Chapter 12
Kate’s text came through while my jersey was still stuck to my back and I had an ice pack pressed to my ribs.
Kate: *Saw you play. Can you come over tomorrow?*
Marcus was to my left, a towel draped over his shoulders, pretending he wasn't looking at my phone.
Reyes was digging through his locker with the deliberate clatter of a man trying to make it obvious he wasn't eavesdropping.
The locker room smelled of liniment, damp turf, and the burgers someone had ordered to celebrate a two-point win.
I didn't reply right away. Not because I wanted to punish her for taking a few days of space.
Not because I needed her to word the invitation better.
The week before, I would have texted *On my way* and stopped at three different places: groceries, the pharmacy, any shop that would let me show up with full hands and an excuse not to think about my ribs or the ache the match hadn't touched.
Me: *Yeah. Want me to bring soup?*
Her reply took less than a minute.
Kate: *No.*
Me: *What time?*
Kate: *Two. And don't bring soup disguised as something else.*
I laughed under my breath. Marcus glanced over.
“Good news?” he asked.
“Don't make me define it.”
“What a romantic way to dodge a question.”
Reyes slammed his locker shut.
“You clearing out, or are you going to keep hogging the whole bench with that premium rib of yours?”
I flipped them off without looking up. No more questions came.
That was something else I had to keep in mind before stepping into Kate’s apartment: Marcus and Reyes had kept their word.
The trouble wasn't that they’d let me down.
The trouble was that she hadn't had the chance to choose whether to let them into that part of her life.
* * *
The next day at one fifty-eight, I was sitting in my truck outside Kate’s building, keys in the ignition and my hands resting empty on my thighs.
I’d left my gear bag at home. No takeout containers.
No grocery lists on my phone. Just a water bottle for myself—because our physio got intolerable if a player’s urine looked like iced tea—and my wallet in my back pocket.
The stairwell smelled of lemon floor cleaner. On the second landing, I looked down: white athletic tape peeked out from the collar of my shirt alongside the yellowing bruise near my collarbone. I tugged the fabric once to straighten it. It didn't hide a thing. It didn't need to.
Kate opened the door before I could ring a second time.
She was wearing loose black lounge pants, gray socks, and an oversized navy T-shirt that reached midthigh.
Her dark hair fell loose around her shoulders.
I noticed her nails before her eyes: the dark burgundy polish had chipped away completely from two fingers, leaving just a dark crescent on her thumb.
Behind her, the floor lamp glowing beside the sofa and the basil plant on the windowsill made the living room feel less barren than the last time I’d been here.
“You’re on time,” she said.
“You said two.”
“Punctuality isn't a moral virtue, Cole.”
“Tell that to the woman who gave me an exact minute.”
One corner of her mouth twitched. It didn't quite make it to a smile, but she stepped back to let me in.
My body remembered the layout: the coat hook by the door, the short hallway, the kitchen table with its two chairs. I hung my jacket over the back of one and stayed on my feet. Kate shut the door. The latch clicked shut, echoing in the entryway.
“How are the ribs?” she asked.
“Boring topic today.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“They ache. Team doc says they’re mending. That’s the whole report.”
Kate nodded. She didn't ask the follow-up, though I could see it gathering behind her teeth. She ran her thumb along the edge of her gold watch, unclasped on the table beside a mug with dried coffee rings.
“I didn't invite you over to audit your medical chart,” she said.
“Good thing. I left my charts at home.”
“Does that include heat maps?”
“I only break those out for the big clients.”
This time she offered a real smile, brief and tired. Then she gestured toward the sofa.
“Sit.”
I sat, leaving plenty of room between us as she settled onto the opposite end.
The cushions sank under my frame. On the shelf, a small framed photo of Kate and Priya in front of a neon sign was leaning crookedly against the wall.
Kate straightened it with two fingers, then rested her hand on her knee.
I didn't know how to open it. The sentence had to come out before a touch, a kiss, or some convenient distraction turned it into something else.
“There’s something I should’ve told you earlier,” I said.
Kate went still.
“That opening line rarely announces that someone did the dishes.”
“I didn't do the dishes. And I didn't bring soup.”
“Good for you.”
“I told Marcus and Reyes about the pregnancy. And the miscarriage.”
The HVAC unit kicked on with a low hum. Kate didn't look away, but her spine went rigid.
“When?”
“Tuesday, when I was late to practice. Before I came over to your place that night.”
“Did you give them my name?”
There wasn't an easy way to say it. Nor should there have been.
“Yeah.”
Kate looked down at her hands. Her thumb found a patch of chipped nail and scraped at it with her index finger.
“What else did you tell them?”
“That you were Kate. That there had been a pregnancy. That you lost it Sunday. That we hadn't decided what we were going to do before that. Nothing else.”
“I don't need a damage report.”
“I know. I’m telling you because I owe you the whole truth.”
Kate shifted and crossed her arms, the navy fabric pulling tight over her elbows.
“I did it because I couldn't walk onto the pitch and act like Monday had been normal. Marcus asked. Reyes was right there. I needed to say it out loud so I wouldn't lose my mind.”
“Okay.”
“Yeah?”
Kate looked toward the window. Outside, a city bus hissed to a stop at the corner and someone rattled a metal security grate. The afternoon light caught the line of her cheek without softening her expression.
“Priya knew too.”
“I’m not going to ask you to grieve in a vacuum.
That would be cruel, and it would be ridiculous.
I just don't want my private life making the rounds, having people look at me with pity every time I walk into a room. I don't even know if I deserve that pity; after all, I’d already decided against having it.”
“It won't make the rounds,” I said. “Marcus and Reyes haven't told a soul, and I’m not saying another word to anyone without talking to you first.”
Kate didn't answer right away.
“Why Marcus and Reyes?” she asked finally.
“Because they’re the ones who saw me that morning. Marcus has known me for years. Reyes was sitting two lockers down, looking at me like he thought I’d wrapped my truck around a telephone pole. I didn't want to lie to them.”
Kate let out a slow breath. It wasn't forgiveness, exactly. Exhaustion, maybe. She stood up and walked into the kitchen. I didn't follow until she’d filled two glasses at the sink and held one out across the counter.
“Want some water?” she asked.
It was a simple question. I took it like it meant something more.
“Yeah. Thanks.”
The glass was cold. I took a drink, feeling my ribs pull as I tipped my head back.
Kate leaned her hip against the counter.
“You don't need my permission to have people who care about you,” she said. “I know that’s not what this is.”
“I know.”
Kate ran a hand through her hair and pulled it back quickly, as if the motion gave away too much.
“You can talk about your loss,” she continued.
“You can say you were hurting, that you were sad, that you couldn't play your best. You can say there was a pregnancy and it ended, if you need to name it. But if people are going to know who I am, or what details about me are part of that story, you ask me first. Not after.”
“Done.”
We stood in the kitchen in silence. The refrigerator hummed. In an apartment nearby, a vacuum cleaner thumped twice against a baseboard. Kate’s glass left a ring of condensation on the laminate. My hand twitched toward a paper towel to wipe it dry. I forced it to stay still against my side.
“Are you staying?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“It doesn't mean we’re going to have a seamless conversation.”
“I wouldn't know a seamless conversation if it sat on my lap.”
“That sounds like a rugby problem.”
“Most things are.”
We moved back to the couch. This time Kate sat close, tucking one leg beneath her. Her knee brushed against mine through the fabric. She didn't pull away. Neither did I.
“The doctor said everything was fine physically,” she said, looking at the framed photo on the shelf instead of at me. “That I could start running again once I had the energy. That I could do... whatever I wanted whenever I felt ready. It irritated me how simple she made it sound.”
“It doesn't have to be simple.”
“No. But I also don't want every single thing I do to turn into evidence that I’m falling apart.”
“It won't be with me.”
Kate let out a dry, humorless chuckle.
“You have a very recent track record suggesting otherwise.”
“Fair. It’s on me to prove that with actions instead of arguing the point.”
Kate’s knee pressed a fraction harder against mine. The apartment felt suddenly narrow around the memory of the two ultrasound prints tucked in her nightstand. I kept my eyes away from the hallway.
“What were you thinking about?” she asked.
“Right now?”
“Back then. When we knew there was a heartbeat, and we were still pretending we didn't have to think past the next appointment.”
I straightened up. Not because of my ribs, but because the question deserved more than an easy, comfortable answer.
“I was thinking I needed to fix the floorboards in the back bedroom,” I said after a moment. “The wood creaks every time someone walks over it. I pictured a baby asleep in there, and me tiptoeing like a burglar through my own house. And I thought about moving my weight bench out to the garage.”
Kate looked down at my hands.
“That’s remarkably specific.”
“I don't really know how to do vague hopes. I’m worse at them than I am at soup.”
“Don't talk trash about the soup. Just the way you turned it into critical infrastructure.”
“Fair.”
The banter hung between us for a quiet beat. Then Kate caught the hem of her shirt between her fingers.
“I looked up daycares.”
I kept quiet.
“Three of them. One near the office, one near here, and one with a ridiculous waitlist. The waitlist made me furious. As if a baby came with a project management timeline and someone had forgotten to loop me in.”
“Did you like any of them?”
“One had an ugly gravel yard and looked very secure. I ruled it out because it irritated me that the intake form asked about food allergies before I could even write down a name.”
“Sounds like a flawed system.”
“It was a flawed system.”
Her smile cracked almost instantly. Kate brought a hand to her mouth. She didn't turn away when the tears started to spill, but she didn't try to package them into an articulate sentence either. I stayed right where I was.
“It doesn't mean I wanted to do it,” she said. “It doesn't mean I’d changed my mind.”
“I know.”
“It just means a part of me looked ahead. And now I feel like I lost someone, and like I lost a version of my life I hadn't even accepted yet. Both at the same time. It’s unbearable.”
“I can understand both. I don't need to pick one for you.”
Kate lowered her hand. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her lashes wet.
“Really?”
“Really.”
I didn't promise I’d always know how to do it. Those kinds of promises were starting to feel like nothing more than a polished way of apologizing in advance.
Kate shifted closer until her shoulder rested against mine. The skin on her forearm felt cool. I waited. She looked at my mouth. Then back up at my eyes.
“I want to kiss you,” she said. “Is that okay?”
The question dried up my throat. I laid my palm flat, open, on the cushion between us.
“Yeah. Very much. But if you change your mind, even in the middle of a sentence, we stop.”
“Don't talk to me like I’m going to break.”
“I’m not. I’m talking to you like you get to choose.”
Kate looked at my hand. She reached out and laced her fingers through mine.
“Then kiss me, Callahan.”
I kissed her slowly. Closed-mouth at first, just the warm brush of her lips and her shallow breath against my face.
When her fingers found the back of my neck, I answered with firmer pressure.
Her thumb brushed the pale scar through my eyebrow.
The contact had me leaning into her until my ribs reminded me they were still injured.
Kate pulled back a few inches.
“Did I hurt you?”
“No. You reminded me I have a body. That’s different.”
“What a revolutionary concept.”
“I’m learning a lot this week.”
Her laugh was small, but it lingered. She kissed me again, with none of the caution she’d used when asking.
It wasn't rushed. It was hunger, and I recognized it because I carried the same thing: the pull of her mouth, the relief of her choosing to come closer, the need not to turn that desire into an obligation to go anywhere.
“Do you want to move to the bedroom?” I asked when her forehead rested against mine.
Kate swallowed. Her fingers stayed at the nape of my neck.
“Yes. But I can't do...”
“We’ll go slow.”
“Just kissing. Like we’re in high school.”
“It’s been years since I did anything that thrilling.”
She stood up and tugged my hand. In the hallway, the living room light fell behind us.
The bedroom door was cracked open. The bed had a gray duvet pulled smooth to the pillows, and one of her blouses hung over the back of a desk chair.
Kate kicked the door shut with the toe of her sock before turning back to me.
She sat on the edge of the mattress and made room for me beside her. I kissed her without pulling at her shirt or letting my hands drift past her waist. Kate held me by the neck, setting the pace. When desire tangled with a brief sob, I stilled my mouth and waited until she lifted her head.
“I’m not crying because you’re here,” she said.
“You don't have to explain it.”
“I do.”
I nodded.