Chapter 15
Rick Duarte called right as I buried my left shoulder into the tackle bag for the third time.
The shock traveled straight up from my palm into my neck.
It wasn't a clean ache. It was a sharp, brief pinch beneath my collarbone, just enough to make my arm take a split second too long snapping back into position.
The coach barked something from the touchline.
Marcus scooped up the loose ball a few yards away and flipped it to Reyes, who took off with high knees through the freshly cut grass.
My phone buzzed inside the pocket of the hoodie I’d dropped beside the water cooler. Rick again. The screen showed four missed calls from that morning and a text that read: *Pick up before I get creative.*
I signaled to the coach that I was stepping out of the drill.
My ribs burned beneath the athletic tape, and my shoulder was starting to heat up in a way I didn't like.
I walked into the concrete corridor behind the locker rooms, where the smell of liniment gave way to the scorched coffee drifting from the vending machine.
“If this is about the Portland hotel bill, Marcus swore he’d pay you back,” I said into the receiver.
“Marcus sent me a photo of a three-hundred-dollar receipt with a thumbs-up emoji. That’s not a binding legal contract,” Rick replied. “You got two minutes?”
I leaned my good shoulder against the wall. From the pitch outside came the shrill sound of whistles and the dull thud of bodies hitting padded shields.
“I’m in the middle of practice.”
“That’s why I asked for two minutes instead of an emotionally healthy childhood.”
“The childhood sounds over budget.”
Rick let out an exhale I knew entirely too well. He made that sound whenever he’d finished gathering data and was getting ready to arrange it into something I didn't want to look at.
“Seattle pushed back the extension talks again,” he said. “They say they want to see how the season wraps up and get the full medical report.”
The concrete floor was scuffed with dried mud. I traced one of the cracks with the toe of my cleat.
“Makes sense.”
“No, it makes sense for *them*. You’re thirty-three, playing with taped ribs, and carrying a shoulder you’re not describing to me with nearly enough detail. For them, waiting costs nothing.”
“You don't know what’s going on with my shoulder.”
“I know because you’ve spent ten years calling me before every MRI to ask if there’s a version of the word *inflammation* that sounds less expensive.”
I looked toward the metal locker room door. Two trainers passed by wheeling a wire cart stacked with hydration cases. One gave me a nod without slowing down.
“What does San Diego want?” I asked.
Rick didn't jump on the question. Which was worse.
“They want to talk. They haven't put a formal offer on paper yet. They want to know if there’s a number that pries you out of Seattle, and if your body can hold up for another multi-year deal. Their director of rugby called me yesterday, and he called again this morning. They aren't killing time.”
“Let them talk to you.”
“They will on Sunday. But I need to know if you’re actually interested in listening.”
I thought about the house on the lake, the cast-iron skillet I’d left drying on a kitchen towel, Gene’s sack of potting soil leaning against the pantry wall.
I pictured Kate kneeling in front of her dying basil plant, reading the label on the bag as if it were a poorly drafted contract.
San Diego was south, down on another coast, bathed in sunshine I hadn't asked for.
“I listen to anyone who calls,” I said.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you get before practice ends.”
Rick went quiet for a beat.
“Fine. I’m not auctioning off your life over the phone. But don't confuse tentative with irrelevant, Cole.”
The line went dead. I stared down at the screen until the backlight faded to black. Then I walked back onto the pitch without texting Kate.
Marcus was waiting for me by a stack of blue tackle shields. Sweat had plastered his curls to his forehead, and a smear of dark turf streaked his calf.
“Girl trouble?” he asked.
“Rick.”
“Ah. A different flavor of romance.”
“Do you always talk this much when you’re out of breath?”
“It’s how I build lung capacity.”
The coach blew his whistle. I dropped into position.
The moment I planted my hands on my knees, my shoulder flared again.
I shifted my stance before Marcus could catch it.
On the next rep, Reyes took a high ball and knocked it forward.
The whistle blew the play dead. Reyes stared at his fingers as if they belonged to someone else.
“Again!” the coach barked.
I jogged over to Reyes and tapped the crook of his elbow.
“Stop chasing the ball with stiff arms. Let it drop in here first.”
“I know.”
“Then play like you know.”
Reyes shot me an aggrieved look and reset on the line. I stepped back to my mark. It was easier to correct a young player's catch technique than to explain why Rick had mentioned San Diego and my very first thought had been how fast Kate would lock her apartment door once I was gone.
Practice wrapped nearly an hour later. As the rest of the squad headed for the showers, the team physio intercepted me by the bench.
“The shoulder,” she said.
“Just tired.”
“Shoulders don't start lagging behind at practice on their own.”
“Mine has a complicated personality.”
She didn't crack a smile.
“On the table before you shower.”
I wanted to brush it off. I’d learned early on that team doctors, coaches, and fathers could spot a dodge from fifty paces. I nodded and let her guide me into the training room.
The sanitary paper crinkled beneath my back as I lay on the exam table. The physio had me elevate my arm, rotate my wrist, and push outward against her palm. I held steady until a sharp pressure near my collarbone lit up the joint.
“Right there,” she said.
“Right where?”
“Where it hurts.”
“That’s a serious accusation to level against a man’s own anatomy.”
“The team doctor will evaluate you Friday. No full-contact drills until then.”
“We’ve got two matches left to secure a playoff spot.”
“And a career after those matches, if you’d like to keep using it.”
I sat up slowly. The tape across my ribs pulled tight against my skin.
“Understood.”
She logged a quick note on her tablet. I checked my phone again. A message from Kate had come in during the second half of practice.
Kate: *Are you still coming at seven or has the season swallowed you whole?*
I smiled before I could catch myself.
Cole: *Seven. If the basil is still breathing, I’m demanding a sober celebration.*
Kate: *Don't make promises you can't keep.*
I slipped the phone into my pocket without mentioning Rick. There was no offer on the table yet. There was no city to say no to. It was easy to justify keeping quiet when I arranged it in that order.
* * *
By the time Kate arrived, the kitchen smelled of browned garlic and the spring rain tapping against the back picture windows.
I’d set the salmon to rest on a cutting board, tossed a green salad in a wide ceramic bowl, and laid out two empty plates on the island.
I hadn't lit candles or pulled out wine. The first time she’d come to dinner, a meal had carried entirely too many unspoken questions.
Tonight she dropped her bag by the entryway, set a small cardboard box onto the counter, and kicked off her shoes.
The scraggly basil plant poked out of the box, still crammed in its plastic nursery pot.
I’d set a new clay pot right beside Gene’s sack of soil.
“I still can't believe your dad gave me potting soil for a plant that looks like an active crime scene,” she said.
I turned the salmon fillets with a spatula.
“My dad doesn't believe in lost causes. He believes in handing things a shovel and seeing what they do with it.”
Kate pulled open the sack of soil. The rich, damp smell of fresh earth filled the kitchen, far darker than anything that came in a supermarket bag. She gathered her dark hair with an elastic band from her wrist and began loosening the compacted roots of the old pot with two fingers.
“That sounds surprisingly sentimental, for Gene.”
“It is. Don't get used to it or you’ll have to start deciphering him.”
“I wouldn't want to disrupt the family ecosystem.”
“You already did when you laughed at his tractor.”
Kate tilted her head to look at me. The dark burgundy polish was still chipped on two nails; dark dirt had worked its way beneath one thumb.
“The tractor had it coming.”
I wanted to tell her that I didn't know how she’d become an integrated part of my house without me ever catching the exact moment it happened. There was the pot on the sill, the hand towel she used by the sink, the way she opened the fridge without asking. Instead, I plated the salmon.
“Wash up before dinner, trouble. If you’re repotting with dirty hands, I don't want to see what you do to my salad.”
“Your culinary threats have really declined in quality.”
“Cracked ribs make a man humble.”
She stepped closer, glancing down at the white edge of athletic tape showing above the collar of my T-shirt. Her hand hovered inches from my chest before dropping.
“Are they bothering you today?”
There wasn't an interrogation behind the question. She was just waiting for an answer.
“Enough that I’m going to complain if you make me do the dishes.”
“That wasn't what I asked.”
“They’re still mending. The shoulder’s acting up from practice. Getting it evaluated on Friday.”
Kate let her hand fall. She didn't hide the concern, but she didn't turn it into a checklist either.
“Okay. Keep me posted.”
My phone buzzed against the marble countertop. The screen flashed Rick’s name with a text preview: *San Diego wants a formal video call on Monday. Need to know if we can build a deal...*
I flipped the phone face down before Kate could catch the text. She had already turned back to the clay pot, gently packing fresh soil around the fragile roots.
“Everything okay?” she asked.