logo beside the blue-and-white crest of the Sentinels; the two graphics looked like they’d been slapped together by someone who’d never had to review a single budget.
Diane stood by the window with a lidless mug, her hair pulled back into her signature low bun. Sasha scrolled through notes on her tablet. Priya had tracked down a bakery box in the break room and was unwrapping a pastry over a napkin with surgical focus.
“You’re on time,” Priya said without looking up. “I was worried your promotion had turned you into one of those people who stroll in late just to prove everyone has to wait on them.”
“I don’t have time to develop a new personality flaw.”
Priya nudged the box toward me. The icing smelled of butter and cinnamon. My stomach clamped shut before I could even decide if I was hungry.
“Later,” I said.
She glanced at my empty hands but didn’t push. Diane checked the wall clock.
“All right. Let’s get started.”
The deck focused on impact, reach, and brand visibility. Diane let three slides roll by before closing her laptop with one hand.
“We are not shooting a promo video with pro athletes just to feel generous,” Diane said. “The Sentinels want to fund this and donate player hours. We need this program to survive past the ribbon-cutting photo op. Kate, tell me where it breaks.”
Every face turned toward me. I was grateful for it. Work problems offered solid footing; you always knew where to plant your feet.
“In the handoff,” I said. “If this campaign directs people to a phone hotline that can’t handle the volume, we’ll create more frustration than we relieve. We need dedicated discharge coordinators in the partner clinics, clear referral pathways, and consented data sharing. Not a ceremonial ribbon.”
Diane gave a single nod. “What do you need to build it?”
“Direct access to the Sentinels’ community team. I want to know which neighborhoods they actually reach, who their existing partners are, and what they can commit to without turning an injured player into a billboard prop.”
Sasha looked up. “We’ll also need to know how they handle it when a player decides to talk mental health on camera without checking the talking points.”
“Which is why there shouldn’t be a script pretending an athlete is a marketing campaign,” I said.
Priya let out a quiet hum of approval behind her mug.
Diane pointed her pen at me. “Two o’clock today, Georgetown. First working session with the club. You, Priya, and Legal. Don’t promise timelines. Find out if we can build something useful.”
“Understood.”
“And Kate.”
“Yes?”
“Don’t explain rugby to them.”
Priya raised a hand. “That was literally my entire agenda.”
“Which is why you aren’t running the meeting,” Diane said.
Sasha’s laugh was brief but real. Mine arrived a beat late, softer than usual. On the table, my pen had ended up crooked against the legal pad. I straightened it before taking notes.
The meeting wrapped twenty minutes later. Diane walked out first, followed by Sasha, who mentioned she’d have the coverage metrics reviewed before noon. Priya held the door closed with her shoulder, lingering against the frame.
“What was that pastry dodge?”
“I wasn’t hungry.”
“Kate.”
“Priya.”
“I’m not asking about the pastry.”
The HVAC hummed overhead. On the wall monitor, the two self-satisfied logos still beamed side by side. My phone buzzed inside my bag, and I left it there.
“Not here,” I said.
Priya didn’t shift her stance. She just scooped up the bakery box.
“Fine. But I’m taking the rest of these as emotional damages.”
“That sounds like a deeply questionable HR policy.”
“Sue me.”
* * *
The Sentinels facility looked nothing like anything Halcyon would call an office.
The lobby featured exposed brick walls, display cases of framed jerseys, and the clean scent of freshly cut grass that failed to mask the sharp smell of liniment.
From somewhere deep in the building came the rhythmic thud of tackle bags.
Every impact vibrated straight through the soles of my shoes.
A man in a navy suit waited for us near reception. He was short, broad-shouldered, and wore a club crest pinned to his lapel.
“Kate Mercer, Priya Nair. I’m Joel Brandt, director of community relations,” he said, shaking our hands. “Thanks for coming down. Cole mentioned the Halcyon team would ask uncomfortable questions.”
“Cole is an optimist,” I said.
Joel smiled. “That’s not usually what we say about him when we’re down on the scoreboard.”
He led us down a hallway lined with team photos, cleats aligned neatly beneath wooden benches, and a whiteboard covered in red tactical arrows. Priya paused in front of a photo of a player suspended in midair, ball tucked tight against his chest.
“Is that legal?” she asked.
“Depends on who you ask,” Joel replied.
“Outstanding. We already have a compliance strategy.”
The conference room overlooked one of the practice pitches. Through the glass, orange cones dotted the damp turf, where a pack of men moved in rapid formations—too large to appear agile until they pivoted in unison.
Cole was among them. He wore a gray training shirt, dark shorts, and white athletic tape wrapped around both forearms. His hair, dark and damp from the drizzle, stuck to his forehead. When he bent down to scoop up a ball, I recognized the line of his back before I could stop myself.
This was no place to remember his kitchen. My body hadn’t gotten the memo.
“Is he the one you know?” Priya asked quietly.
I glanced at her. “I know a few players through... the media.”
Priya kept her eyes on the pitch. The corner of her mouth shifted a fraction. Noted.
Joel opened the conference room door. “Our executive director is joining via video. Marcus Webb and Cole are representing the squad. They want to make sure this program doesn’t ask them to pose for two hours and disappear.”
“That’s a valid concern,” I said.
“Glad to hear it.”
When we sat down, Cole was still outside. I gripped the edge of my notebook with my left hand until my burgundy nails dug into the cardboard backing. My watch felt heavy against my wrist.
Joel fired up the screen. A woman from PR introduced herself as Tessa and started walking through launch dates. I took notes. Priya asked about language access, transit, and who would fund the coordinators once the initial press buzz faded.
The door opened mid-sentence during a discussion on metrics.
Cole walked in with Marcus Webb right behind him. Marcus was nearly as tall as Cole, with a thick beard and a towel draped over his neck. He had the kind of face that looked like it had decided years ago never to impress anyone.
“Sorry,” Marcus said. “Coach insists on running us even when there are real meetings.”