Chapter Thirty-Three
NATALIA
Two weeks is long enough for the adrenaline to wear off and short enough for everything to still feel tender.
In that span of time, I’ve become someone else.
Not in the dramatic, movie-montage way where you cut your hair and magically stop caring, but in the quieter way where you wake up every morning and reach for your phone out of habit, expecting to see his name, and then you remember—again—that you won’t.
Not because he’s dead.
Because he decided I am.
I’ve sold my condo. I’ve watched the "For Sale" sign come down in Scottsdale through photos Molly sends me, like proof that the life I built there is officially no longer mine. My boxes arrived at my mom’s place in Seattle in neat stacks that should have felt like progress, and instead felt like the physical manifestation of grief.
I’ve lost Luka.
I’ve lost my job.
I’ve lost the version of my life that made sense, even when it was making me miserable. The part that keeps surprising me is that I miss all of it, even though I chose to walk away from it.
I thought choosing myself would feel like relief immediately. Mostly, it feels like withdrawal.
I spend too much time on my mom’s couch with a blanket over my legs, laptop balanced on my knees, staring at business formation paperwork and pricing models, and outreach drafts until the words blur together.
I’ve registered the name. I’ve set up the website skeleton.
I’ve even designed the logo and then redesigned it three times because I keep convincing myself the font choice determines whether I deserve to succeed.
No clients yet.
Just hope.
And hope is a dangerous thing when you’ve been living on discipline for as long as I have.
My phone rings.
Mom.
I answer on the second ring. "Hi."
"Meet me at Serendipity’s," she says like she’s announcing a plan we made days ago.
I sink deeper into the couch automatically. "I’m not really feeling up to it. I think I’m just going to stay in."
"It’s a great little coffee shop, and they have the best sandwiches," she says, ignoring my objection entirely. "Just come. I’ll send you the address."
"Mom—"
The line went dead.
I stare at my phone as if it might ring back with an apology for hanging up on me, but it doesn’t. Of course, it doesn’t. My mother has never been the kind of woman who asks permission when she’s already decided something is good for you.
I exhale slowly, letting my head fall back against the couch cushion.
"Fine," I mutter to the empty living room. "I’ll go eat your overpriced sandwich."
I glance down at myself.
Oversized Legacy PR 5K shirt, the one I haven’t had the heart to throw away yet because it still smells faintly like a life I understood, and yoga leggings with a small hole near the knee that I keep pretending isn’t there.
I look like someone who has quietly given up.
Which isn’t entirely inaccurate.
I push myself off the couch and shuffle down the hallway to my old bedroom that still feels like mine in the way childhood spaces do. Familiar and non-judgmental of the life you’ve been leading since you’ve been gone.
I changed into jeans and a sweater, something that doesn’t scream "I’ve been emotionally decomposing on the couch for three weeks." I pull my hair into a messy bun on top of my head, swipe on mascara so my eyes don’t look as hollow as they feel, and then I grab my keys and head out.
The drive is short, the Seattle streets damp with recent rain, the sky a dull gray that makes everything feel quieter. When I pull into the small lot and step out, I can already smell coffee and warm bread the moment I open the door.
Serendipity’s is cozy in a way that feels intentional, like someone designed it to make people linger. Soft lighting. Wooden tables. A chalkboard menu that makes you feel like ordering soup is a life choice instead of a lunch option.
I spotted my mom immediately.
And then my eyes drift to the table next to hers.
My feet slow.
Because the women at the round table are not random coffee shop patrons.
I recognize them from Oakley’s the first night I met Luka.
They introduced themselves to me when I walked in, asking if they had seen Luka.
They were more than happy to point him out to me.
Almost too happy when they saw my badge and knew that I was his new PR agent.
One woman in particular stands out. Blonde hair, blue eyes, dressed like the General Manager of a major league team… because she is.
Penelope Matthews.
There are two other women with her. One brunette with glossy hair and a laugh that carries, Cammy Wrenley. And another with a sleek ponytail and a blazer that looks too polished for a coffee shop, Vivi Newport.
My mom stands out of her chair and heads towards me like this is completely normal.
"What a coincidence," I whisper to my mother from where she meets me a safe distance away. "The Hawkeyes’ GM is here."
"Oh?" My mom blinks, widening her eyes so dramatically she should be arrested for bad acting. "She is?"
I stare at her.
She sips her coffee innocently. "I hadn’t realized they would be here. Though I may have heard in passing that they come here often."
"You’re the lousiest liar I’ve ever met," I tell her, but my voice lacks real bite because it’s my mom, and she’s smiling like she just pulled off a magic trick.
Penelope looks up from her table, and the second recognition sparks across her face, her smile brightens.
"Natalia, right?" She says, waving me over. "Come sit with us."
My mom puts her free hand on my back, clutching her coffee mug with the other, and nudges gently. "Go," she murmurs. "Be social. It’s a great opportunity to network. I’ll just be right over there."
As if for a second I believed that she pulled this move to get me work. I can clearly see that this wasn’t a push towards Luka, but a motherly shove.
I hesitate for half a second, but they’ve already called me over so I head straight for them, and then slide into the empty chair offered to me because I’m not about to look like a skittish animal in front of the Hawkeyes’ GM. Old instincts die hard.
Penelope leans in slightly. "I can’t believe you just walked into this coffee shop. We met at Oakley’s a couple of months ago, do you remember? You were the PR agent looking for Luka."
"Yes, I remember," I say, nodding. "It’s good to see you again."
Cammy smiles back. "That’s right… I heard you scared off the puck bunny and called out Luka for overcompensating. Wolf has been laughing about that for weeks."
My stomach tightens.
Here we go.
There’s a look in Vivi's eyes. Recognition. "That’s right. You’re the woman who was pictured with Luka in Switzerland," she says, not unkindly, more curious than judgmental.
Heat climbs up my neck, anyway.
"Yes," I admit. "That was me."
Penelope’s expression doesn’t change. No judgment. No awkwardness. Just the calm confidence of someone who has seen ten thousand tabloid narratives try to attach themselves to her franchise and learned not to flinch.
"We all saw the pictures," Cammy says. "Honestly? It was kind of adorable. Luka doesn’t do adorable."
I force a laugh that lands a little too thin. "I don’t think adorable is the word he would choose right about now."
Penelope chuckles. "Probably not."
There’s a pause, and I feel the shape of it, the unasked question hovering over the table: Are you and Luka still…?
I save them the trouble.
"We’re not on the best of terms," I say carefully. "So I wouldn’t want to cause any issues."
Penelope waves a hand as if I’ve said something trivial. "Honey, if you think one awkward situation is going to throw Luka off his game, you don’t know him well enough."
Cammy snorts. "Two weeks stuck in a chalet with a blizzard… maybe you know him too well. Katerina was keeping us updated."
I feel my cheeks warming again.
Penelope shifts, practical as ever. "You’re with Legacy PR, right? Scottsdale?"
I take a breath.
"I actually don’t work for them anymore."
All three of them pause.
Penelope’s brows lift. "You don’t?"
"No," I say. "I quit."
"Why? What happened?" Vivi asks.
I keep my answers honest but controlled. "I wasn’t aligned with how they handled Luka’s account."
Penelope studies me for a moment, and I can’t tell if she’s evaluating or simply listening. Then she nods slowly, as if that answer tells her something she was already suspecting.
"And what are you doing now?" she asks.
My chest tightens, not with fear this time, but with something closer to fragile pride.
"I started my own sports management business," I say "It’s new. I don’t have any clients yet, but I’m excited about it. I wanted to do something where my priority is the person, not just the optics."
"Katerina is going to be so pissed when she finds out that she missed this to go to New York." Cammy smirks.
Vivi and Penelope both nod.
"Missed what?" I ask.
"Getting that chance to talk to you since you and Luka got back. I guarantee she has some questions for you." Cammy says.
Penelope smiles. "Hey… Are you staying in Seattle?"
"Yes," I say, nodding. "A lot of new changes."
"Give me your phone number," Penelope says immediately.
Her request takes me off guard. "What?"
"I know a lot of athletes," she says, as if it’s the simplest fact in the world. "And I know a lot of athletes who could use a competent, loyal person in their corner. I’m happy to send your number along."
Something tight in my throat loosens.
"You would do that?" I ask, and I hate how small my voice sounds for a second.
Penelope’s smile turns a little sharper. "Of course I would. From what I heard, you went to ridiculous lengths to help Luka. That tells me you care about your clients."
I swallow. "You know about all of that?"
Penelope laughs. "The locker room isn’t that big, Natalia. Gossip swirls. And for the record? Players talk when someone actually shows up for them."
My pulse stutters at that phrase.
Shows up.
I pull my phone out and hand it over, and she enters her contact information with the kind of efficiency only a woman who runs an NHL organization can manage.
"Thank you," I say when she hands it back.
She pats my hand once, a small gesture that feels surprisingly grounding. "You’re welcome."
My mom watches the whole exchange with a satisfied expression I recognize immediately.
She set this up.
She absolutely set this up.
I should be annoyed, but instead, I feel… something else. Not happiness, exactly. But the first faint sign that maybe I hadn’t destroyed my life.
Maybe I just redirected it.
I head back to my mom’s table after ordering a sandwich and coffee with the barista, and after a few more minutes, Penelope and the others stand to leave, waving goodbye. Penelope gives me one last smile before she heads out.
"Call me if you need anything," she says, and I nod like a person who knows how to accept help, even though I’m still learning.
When they’re gone, my mom looks at me over her mug. Smug as hell.
"Well?" she asks.
I stare down at my hands for a moment.
"Your evil plan succeeded," I say.
She smiles innocently. "I have no idea what you mean."
"You’re still a terrible liar."
She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. "I just wanted you to see that the world didn’t end because you chose something different."
I blink hard, because if I let myself feel too much, I’ll cry in the middle of a coffee shop, and I’m not ready to do that today.
My order gets delivered, and I take a bite of my sandwich and nod instead.
But even as calm finally settles in my stomach for the first time in days, there’s a quieter ache underneath it that doesn’t go away.
Because sitting at that table, talking to those women, laughing lightly like I’m not still bruised, I can’t help thinking that this could have been my circle.
Brunches, game nights when the guys are out of town, standing in suites, knowing the wives and girlfriends, and feeling like I belonged in the orbit of something bigger than my career.
Luka mentioned it once, casually, as if it were nothing. Like it was just the rhythm of his life.
And now it’s a life I don’t get to touch.
Not because it wasn’t possible.
Because we broke up before it ever became real.
I stare out the window at the gray Seattle afternoon and let myself sit in that truth for a moment, even as my mom talks about something else.
Penelope’s offer sits in my pocket like a seed.
A sign.
A quiet reminder that I didn’t come back here just to grieve. I came back here to build something new.
Even if it hurts.
Even if part of me still wants the life, I almost had.
Even if the man at the center of it is the one person in this city, I can’t reach anymore.