Chapter 14
fourteen
. . .
CONNOR
The next day, the locker room feels lighter.
It’s not quiet because Logan’s narrating his shower like it’s a documentary and Charlie’s arguing about playlist dominance, but it’s easier in a way my body notices before my brain does.
Rory’s in Charleston, which means for the first time since I landed in Coral Cove, I’m not braced for impact every time the door swings open. No tight jaw. No calculating where to stand. No constant awareness of how much space I’m allowed to take up.
And Pussy is home now.
She’s fine, allegedly. She ate and drank, then glared at me with indignation before curling up and falling asleep on my pillow.
I sit on the bench, peeling off my cap, rubbing water from my hair with a towel. My shoulders feel loose. My mind feels dangerous. Like it has room to wander.
Eli drops his bag at the next bench over, methodical as always. He nods once in my direction.
“Practice looked solid,” he says. Neutral, but sincere.
“Thanks.”
He laces his shoes, then glances up. “You settling in okay?”
“Yeah,” I say. Then, because I’m trying to give the team more than one word answers, “It’s quieter than I expected.”
Eli’s mouth twitches. “Fast in the pool. Slow outside of it. That’s what I like about this town.”
Logan calls something across the room. Eli shakes his head, mutters something about chaos, and stands.
My phone buzzes. I pull it out and stare at the lock screen longer than necessary.
Yesterday I told Whitney I couldn’t hang out. There were practical reasons. The vet pick up and cat duty.
Also, the reason I didn’t say out loud. I’m trying not to make her a habit.
But this morning, while I was avoiding her on deck again like an idiot—moving lanes, moving stations, pretending I didn’t see her—my brain kept circling back to the night we hung out.
Her laugh. Her mouth. The way it felt easy to sit beside her and argue about a ship I wasn’t supposed to care about.
And now I’ve got a cat asleep on my couch and a quiet house waiting for me, and all I want is to see her.
That’s the dangerous part.
I open the camera roll and scroll until I find the photo I took earlier—Pussy sprawled across my throw blanket, one paw tucked under her chin, expensive wet food residue still stuck to the corner of her mouth like she’s smug about it.
Before I can overthink it, I text it to Whitney.
Update. She’s home. She’s fine.
Whitney
Emergency update!
My chest tightens in that annoying, anticipatory way.
Is this about your ship sinking again?
Whitney
No. It’s about Pussy. She looks like a tiny pink-nosed angel who has never done anything wrong in her life.
I huff a laugh, shaking my head.
Don’t let her fool you. She’s a menace.
Whitney
I can see the innocence in her eyes.
Three dots appear, and I wait.
Whitney
I tried the protein toaster pastries you recommended.
I wince.
And?
Whitney
Tasted like cardboard and crushed dreams. Who hurt you?
I laugh under my breath, shaking my head.
They’re efficient.
Whitney
So is chewing on drywall.
Whitney
Anyway, I need a rematch. And emotional support snacks.
I thought you were mad at me. You know, for the toaster pastry failure.
Whitney
I am. But I’m also bored. And hungry.
That’s a dangerous combination.
Whitney
Correct. Which is why you should come over and supervise.
I stare at the screen.
I shouldn’t.
Hanging out with her before was about the cat and needing a distraction.
There is no reason to hang out again.
Except.
I haven’t laughed like that in months.
Except.
I keep thinking about the way she sprawled on the couch, all toned limbs and smooth skin in that sports bra and legging set—and how easy it felt to be beside her.
Except.
The quiet without Rory is making space for things I’ve been actively avoiding.
“Hey, Fisk, we’re grabbing food,” Eli says, cutting through my thoughts. “You coming?”
I should take him up on the offer. Use the time with Rory away to my advantage to hang with the guys without the chip on my shoulder. But there’s something I want even more.
“Nah,” I say. “I’m good.”
Eli studies me for half a second longer, then nods like he knows exactly what I’m not saying. “Another time.”
Whitney
I also bought real Pop-Tarts. The sinful kind.
I close my eyes and hold onto the groan that’s attempting to escape.
You’re bribing me.
Whitney
I prefer “strategic persuasion.”
I can’t stay long.
Whitney
You said that before.
And I meant it.
Whitney
Because Pussy is needy and can’t be left unattended for long?
I’ve renamed her P, so you can stop with the Pussy jokes.
Whitney
She’ll never answer to that. She wouldn’t give you the satisfaction.
A guy can try.
Whitney
So you’re coming over?
Eli stands, clapping a hand on my shoulder as he passes. “Let us know if you want to meet up. If your plans change.”
I take a moment to check myself and remember the plan. Earn trust and respect. Make amends with Rory. Be part of a team.
But all I can think about is her.
And how I’m about to make a bad decision. Even my fingers feel it as I type out my response.
Yeah. Ninety minutes max.
Whitney
Bring your competitive attitude. And maybe better snack opinions.
See you soon.
What I really want to say is I can’t wait.
I shove my phone in my bag, heart thudding harder than it has any right to.
I know I should keep my distance, and getting closer to her only makes everything messier—Rory, the team, the secret I’m not ready to hand over yet.
But with Rory gone, with the quiet pressing in, all I can think about is how alive I feel when I’m near her. How much fun we had gaming together, and how badly I want a repeat.
I head for the door already knowing the truth.
I might be trying to do better, but I’m still not strong enough to stay away.