Chapter 50 - Tessa
By late April, the world had started to thaw, but I hadn’t.
Snow melted into mud.
Fence posts reappeared where drifts had swallowed them.
Birds returned to the fence line and sang as if nothing had happened.
But I still felt lost in the anger.
Like I was drifting from room to room without touching anything, eating only when someone barged in and forced a plate into my hands, and waking up every night from the same nightmare of headlights and shattered glass.
Today was supposed to be simple.
Sit on the porch.
Drink the meal replacement my doctor ordered me to consume at least once a day.
Try to breathe in a way that doesn’t hurt.
The baby shifted under my ribs, a slow roll that should’ve filled me with wonder, or fear, or something other than this dull, aching emptiness. I placed my palm on my belly automatically, feeling nothing.
And then I heard it.
The crunch of tires on gravel.
I froze, not expecting anybody and definitely not expecting...
A Bronco, Nate’s Bronco, was pulling into my driveway.
For a second, my vision went white.
My lungs lifted in my chest like they were trying to get out.
I gripped the porch railing so hard the wood groaned.
No.
No.
No, it couldn’t be. I wasn’t delusional. I wasn’t hallucinating. I knew he was gone; I saw him go.
But grief is a sick, cruel thing, and for one split second, my body, heart and soul betrayed me.
I believed.
Everything in me sighed with the contentment that Nate was pulling into my driveway; he was coming home to me. To us.
My brain was fighting, telling me this cannot be him.
But there was a Bronco.
But this one…
This one wasn’t new.
Wasn’t customized.
It wasn’t sleek or loud or anything like the one that had been peeled open by metal and ice.
This Bronco was older.
Restored.
Deep green paint, matte, not glossy.
A gentler engine hum, like it had lived a life before this one.
The door opened, and a man stepped out.
Not Nate.
Not even close.
He was maybe mid-thirties. Tall, broad-shouldered, sun-kissed, with dark hair that curled slightly at the ends like he’d run his hands through it a hundred times already today, with dark green eyes that seemed to be taking everything in.
He wore jeans, worn boots, and a Henley rolled to his elbows. He looked like he belonged on a ranch.
He took three steps toward the porch before I found my voice.
“I don't know who you are or why you are here. But I don’t want company,” I said, my hand instinctively flattening over my stomach.
He stopped instantly, hands lifting in a gesture of peace.
“I’m not here to intrude,” he said quietly. His voice was low, steady. “I’m here… because I should’ve been here a long time ago.”
The anger that lived coiled under my ribs stirred.
I straightened slowly. “Who are you?”
He climbed the last step but didn’t come any closer than the porch edge.
“My name’s Callum Wade,” he said. “I’m the owner of the Kodiaks.”
My jaw tightened, and my heart rate spiked.
“I think you should leave,” I croaked. “Why would you think I want you anywhere near me?”
A shadow crossed his expression, something like regret, or shame, or both.
“I saw the footage from the hospital and the funeral,” he said. “Of you. Of the way you were treated. The way everything spiralled. So, I dug into what happened. The management… it was inexcusable. And it was my responsibility, whether I realized it or not.”
My hands curled on the railing. I wasn't sure if it was to steady me or hold me back. “You didn’t realize how your organization was treating people?”
His voice softened.
“I inherited the team when I was twenty-seven. My dad died suddenly. I was living with my brothers on one of our properties, working cattle and running a feed operation. I never wanted a corporate life. Never wanted the spotlight. My parents separated when we were young, and my brothers and I stayed with my mom. I let the people in suits handle everything because I didn’t know how to do it myself.
I figured they would take care of everything. ”
I shook my head. “You should’ve known. It was your job to know.”
“You're right,” he said simply.
The honesty startled me. I straightened and turned my body to face him. Studying the man before me. He looked honest, remorseful. His big almond-shaped brown eyes were warm and open. I felt the anger soften, just a little.
“I should have known,” he repeated, eyes steady on mine. “And I didn’t. And Nate Carson paid for the consequences of my distance. I’m not going to pretend otherwise.”
A lump rose in my throat, sharp and unwelcome. I had to blink quickly to hold back the tears.
He continued, quiet but unwavering, “When I saw that video... when I saw you screaming for them to stop, when I saw reporters trying to touch you… when I saw a video of you with blood on your hands and cameras shoved in your face... something in me shifted. I realized just how deeply I’d failed my players. My staff. My community. You.”
I could feel his pain and regret as he spoke. I wanted to find the lie in this man, find the deception, but I couldn't. He stood in front of me an open book. Nothing like the management from the team, nothing like the people I had been directing my rage at.
“So what?” I whispered, voice cracking. “You came to apologize?”
“No,” he said. “I came to tell you what I’ve done.”
My heart stuttered.
“I fired Ray Decker,” he said. “And the head of PR. And four people in marketing. I’ve suspended two coaches pending investigation. And starting next season, the entire team culture is being rebuilt from the ground up. Mental health, physical limits, contract transparency, all of it.”
I stared at him. I didn’t want to be moved. I didn’t want to feel anything. But something shifted inside me. Like this stranger was slowly peeling back the layers of protective anger.
He took a cautious breath.
“And I came,” he said softly, “because I want to take something off your shoulders.”
I almost laughed. “Take what? What else is there left to take?”
His eyes flicked to my stomach, respectful, never lingering, and then back to mine.
“Your anger,” he said.
Everything went very still.
“My… what?”
“Your anger,” he repeated, voice gentle but firm. “I have been in contact with the Carsons. I see what it’s doing to you, Tessa. I see how it’s hollowing you out. You don’t need to carry the fight alone. Not when I’m the one who should’ve been carrying it all along.”
My throat burned. It felt like the sun was trying to break through... but how could that be? The guilt was whispering in my ear that I didn't deserve it.
But I found myself asking. “If I give up my anger… what’s left of me?”
He held my gaze without flinching.
“Everything worth having,” he said softly.
I made a small, sharp, involuntary sound.
Callum took one careful step closer.
“You may not remember,” he said, “but I remember you. Years ago. You worked at one of our orchards and then with the livestock on one of my properties. You handled a three-year-old mare no one else could get near. I knew then you were someone who saw the world clearly. Someone who didn’t shy away from hard things.
Every single person you worked with spoke so highly of you.
I think we even tried to offer you a position on our ranch after you graduated. ”
Tears blurred my vision, but I refused to let them fall.
“I didn’t know it was you.... That you and Nate were together,” he continued. “But the moment I found out, the moment I understood… I knew I owed you this conversation.”
“Why now?” I whispered.
“Because grief is supposed to soften in time,” he said, “not solidify. And you look like you’re turning to stone just to survive. Let me take the battle from you. Let me be the one who makes sure nothing like this ever happens again, not to my players, not to their families, not to anyone.”
My knees gave the slightest buckle. I gripped the railing harder.
“I don’t know how to let it go,” I admitted. My voice trembled. “I don’t know who I am without it.”
He nodded once, slowly.
“You don’t need to let it go all at once,” he said. “But let it breathe. Let it have somewhere else to live besides your chest. Let the people who care for you in, Tessa.”
My breath shook.
“And why do you care?” I whispered.
A softness crossed his expression. Not pity, recognition.
“Because I’ve seen people drown in this kind of grief,” he said. “And I see how close you are to slipping under.”
I closed my eyes, and I felt it. The first tear in weeks. It hit my shirt silently, a warm pinpoint over my heart.
Callum stepped back, giving me space.
“The property my brothers and I live on isn't far from here,” he said quietly. “If you ever need anything. Or if you ever want to talk about what comes next. Anything. You’re not alone, Tessa.”
Callum turned and walked down my drive. He opened the Bronco door, and before he climbed in, he looked at me one last time.
“You and Nate deserved better,” he said. “And I intend to make sure you get it.”
The engine rumbled, the Bronco rolled away. And on the porch, with my belly heavy and my lungs tight... I cried.
For the first time since the anger consumed me, I let myself feel more than the rage... I let myself cry.