Chapter 15 #2
I could have told her. Rick had called; San Diego wanted to talk. It wasn't an offer, but it was far past casual interest. Kate knew the difference between a possibility and a decision. She worked with possibilities that could change hundreds of lives and still managed to sleep at night.
“Rick,” I said. “Nothing locked down.”
Kate wiped her hands on the tea towel.
“Contract stuff?”
“Something like that.”
I braced for the nudge that would demand more details. Kate just picked up the two dinner plates and carried them to the dining table.
“If you want to talk about it after dinner, we can,” she said. “If you’re not ready yet, I’m not going to pry it out of you with tweezers.”
The clean ease of that exit made me feel worse. I followed her across the kitchen and took one of the plates from her hands.
“I’m not dodging you.”
“I didn't say you were.”
“I know. Just...”
The sentence ran out of momentum. Kate looked up at me. A smudge of dark dirt ran across her wrist, and her eyes held the exhaustion of a woman who’d spent nine hours defending other people’s decisions. She didn't rescue me from my own clumsiness.
“You just don't want to think about it over dinner,” she offered after a beat.
“Yeah.”
It wasn't the whole truth. It was just the fraction of it that fit neatly between two plates and a hot skillet.
We ate by the dining window. Kate talked about a grueling operations review at Halcyon and a partner clinic that had routed three patients to the wrong facility because an intake clerk had transposed two digits in a zip code.
I told her about Marcus trying to institute a ten-dollar locker-room fine for anyone caught using the word *synergy*.
Kate laughed with her mouth full and quickly covered her face with her napkin, which I logged as a far more intimate show of trust than it probably was.
My phone buzzed again on the island. I didn't glance over.
“Was that Rick?” Kate asked.
“Probably.”
“Aren't you going to answer it?”
“I’m on a date.”
The word hung still between us for a second. Kate smoothed her linen napkin across her lap. Then she reached across the table. I covered her hand with mine. Her palm was warm and faintly gritty from the soil.
“This counts as a date even if I showed up with a dying houseplant?” she asked.
“The plant has better table manners than Marcus.”
“The bar is low.”
“It’s a rebuilding year.”
Kate squeezed my fingers. I wanted to tell her that I loved her.
The words came to me with irritating clarity, nothing like something I might blurt out to fill the silence.
I could say them and let them take up real room between us.
But I could also see what each one would ask of us next: a conversation about Seattle, a city down south, money, my shoulder, the nights I came home late from practice.
I stayed silent.
After dinner, Kate washed the dishes over my protests. She refused to let me stand at the sink on account of my ribs, so I dried the silverware from a high stool, pretending it was an equitable division of labor.
“You’re about two weeks away from delegating the fork to your mouth,” she said.
“My physician has issued zero medical advisories regarding flatware.”
“He’s terrified of your compliance history.”
“Everyone’s afraid of something.”
Kate set a plate into the drying rack. The banter died before it could land. I saw her fingers tighten on the porcelain rim of the sink, and I realized I’d steered the joke entirely too close to a wound that wasn't mine to handle.
“Sorry,” I said.
“It’s fine. Just a long day.”
I didn't push her to unpack it. I got up, turned off the tap, and waited until she turned around. Kate brushed her fingers across the fabric over my ribs, right where the adhesive tape was concealed.
“Do you want me to stay?” she asked.
The question held me still. I’d spent weeks learning that an invitation wasn't authorization to fill a room with logistics. Now she was standing right in front of me, her hair loose again and dark earth still lining the edge of one nail.
“Yeah,” I said. “But only if you want to stay.”
Kate studied my face for a second. Then she cupped my cheeks in both hands and kissed me.
The first brush was brief. The second let all the tension drop out of my shoulders.
I rested my palms lightly on her hips, letting her dictate the distance.
When she stepped in closer, I followed, careful not to press my ribs against her.
Her mouth tasted of lemon and cracked pepper.
Rick’s unread message stayed somewhere across the room, buried beneath the face-down phone.
Later that night, Kate fell asleep curled on her side in my bed, one hand resting gently over her stomach. I stayed awake for a long time, watching the pale gray light seep through the edges of the window blinds. The San Diego text remained unopened.
The next morning, Kate headed back to Capitol Hill with the repotted basil resting securely in its cardboard box.
The sack of potting soil stayed propped against my kitchen wall.
As I shut the front door after watching her drive away, I kept telling myself I’d talk to her about San Diego once I knew whether there was actually anything to tell.
The logic was clean and tidy. Which made it entirely too easy to believe.
* * *
The team doctor refused to clear me for full contact on Friday.
He didn't find a new tear, but he ordered modified training, treatment, and another evaluation after Saturday’s match.
I listened with my arms crossed over my chest, my training shirt still damp against my back.
When I stepped out of the clinic office, Rick was waiting for me at the end of the hallway with a manila folder tucked under his arm.
“That was fast,” I said.
“I have an agent credential and a face that inspires pity. Both open doors.”
“The second one surprises me.”
“Surprises me too. Got five minutes?”
This time Rick didn't pull out his phone. He spread the folder open on an empty table outside the video analysis room. Inside lay a sheet of paper with dates, figures, and the crest of a club I’d watched countless times on league broadcasts.
“San Diego wants a formal video conference on Monday,” Rick said.
“Two years, club option for a third, terms significantly stronger than anything Seattle has put on the table—because Seattle still hasn't put anything on the table. They want to know if they can send you a full offer before they start talking to other wings.”
I didn't touch the paper. The numbers didn't bring any satisfaction. They just added tangible weight to the calls I hadn't mentioned to Kate.
“And Seattle?”
“Their GM asked for patience. That’s the word front offices use when they’re hoping the open market spooks you enough to sign for less in July.”
“It’s May.”
“Exactly. San Diego is under zero obligation to wait on them.”
The corridor was empty. On the other side of the closed door, someone powered up the projector in the video room, and the cooling fan began to whine.
I remembered my dad standing beside that young McIntosh sapling, tightening the canvas strap without offering an explanation.
Patience wasn't standing still while other people decided where to plant you.
Rick closed the folder.
I reached out and took the folder. The cardboard creased slightly under my thumb.
“I’ll talk to them. Just talk.”
“That’s what you’ll do. That’s not what you’ll tell people afterward.”
Rick turned and headed down the corridor, leaving me standing with the folder and my taped shoulder beneath my shirt. In my pocket, my phone buzzed.
Kate: *How did the evaluation go?*
I typed: *Good. No tear. Held out of contact drills, but I’m playing Saturday.*
I read the text over. It was completely true. I hit send.
Then I opened a blank draft. I typed: *Rick brought something over from San Diego. It’s more real than I thought.*
I stared at the words until the backlight dimmed and went dark. I deleted every letter. I slipped the phone back into my pocket, opened the folder again, and ran through the numbers under my breath, as if putting them in order could make them any less capable of upending my life.