Chapter 23
Twenty-Three
Delaney
The cast on my leg itches like fire ants are having a convention under the plaster, but I force myself not to fidget as Mac adjusts the pillow under my ankle for what has to be the fourth time in ten minutes.
His movements are careful, almost reverent, his calloused fingers gentle against my skin as he repositions the soft cushion.
"You don't have to babysit me," I tell him, though my traitorous heart does this stupid flutter-skip thing every time he fusses over me like this.
Every casual brush of his skin against mine sends heat racing through my veins, making me want to grab his shirt and pull him down for a proper kiss.
But his mood has been steadily darkening with each passing day since we returned from the conference, like storm clouds gathering on the horizon.
No matter how many times I've assured him that the accident wasn't his fault, he refuses to believe it.
The truth sits heavy between us. I wish desperately that we could recapture what we had before everything got complicated.
When the only thing that mattered was sneaking him out of my apartment before anyone in town noticed his car was still parked outside at seven in the morning.
I miss that fleeting version of us—the secret smiles, the stolen moments, the way he used to look at me like I was something precious he was afraid to break.
Now he looks at me like something precious he’s already broken.
"Maya will be here soon to help me get ready," I add, trying to inject some lightness into my voice while watching him pace my small living room like a caged wolf.
He runs both hands through his dark hair, the gesture rougher than usual, messing up the carefully styled waves until they stick up at odd angles.
It's the same restless motion he's been making since his agent called a few days ago about returning to Boston, and I recognize it as his tell when he's trying to hold himself together and failing.
The Howlers want him back. He told me yesterday.
His shoulder has healed enough for light practice, the doctors have cleared him for contact pending one more evaluation, and the team is making a desperate playoff push.
They need their star forward, and Mac Sullivan is finally ready to give them what they want.
He should be thrilled. Instead, he looks like a man walking to his own execution, all sharp edges and barely contained tension.
It took a full day of me pestering him with increasingly creative questions before Maya practically forced his hand by threatening to corner his agent and get the information herself.
Somehow, she's maintained connections within the sports journalism world despite her self-imposed exile to Millbrook Falls, and it only took ten minutes of her making strategic phone calls before someone spilled every detail of the Howler's offer.
"About tonight," Mac says carefully, settling on the edge of my couch with the cautious precision of someone approaching a wild animal. The ancient springs creak under his weight, and he winces slightly. "I've been thinking–"
"Don't." I hold up my hand like a stop sign, my stomach immediately knotting with dread. "Don't you dare say you're backing out of tonight because of this stupid cast."
His steel-blue eyes flash with something I can't quite read—frustration, maybe, or resignation. "Delaney…"
"We have a bet, Mac Sullivan," I interrupt, leaning forward as much as the unwieldy cast allows.
The motion sends a dull ache through my leg, but I ignore it.
"Ten dates, and tonight is date ten. The big finale.
The grand gesture to end all grand gestures.
And it's Christmas Eve, for crying out loud.
I don't care if I have to hop down Main Street on one leg like some demented flamingo, you're giving me that romantic spectacle you promised. "
The corner of his mouth twitches with what might be the ghost of a smile.
"You realize the whole town is expecting some kind of epic romantic performance, right?
They've been planning this festival around our grand finale for weeks.
Mrs. Armstrong has been baking extra pies.
Murphy ordered twice as much beer. Even the mayor bought a new suit. "
"Good." I shift carefully on the couch, the cast making every movement awkward and frustrating. "Let them get their money's worth. Give them something to talk about for the next decade."
I lean forward as much as the plaster prison around my leg allows, fixing him with my most determined stare. "Unless you're afraid you'll actually have to admit I was right about romance all along. That love isn't just a fantasy and fairy tales. That it's real and messy and worth fighting for."
That gets him. Mac's competitive streak runs deeper than the Mariana Trench, carved into his bones by years of professional athletics, and I know exactly which buttons to push after weeks of studying him like my favorite book.
He stands abruptly, the couch springs bouncing with the sudden loss of his weight, and begins pacing to the window where we can see the festival setup in full swing three stories below.
Twinkling white lights wind around every lamppost like luminous garland, and the snow that started falling an hour ago makes everything look like a Christmas card come to life.
Volunteers in bright red scarves are setting up booths and stringing lights between the bare branches of the oak trees that line Main Street.
Even from up here, I can see the excitement in their movements, the way they keep glancing toward my building as if they expect Mac to appear at any moment with some grand romantic proclamation.
"Coach called this afternoon," Mac says quietly, his back still to me, his broad shoulders tense under his navy sweater. His voice is carefully controlled, but I catch the slight tremor underneath.
My heart drops into my stomach like a stone down a well. "Oh. Yeah?"
"He said to expect a formal offer soon." He turns from the window, and the expression on his face—lost and conflicted and achingly vulnerable—makes my chest tight with something between love and panic.
"That's…" I swallow hard around the sudden thickness in my throat, forcing artificial brightness into my voice. "That's great, Mac. It's what you've wanted all along. What you've been working toward."
He turns around slowly, and the raw uncertainty in his eyes makes my breath catch. "Is it?"
Before I can even begin to unpack that loaded question, Maya bursts through my apartment door without knocking, her arms laden with garment bags and what looks like a small arsenal of makeup supplies. Her cheeks are flushed from the cold, and snow sparkles in her dark hair like glitter.
"Time to make you festival-ready, broken leg and all," she announces brightly, then stops short when she notices Mac still standing by the window like a statue. "Oh. You're still here."
"He was just leaving," I say, even though every cell in my body screams at me not to let him walk out that door. There's something in his expression that terrifies me, something that looks too much like goodbye. "He has a grand gesture to plan, after all."
Maya narrows her dark eyes at Mac with the intensity of a prosecutor cross-examining a hostile witness.
"Please tell me you're not planning to phone this in.
Because if you disappoint her after everything she's done for you, I will personally make sure your comeback story becomes a cautionary tale about athletes who break small-town hearts. "
"Have you met me?" Mac asks, but there's no real heat in his voice, just bone-deep exhaustion that makes him look older than his twenty-seven years.
He moves toward the door with the reluctant steps of a man heading to his own trial, pausing with his hand on the doorknob to look back at me. "Three hours?"
"Three hours," I confirm, my voice steadier than I feel.
After the door clicks shut behind him, Maya immediately sets to work propping me up on the couch with extra pillows and spreading her supplies across my coffee table like a general preparing for battle.
But I can feel her studying my face in the small mirror she's positioned to help with hair and makeup, her journalist's instincts picking up on every micro-expression.
"So," she starts with deceptive casualness, beginning to section my hair with practiced efficiency. "Want to tell me why you both look like someone just died? And don't say it's because of the leg. I've seen you handle worse disasters with more grace."
"You already know. His team wants him back." The words taste bitter on my tongue.
She shrugs, not pausing in her ministrations. "We already knew that was coming. His agent's been fielding calls for weeks."
My fingers worry at a loose thread on the throw blanket covering my cast, pulling until it threatens to unravel completely. "His coach called this time. Officially."
"And that's catastrophically bad because...?" Maya's hands still in my hair, and she meets my eyes in the mirror with a terrifyingly direct stare.
I close my eyes, unable to face my own reflection. "Because I'm an idiot who fell for the guy I was supposed to be proving wrong about love. Because somewhere between fake dates and real feelings, I forgot this was all temporary. Because I let myself believe in the fairy tale."