18. Chapter 18
Cade
The legal pad stares back at me from Noah's kitchen table, and the statement I just photographed and sent to Dr. Reyes sits in my sent folder like a grenade with the pin pulled.
Quinn McKenzie. Her full name. In writing. On the record.
I push back from the table and walk to the window, watching the south pasture where Noah's been checking fence lines alone all morning. He offered to let me help. I told him I had something to handle first.
Something. Like putting my career on the line for a woman who might not even want me to. Especially not today, hours after I promised her, after we both promised each other, that we'd stop deciding things alone and start talking first.
My phone buzzes. Marcus.
What the actual hell did you just do?
I type back: The right thing.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Call me. Now.
I don't call him. Instead, I pocket my phone and head outside, because the walls of Noah's kitchen are starting to feel like they're listening, and I need to think somewhere that doesn't smell like her coffee or remind me of every conversation we've had at that table.
The porch swing creaks when I sit. Same spot where we played guitar last night. Same spot where she told me about the pitcher who destroyed her career with lies, and I watched her hands shake on the strings while she pretended they weren't.
I named her. In a public statement. Without asking.
The realization hits me, and I drop my head into my hands, the weight of it settling in slow.
She's spent five years rebuilding. Five years of documentation and boundaries and never letting anyone close enough to hurt her again.
And I just put her name in a statement that every sports journalist with a Google alert is going to read by dinner.
Because I thought I was protecting her.
Because I thought she needed someone to finally stand up and say her work mattered.
Because I'm an idiot who's spent twenty-four years learning to act first and think later, and apparently even loving someone doesn't fix that.
The screen door opens behind me.
I know it's her before I turn around. Her footsteps are lighter than Noah's, more deliberate than Paige's. I've learned the difference without meaning to.
"Reyes forwarded me the statement."
Her voice is flat. Controlled. The professional voice she uses when she's trying not to feel something.
I turn on the swing to face her. She's standing in the doorway with her arms crossed, and her face is doing that thing where she's arranged it into careful neutrality, but her eyes are giving her away. Too bright. Too still.
"Quinn."
"You named me."
"I know."
"In a public statement. To the organization. Without telling me first." Her jaw tightens. "We had this same conversation a few hours ago, Cade. About the transfer request. About talking to each other first."
"I know."
She steps onto the porch, letting the screen door close behind her. The morning light catches the rubber band on her wrist, and I watch her fingers twitch toward it before she forces her hand to her side.
"Why?"
One word. But I hear everything underneath it. Why would you do this? Why would you risk this? Why would you make decisions about my career without asking me?
I stand up from the swing slowly, giving her space.
"Because Kristen planted that media inquiry.
She's trying to force you out by making it look like you compromised your ethics for a patient you were hiding.
And if someone didn't put the truth on record, the narrative was going to be whatever she decided it was. "
"The truth." Quinn's laugh is short and sharp. "The truth is that I treated you according to protocol. That my documentation is airtight. That my outcomes speak for themselves. I didn't need you to rescue me, Cade."
"I wasn't trying to rescue you."
"Then what were you trying to do?"
I take a step closer. She doesn't step back, but her chin lifts, and I recognize the defensive posture. The walls going up in real time.
"I was trying to make sure that for once in your career, someone stood in front of the fire instead of leaving you to burn alone."
Her jaw tightens. "I've been handling fires by myself just fine."
"I know. And it's exhausting. And you're incredible at it. And you shouldn't have to anymore."
Her composure cracks, just for a second. She covers it quickly, but I saw it.
"You could have asked me first," she says. "You could have warned me. Given me a chance to prepare for what's about to happen."
"You're right."
That stops her. She blinks, clearly expecting more of a fight.
"You're right," I repeat. "I should have told you. I should have asked. I made a decision that affects your career without giving you a voice in it, and that was wrong. That was exactly what he did."
I watch the words land. Her breath catches.
"Don't compare yourself to him."
"Why not? I did the same thing. I decided I knew better. I acted without asking. The only difference is I actually meant to help."
"That's not the only difference."
Her voice is quieter now. The fight draining out of her as quickly as it came. She moves to the porch railing, gripping it with both hands, staring out at the pasture instead of at me.
I give her a minute. Two. The wind pushes through the grass, and somewhere in the distance, Noah's truck engine turns over.
"He lied about me," Quinn says finally. "He told them I was unprofessional. That I let personal feelings compromise his treatment. That everything I'd worked for was a lie." She's quiet for a beat. "You told the truth."
"I told the only truth that matters. You're the reason I'm ahead of schedule. You're the reason I might actually play again. And anyone who tries to suggest otherwise is going to have to explain why my numbers are the best conservative UCL outcomes that office has ever seen."
She turns to look at me. Her eyes are wet, but she's not crying. Quinn McKenzie doesn't cry. She just holds everything so tightly that sometimes it leaks around the edges.
"What happens now?"
"Now we wait. Reyes has the statement. PR has the statement. If Kristen wants to keep pushing, she's going to have to reconcile a professional commendation with a media narrative that doesn't hold up."
"And if she can't reconcile it?"
"Then you win. And you go back to Boston with a letter in your file and the best patient outcome of your career."
"And you?" Her voice catches slightly. "What happens to you?"
I close the distance between us. Not all the way. Just close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in her dark green eyes, her pulse jumping at her throat, the almost invisible tremble in her hands.
"I go back to Boston too. I get cleared. I play the rest of the season." I pause. "And then I take you on a real date, and I tell you every single thing I couldn't say while you were my therapist."
Her laugh is shaky. "That's still the plan?"
"Quinn." I reach for her hand slowly, giving her time to pull away.
She doesn't. "That's always the plan. Whatever happens with Kristen.
Whatever happens with the media. I meant what I said in that statement.
The professional boundaries were maintained.
My feelings didn't compromise your treatment.
" I turn her hand over, run my thumb across the rubber band at her wrist. "But they exist. And I'm not going to pretend they don't anymore. "
She stares at our joined hands. "I read the whole statement."
"I know."
"You said my name four times."
"I was thorough."
"You said I was the primary architect of your recovery."
"You are."
"You said the professional boundaries were maintained without exception."
"They were." I pause. "Until last night."
Her eyes snap up to mine. "Last night was..."
"Perfect." I step closer. One more inch between us.
"Last night was the first time in years I felt like myself.
Not the catcher. Not the guy who's supposed to be larger than life.
Just me. Sitting on a porch with you. Playing songs we both know.
Kissing you because I've wanted to for weeks and I couldn't wait anymore. "
"Cade."
"I'm not asking you to say it back. I'm not asking you to commit to anything before you're ready. I already put it on record. Now I'm telling you." He pauses. "I’m done managing the narrative. Done trying to protect everyone else at the expense of being honest about what I actually want."
"What do you actually want?"
The question hangs between us. Simple. Direct. The kind of question Quinn McKenzie asks when she's ready to hear an answer she might not like.
I bring her hand to my chest instead and hold it there, flat over my heart, so she can feel exactly how unsteady it's beating.
"I want three more weeks of protocol. I want you to finish my treatment exactly the way you planned.
I want every note filed, every outcome documented, every piece of evidence so clean that Kristen chokes on it.
" I meet her eyes. "And then I want you.
Not as my therapist. Not as a professional protecting her career.
Just you. For as long as you'll let me."
Her free hand comes up to my jaw. Her thumb traces the line of my cheekbone, and her eyes search mine for something I hope she finds.
"You can't take it back," she says. "The statement. It's on record now."
"I don't want to take it back."
"People are going to talk. The media. The team. Everyone's going to have an opinion about the catcher who fell for his physical therapist."
"Let them talk."
"And when they ask you directly? When someone puts a microphone in your face and asks if you're dating Quinn McKenzie?"
I lean into her touch. "I tell them the truth. I tell them you're the most capable, stubborn, brilliant woman I've ever met, and I'm lucky she lets me take her to dinner."
"We haven't had dinner yet."
"Technicality." I turn my head and kiss her palm. "We've had approximately forty-seven shared meals at this ranch. I just haven't taken you somewhere nice yet."
She laughs. A real laugh. The kind that makes her whole face soften and her guard drop for just a second. I want to make her laugh like that for the rest of my life.
"Five more weeks," she says.
"Five more weeks."
"And then?"
"And then everything."
She pulls me down and kisses me. It's different from last night. Less desperate, more certain. Her hands slide into my hair, and mine find her waist, and for one perfect moment, the porch and the morning light and the endless Montana sky fade into background noise.
When we break apart, she's smiling.
"I need to file your session notes."
"I know."
"You have PT in an hour."
"I know."
"This doesn't change the protocol."
"I know." I kiss her forehead. "Go file your notes. I'll be in the barn at ten."
She steps back, but she doesn't let go of my hand right away. Her thumb traces across my knuckles, and she looks at me with something that might be wonder, might be fear, might be both.
"Thank you," she says quietly. "For the statement. For putting my name on record. I'm still furious you didn't ask me first." Her mouth curves. "But thank you."
"You're welcome." I release her hand. "Now go document how ahead of schedule I am. I want that in writing when Kristen tries to argue I should have stayed in Boston."
She goes inside. I watch her through the window, pulling out her laptop and falling back into the rhythm of meticulous documentation that's kept her career alive through everything.
My phone buzzes again. Marcus.
PR is losing their minds. Call me or I'm flying to Montana.
I type back: Flying's expensive. I'll call you after PT.
Then I pocket my phone and head for the barn, because I have a session in fifty-three minutes, and Quinn McKenzie expects me to be on time.