Daisy
Iwake up before my alarm goes off and the apartment is eerily quiet in that unsettling way mornings are after emotional wreckage. For a moment, I lie there staring at the ceiling, replaying the words of last night, trying to figure it all out.
I have little energy left and it would be easy to stay in bed all day, but I get up. Routine helps. It always has.
I make coffee and burn the toast slightly because I’m distracted.
I eat it anyway. I shower longer than usual, letting the hot water beat against my shoulders hoping it might knock the pain loose.
I choose clothes carefully—not because I care how I look, but because I need armor.
The version of myself that knows how to walk into a difficult situation and keep moving until I’m through it.
By the time I step outside, I feel more settled. Not my usual collected and assured self. Just… assembled.
I take a ride share to the team facility.
Walking through the doors still feels surreal at times, like crossing into a world that was never meant for me.
I walk down the hallway and memory ambushes me.
The first time I came here, I was painfully aware of everything.
The size of the space. The way men twice my size moved through it with ease and purpose.
The smell of ice and sweat and metallic structures I couldn’t name.
I remember clutching my bag too tightly, heels clicking too loud, feeling like I’d accidentally wandered onto the wrong movie set.
Back then, I didn’t know the rhythms. Didn’t know who nodded and who ignored you or where the coffee was or which doors led to treatment rooms or how to read the subtle shift in energy when a practice went badly.
It was foreign and loud and intimidating.
Now, it isn’t.
Now I know the hallways by heart. I know which corner echoes and which one absorbs sound. I know the trainers by name, the equipment guys by habit, the cadence of a team moving through a season. I know when to speak and when to wait. I know how to stand my ground here.
This place has become familiar and, in many ways, a second home.
Then I see the workout facility.
The glass doors. The sign on the wall about workers only. The way Grizz barely looked at me when he told me the rules, when he made it clear I could either leave or keep up. The challenge baked into his tone, the expectation that I’d back down.
I remember the flash of satisfaction on his face when he thought he’d won.
And I remember the moment it all changed, when I came back in oversized, borrowed warm-up gear, hair pulled into a topknot, but dignity still intact, and stepped onto the treadmill like I had every right to be there.
The way his expression changed, just for a second.
Surprise. Respect. A concession and acknowledgement he didn’t give easily.
We worked out side by side, sweat and stubbornness and friction filling the space between us. He pushed. I didn’t flinch. I challenged him back, called him out, refused to be intimidated.
I didn’t know it then, but that was the moment everything started. Not attraction per se, but recognition. Two people colliding, refusing to yield.
I keep walking, the echo of my heels steady against the floor, thinking about how impossible he seemed that day. How unreachable. How convinced I was that nothing good could ever come from someone like him.
And how wrong I was.
I stop outside Julian Langley’s office and take a deep breath. I sent him an email last night after I returned to my apartment and I wasn’t surprised when he answered close to midnight. I’d asked for a meeting, and he replied with the time to be here.
I knock.
“Come in,” Julian calls.
I step inside and he looks up from his desk, reading glasses perched low on his nose. He sets a folder aside and gestures toward the chair across from him.
“Daisy,” he says, polite and measured. “Good morning. How have you been?”
“Well,” I reply, sitting. “Busy. But well. That was a tough road trip.”
He nods, the corners of his mouth lifting faintly. “That’s the nature of this business.” He folds his hands together on the desk. “I’m hopeful we can make a strong push before the end of the year. The pieces are there. It’s just a matter of execution.”
“I agree,” I say. “I’m confident the team will.”
He holds my gaze for a moment, then leans back in his chair, waiting to see what I’ll say. I’m the one who asked for this meeting, after all.
I compose myself, spine straight, hands folded in my lap. I made a decision and I’m sticking to it, but suddenly the words feel heavier than they did in my apartment this morning.
“There’s something I wanted to discuss with you,” I begin.
He inclines his head. “Go on.”
“I’ve been offered a job in Los Angeles,” I say.
“It’s with a fashion house—communications and strategic partnerships.
Crisis management, brand narrative, talent relations.
It allows me to return to fashion, which is where my background is, but also leverage everything I’ve learned here.
Media strategy. High-pressure environments. Managing personalities under scrutiny.”
“I’m not surprised,” he says neutrally, expression remaining placid.
I focus on the tone of my voice, even though it comes out a little high-pitched, as if I’m trying to cheerlead my decision. “It’s an opportunity that aligns with where I ultimately want to be.”
Julian says nothing, his expression unreadable, giving nothing away.
His silence is knocking my confidence, but I press on. “I want you to know how grateful I am for what you gave me here. When I came to the Vipers, I had nowhere to go. I needed a second chance, and you gave me one.”
He watches me closely now.
“This role allowed me to grow in ways I didn’t expect,” I continue.
“Professionally and personally. I learned how to navigate pressure at a level I’d never experienced before.
I learned restraint. Strategy. I won’t ever forget that.
” I take a breath, the hardest part still ahead.
“But I need to take this role in Los Angeles.”
It feels like I’m asking permission. Do I owe him more than gratitude?
“Is this your two weeks’ notice?” he asks, tone as pleasant as if we were discussing a brunch menu.
“Actually,” I drawl as I fidget slightly in my chair. “I was hoping I could make this effective immediately. I’ll of course stay the two weeks if you need me, but frankly, Grizz is doing so well—”
“Didn’t look like he was doing all that well last week when he broke his stick after that postgame interview,” he interjects.
“Yes, but that was a one-off. I promise. And besides, it’s not like I’m the one who was keeping him in check these last several weeks. He learned how to do that all on his own. You’d probably be wasting money replacing me.”
Julian doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he leans back farther, gaze drifting briefly to the window behind me.
“When I was in my late twenties,” he says at last, “I was working for a firm in London. It was a very prestigious company. That type of stable, steady career you can depend on day in and day out for your entire life. And yes, it was run by my mother’s family, so that played a role.”
I blink, surprised by the turn. I’m not sure where he’s going with this.
“I had mentors. Security. A clear path upward,” he continues. “And then I was offered a position elsewhere. Different industry. Different country. Much higher risk.”
He looks back at me now.
“Everyone I trusted told me it was a mistake. That I was abandoning a sure thing. That I owed loyalty to the people who had invested in me.”
I stay silent, listening.
“But the truth,” he says, voice calm, “was that I had outgrown the place I was in. Staying would have been comfortable. Leaving was necessary for me to grow personally.”
Understanding blooms slowly in my chest.
“I took the job,” he continues. “And it set the course for everything that came after.” He gestures with his hands. This kingdom he’s built, a result of the risks he took and the reward he reaped in doing so.
He studies me for a long moment, his expression more friendly.
“You don’t owe me your future, Daisy,” he says. “You did good work here. That’s the only currency that matters.”
Relief hits so hard I almost feel dizzy.
“You should be true to yourself,” he adds. “That’s the only way any of this is sustainable.”
I nod, throat tight.
“And if you ever need a recommendation,” Julian continues, a faint smile breaking through, “you have my full support. I’d be happy to provide one.”
“Thank you,” I say, meaning more than just the words.
“May I ask you something?” he says.
I still. “Of course.”
He studies me for a moment, not unkindly. Curious. Thoughtful. “Are you sure this new role in Los Angeles is the only reason you’re leaving?”
The question catches me off guard. “What do you mean?”
A small, knowing smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “You and Grizz were the poorest-kept secret in the league,” he says evenly. “I’m curious what he thinks about this move.”
Heat rushes up my neck. For a moment, I consider deflecting—keeping this clean and professional—but his tone disarms me. He’s not fishing. He’s acknowledging reality.
I take a breath. “We’re… not together anymore,” I say carefully. “It didn’t work out.”
He doesn’t press. Doesn’t ask for details.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he says, sincerely. “I know that couldn’t have been easy.”
“It wasn’t,” I admit. That’s all I give him.
He nods once, absorbing it. “Then I’m especially glad you’re choosing what’s best for you,” he says. “Transitions tend to stack. It helps to face them with clarity.”
I manage a small smile. “That’s the hope.”
Julian’s expression softens again. “I believe you’ll do very well in Los Angeles.”
“Thank you.”
He pauses, then asks, “Do you have any plans for the Thanksgiving holiday?”
“Yes,” I say. “I’m going home to DC to be with my family. Then I’ll plan to fly out to Los Angeles the day after.”
He nods, approving. “Good. Family has a way of grounding big transitions.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” I reply—and I realize it’s true.
He stands, signaling the meeting’s end, and I rise with him. He extends his hand and I take it, the shake firm and brief.
“Thank you again,” I say. “For everything.”
“You earned it,” he answers simply.
We exchange a final nod—professional, respectful, complete—and I turn toward the door, carrying both the weight of goodbye and the strange lightness of what comes next.