Chapter 36
Rachel
Rachel was having a lovely dream about Mac reading poetry to her in a library made entirely of flowers when something heavy landed on her chest, forcing the air from her lungs.
She opened her eyes to find Mr. Darcy sitting on her sternum, staring at her with the intensity of a tiny furry drill sergeant. His green eyes were unblinking, accusatory.
"It's six-thirty," Rachel mumbled. "Breakfast isn't until seven."
Mr. Darcy meowed loudly. Once. A sound that clearly communicated: I don't care about your human schedules. Feed me now or suffer the consequences.
"You're a tyrant," Rachel told him.
Mr. Darcy's expression showed he was entirely comfortable with this assessment.
Rachel tried to shift him off her chest. He dug his claws in slightly, not enough to hurt, just enough to make his point.
"Fine. You win. You always win."
She sat up carefully, dislodging the cat, who immediately jumped to the floor and trotted toward the kitchen with his tail high, confident in his victory.
Rachel reached automatically for Mac beside her, but her hand met empty sheets.
She blinked, looking at the space where he'd been sleeping. His pillow still had the indent from his head, the covers thrown back like he'd gotten up in a hurry.
Two days since the wedding. Two days since Derek had crashed the reception. Mac had refused to leave her alone last night after the fifth unknown text from Derek, insisting on staying over again. She'd fallen asleep in his arms, feeling safe.
And now he was gone.
Rachel felt a spike of irrational panic—what if Mac left, what if—
No. Stop. Mac's keys were still on her nightstand. His jacket was draped over her chair. He hadn't left. He'd gotten up early.
Rachel followed Mr. Darcy to the kitchen, starting his breakfast routine on autopilot. Her phone sat on the counter, face down, where she'd left it after blocking the third unknown number last night.
She flipped it over. Seven missed calls from her mother. Twelve text messages from unknown numbers.
Her insides pitched.
She opened the most recent one.
Unknown: Rachel, this is—
Rachel deleted it and blocked the number.
Another text appeared immediately. Different number. How was he pulling this off?
Unknown: Blocking me won't help, Rachel.
I told you that already. I'm trying to protect you.
Word gets around the league fast, agents talk.
Everyone is buzzing about the contract Mac turned down last week.
Providence offered him $150k more per year, and he said no because of you.
Ask him about it. How long before he resents you for limiting his potential? We should talk. Coffee?
Rachel stared at the screen, her heart pounding. He’s lying. Or had Mac actually turned down a contract? When? Why hadn't he told her if so?
She blocked this number too, but her hands were shaking.
Mr. Darcy meowed impatiently, reminding her that his food bowl was still empty and this was unacceptable.
"Right. Sorry. Food."
She finished preparing his breakfast, her mind spinning. Her phone rang.
Her mother. Again.
Rachel took a deep breath and answered. "Hi, Mom."
"Finally! Rachel, I've been calling you for two days! Your sister showed me Facebook posts about some man named Derek causing problems at a wedding. Is that the same guy from home? Brad’s friend? And everyone's talking about you and this Ryan MacKenzie person—"
"Mom, I can't talk about this right now—"
"You absolutely can talk about this right now. Rachel Morrison, I thought you'd be more careful. Another hockey player? Really?"
"Mac is nothing like Brad."
"You said Brad was great, until he broke it off at the engagement party!" Her mother's voice rose. "And now there's this Derek person causing problems? It sounds like drama, Rachel. It sounds like you're repeating the exact same mistakes—"
"I'm not! Mac is different! We're different!"
"I hope so, sweetheart. But your sister and I are coming next weekend. We need to meet this person you’re involved with." Her mother's voice softened slightly but remained firm. "You deserve someone who won't throw you away when something better comes along."
“I”m moving next weekend, you can’t—”
“We will help you move!”
"I have to go, Mom. I'm late for work."
"We're not done discussing this—"
"I'll call you later. Bye."
Rachel hung up before her mother could respond, her hands shaking.
Another hockey player, Rachel?
And oh God, her mother and Leah were coming this weekend. The same weekend she was moving in with Mac. The same Mac her mother was already skeptical about.
Rachel hadn't told her yet. Hadn't found the right time to casually mention, "Hey Mom, I know you're worried I'm repeating past mistakes, but I'm moving in with the hockey player you haven't properly met yet."
Well. Her mother would find out soon enough.
The apartment door opened, and Mac walked in carrying a bag from the bakery and wearing a grin that could light up the entire town.
"Good morning!" Mac announced with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever who'd just discovered tennis balls exist. "I brought breakfast! And coffee! Well, I brought things that will become coffee once we figure out your French press situation. Again."
Rachel blinked at him. "You went to the bakery?"
"I woke up at five-thirty and couldn't fall back asleep.
Too excited about this weekend. Saturday to be exact.
" Mac started unpacking the bag on the counter.
"So I went for a run, waited outside the bakery like a crazy person until they opened at six, and now I'm here with fresh pastries because I'm an excellent boyfriend. "
Saturday? She was moving in with Mac on Saturday… And he was, excited?
"You could have woken me up. I thought—" Rachel stopped herself.
"You thought what?" Mac looked up.
"Nothing. I just woke up and you were gone and for a second I—" Rachel shook her head. "It's stupid."
Mac's face softened. He crossed to her, cupping her face gently. "You thought I'd left?"
Rachel nodded, feeling foolish.
"Rachel, I left a note. On my pillow. Didn't you see it?"
"I didn't look."
"Come here." Mac led her back to the bedroom, pointing to his pillow.
There was indeed a note, written on the back of a receipt in Mac's messy handwriting:
Went to get us breakfast. Back by 6:45. I love you. —Mac
P.S. Mr. Darcy tried to trip me on my way out. I think he's plotting my demise.
Her throat tightened. "You did leave a note."
"Of course I did, didn't want you to worry." Mac pulled her close.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have assumed anything."
"Don't apologize." Mac kissed her forehead. "But I'm here. And I brought apple turnovers because I love you."
They went back to the kitchen where Mac resumed unpacking with renewed enthusiasm.
He pulled out a small container with a flourish. "I also got fresh berries because I'm trying to be a responsible adult who includes fruit in breakfast."
"Mac, it's six-forty-five in the morning."
"I know and it’s not too early to celebrate." Mac was now attempting to operate her French press with the intense focus of someone defusing a bomb.
"Celebrate?"
"In three days, you're officially moving in with me." Mac looked up, smiling in that way that always threw her off balance. "How does this work again?"
"You add the coffee grounds first."
"Right. Grounds. Got it." Mac started measuring coffee. "I also got us matching mugs at the bakery. They were just in. They have cats on them. One says 'Purr-fect' and the other says 'Meow or Never.' I couldn't decide which one you'd want, so I got both."
Rachel smiled. "You got us matching cat mugs?"
"I did. They're in my car though." Mac poured hot water into the French press. "I'm nailing this, by the way. This is going to be the best French press coffee you've ever had."
"You're very confident."
Mr. Darcy, having finished his breakfast, jumped onto the counter to investigate Mac's bakery bag.
"No, sir," Mac said firmly, gently moving the cat. "These are people pastries. You have cat food. We've discussed the boundaries."
Mr. Darcy gave him a look that suggested boundaries were merely suggestions.
Mac pressed the plunger on the French press with exaggerated care. "Success. I have made coffee."
He poured two cups and handed one to Rachel. She took a sip.
It was terrible. Somehow both weak and bitter at the same time, with grounds floating at the top.
"It's perfect," Rachel lied.
Mac took a sip of his own cup and immediately made a face. "This is disgusting. I've made terrible coffee."
"It's not that bad. The thought was sweet."
"The execution was tragic." Mac dumped both cups in the sink.
They settled at her small kitchen table.
Mac bit into his croissant, then started talking with his mouth full. "So I was thinking." He paused, swallowed, tried again. "I was thinking about moving day. Saturday. The team is helping, which means chaos but also efficiency. Jamie's made a spreadsheet—"
"Jamie made a spreadsheet for the move?"
"Jamie makes spreadsheets for everything.
It's his love language." Mac pulled out his phone, showing Rachel an elaborate color-coded document.
"Look, he's organized everything by category, weight, fragility, and priority.
Your books have their own section. He's allocated three team members specifically for book transport. "
Rachel looked at the spreadsheet. It was insane. It was also kind of sweet. She took a bite of her turnover. It was perfect, flaky, sweet, still warm from the bakery.
For a moment, everything felt normal and safe. Like Derek didn't exist and her mother wasn't coming to judge her choices.
Her phone vibrated on the table. Another unknown number.
Rachel picked it up, read it, then deleted it without a word.
"What was it?" Mac asked.
"Derek. I’m not engaging." Rachel's voice was steady.
"What did he say?"
"Doesn't matter.” She squeezed his hand.
Mac's phone buzzed loudly on the table, interrupting her.
He glanced at it, frowned. "It's Cole."
"Answer it."
Mac picked up. "Hey, what's—" His expression shifted immediately. "What? When?" A pause. "Yeah. I'm at Rachel's. I'll be there in twenty minutes."
He hung up, standing abruptly.
"What happened?" Rachel asked, anxiety spiking.
"Derek published an article. This morning. In the Boston Sports Medicine Journal." Mac ground the words out. "It's about Ellie."
Ice flooded her veins. The Boston Sports Medicine Journal; a peer-reviewed, respected, read by every PT and team physician in the country. Not some blog Derek could be dismissed for. This was official.
"Oh God," Rachel whispered. "Mac, that's career assassination with credentials. This is exactly what he does."
Mac's face was dark with rage. "Cole wants us over. Emergency meeting. Now."
Rachel looked at him, this man who'd left her a note so she wouldn't worry, who'd gone out at dawn to buy her favorite pastries, who'd turned down better opportunities without hesitation, who wanted her with him even during crisis meetings.
"Okay," Rachel said. "Let me get dressed."
"Thank you." Mac kissed her quickly.
Rachel nodded, but as she headed to her bedroom to change, Derek's text echoed in her mind:
How long before he resents you for limiting his career?