Grizz
Iwalk because standing still feels impossible.
I don’t have anywhere to go, not really, but I can’t stay where I am. I can’t sit in my apartment with the walls closing in, hearing the echo of my own thoughts ricocheting off the ceiling.
I’m not going to continue to think of Daisy and the fact that my life feels fractured since I broke things off.
So I move. One block, then another, stride after stride, collar turned up against the cold.
Manhattan feels different today.
There are fewer locals out, fewer people moving with purpose, heads down, earbuds in.
Instead, there are clusters of tourists with phones raised, voices loud and bright with wonder.
They drift instead of stride. They stop in the middle of the sidewalk to take pictures of buildings I pass every day without looking.
I weave around them, irritation budding and dying just as quickly. They’re not doing anything wrong. They’re just seeing the city.
I remember the first time I did.
Draft day feels like a lifetime ago now, but the memory hits clearly.
An angry, naive kid from Saskatchewan stepping into the bright lights of New York City.
I was raw talent then—nothing polished about me, all instinct and edge and hunger.
I didn’t know the rules yet, didn’t know how easily this city could chew you up and decide you were done.
But I loved it.
I loved the lights and noise. The idea that if you were good enough—if you were fearless enough—this place would let you shine brighter than anywhere else in the world. I relished it. The pressure. The scrutiny. The way every mistake was magnified and every success felt seismic.
I wanted to prove I belonged here.
Somewhere along the way, the proving never stopped.
My feet carry me without conscious direction, and before I realize it, the concrete gives way to paths and trees and the open dark of Central Park.
The city noise dulls, replaced by a softer set of sounds—distant traffic, wind through branches, the quiet presence of other people sharing the same space.
I slow.
That’s when I see them.
A father and son walking a few yards ahead of me, bundled against the cold. The kid is talking animatedly, hands moving too fast for his gloves, and the father is laughing, the sound visible even if I can’t hear it. He reaches down, ruffles the boy’s hat, then pulls him closer as they walk.
They stop for a moment. The kid points at something—maybe a statue, maybe nothing at all—and the father leans in, listening with fascination.
I can’t hear a single word they’re saying, but it hurts to watch it play out.
The image presses into me, a part of me that never healed right. That deep wound… that jagged scar, it’s the reason I’m broken. I keep walking, inside the familiar ache blooming where memories live—of silence instead of laughter, of pressure instead of warmth.
I look away, but the feeling stays.
Some things don’t need sound to be loud.
I exit the park and the city crashes back into me all at once. Traffic and voices and lights and motion.
The quiet I stole between the trees evaporates.
Memories of my father melt away to images of Daisy and the way she looked at me when I told her to get out of my apartment.
That we were through. There was hurt and sadness, but the only expression I see in my memory is one of disappointment.
I failed to live up to what she thought me capable of, and that failure gnaws at my insides.
I’m right on the edge of it—right on the verge of spiraling—when I hear my name.
“Grizz.”
It feels like a hook to the ribs because I recognize that voice.
Turning, I see Julian Langley standing under a streetlight. Perfectly tailored coat, immaculate posture. A woman is on his arm—tall, elegant, devastatingly beautiful in a self-possessed way. She’s a woman who doesn’t look impressed by anything because she’s never likely had to be.
I walk toward them.
“Mr. Langley,” I say.
“Out walking?” he replies, like we’ve run into each other at a gallery opening instead of the edge of my unraveling.
“Yeah,” I answer. “Guess so.”
He studies me for a beat—too long to be casual. “Where are you headed?”
I almost laugh. “Nowhere, really.”
The word hangs there, ugly and honest.
Julian’s gaze changes just slightly. He glances at his watch, then back at me. “It’s Thanksgiving.”
I consider that and wonder how I’ve gone most of the day without even realizing that. “Shouldn’t there be the parade going then?”
“That ended hours ago.”
“Oh,” I say.
“Are you spending Thanksgiving alone?”
I shrug, because that’s easier than saying yes. “No family here. The family I do have is Canadian. Different Thanksgiving.”
That should be enough. It’s always been enough for everyone else but not for Julian Langley.
“You’re a New York Viper,” Julian says, voice calm but carrying steel underneath it. “You’re not going to spend Thanksgiving wandering Manhattan like you’ve got nowhere to belong.”
The woman beside him tilts her head, curious now. Julian notices and gestures lightly. “Svetlana,” he says. “My companion.”
She offers a polite smile, gaze sweeping over me with interest that feels measured, not judgmental.
“We’re heading back to my townhome,” Julian continues. “There will be a proper Thanksgiving meal. Afternoon feast. Full table.”
My instinct is to decline—to keep moving, keep walking until my legs give out and my thoughts finally win. But part of me is fascinated that this man is celebrating Thanksgiving with a woman I bet he hardly knows, and that honestly makes me feel a little sad for him.
Julian watches me, waiting. “You’ll come,” he says.
Not Would you like to.
Not You’re welcome if.
You’ll come.
I’m not the type to ask for help. I open my mouth to argue. To say I’m fine. That I don’t need charity.
But the truth is brutal and undeniable. I have nowhere else to go and I need something to distract me from the emptiness swallowing me whole.
Julian steps slightly closer, his voice lower now—not softer, but clearer. “You don’t get to be alone today, Grizz. Not on my watch.”
I nod once, the movement heavy. “All right,” I say.
And just like that, the night I thought would swallow me whole is rerouted—dragged, against my will, toward a table I never expected to sit at, carrying a weight I didn’t know anyone else could see.
I walk beside Julian and Svetlana, grateful they’re carrying the conversation and sparing me the effort. When we reach his building, Julian gestures up and says, “Best address in Manhattan.”
And it is. His townhome is stunning, rendering me speechless just like it did the night of the casino fundraiser. I remember being distracted then by noise and people and the press of bodies. Tonight, with the space mostly empty, the scale is almost overwhelming.
Not just width or height, but volume too.
“Not sure if you realized it when you were here last time, but it’s a total of five floors,” Julian says as we step inside. “Six, if you count the roof, which I’m redoing this summer.”
I slow without meaning to, the same way I did the first time, because it’s impossible not to. Back then, I clocked the size and moved on. Now, it’s the light—and the intentional absence of it—that grabs me.
The main room is massive—a combination great room, dining room, and music space—wrapped in floor-to-ceiling glass.
The city unfolds beyond it in darkness. Central Park lies somewhere to the north, invisible now but unmistakable even unseen, its vast absence a reminder that daybreak up here must be nothing short of soul-stealing.
To the south, Manhattan glows in layered density, towers lit like constellations stacked on top of one another.
I didn’t pay attention to that the last time I was here because I was spending all my time looking at Daisy.
“Welcome back, sir,” a man says, stepping into the foyer. He’s tall, probably early sixties and if his crisp British accent didn’t give it away, his formal suit and polished air did.
This must be the proverbial butler.
“Hi, Percy,” Julian says warmly. “Mr. McAvoy will be joining us for Thanksgiving dinner.”
Percy gives a slight bow of acknowledgment. “I shall instruct the staff to add another place setting.”
Julian leads us toward the dining area, which anchors the room in a way that feels deliberate rather than decorative.
The table is long and oval, seating for twenty, crafted from pale stone with a smooth, matte finish that reflects the ambient light without shining.
Its base is sculptural and solid—brushed metal in a warm champagne tone that gives the piece weight without heaviness.
Suspended above it, multiple pendant lights hang at staggered heights, each formed of clustered, gold-toned leaves or petals that catch the glow along their edges. Beyond that, a massive fireplace crackles, flames licking upward in deep orange and yellow.
“Sit,” Julian gestures to a chair, and then helps Svetlana into one. “Let’s eat while it’s hot.”
The meal borders on obscene. The turkey is carved and re-carved, slices fanned across the platter, almost ceremonial in nature.
The skin crackles under the knife, bronze and lacquered, and the meat underneath is so tender it barely resists.
Stuffing spills out in rich, fragrant mounds—dense with sausage, onions cooked down until sweet, herbs like sage and thyme.
Butter glistens everywhere. The gravy is dark and glossy, pooling thick and perfect over mashed potatoes whipped so smooth they barely hold shape.
Every bite is indulgent.
This is more than a typical Thanksgiving dinner. It’s proof of power, of control, of someone who refuses to do anything halfway.
Conversation is light, mostly carried by Svetlana and Julian, but I answer accordingly when addressed.
The food is delicious and I’m surprised I’m able to savor it given how listless I’ve been feeling.
I decline dessert because there’s no room and I don’t want to hang around until my stomach is empty enough to accommodate.
More importantly, Julian is on a date and I don’t want to intrude any more.
Julian surprises me when he turns to Svetlana.
“Would you mind letting me talk to Grizz in private? I won’t be long.”
Svetlana smiles, inclining her head graciously. “Of course not”
Julian rises from the table and I follow suit. “Come,” he says. “Let’s talk.”
He leads me up a curved staircase to the next floor and into his office.
A fire crackles low in a stone hearth, and it amazes me that it’s lit.
I mean… how did he know he’d be working in here tonight?
I’m assuming a staff person has it ready just in case the boss wants to step in here for a few minutes.
Floor-to-ceiling French windows frame the city and the walls are paneled in dark walnut.
A massive rectangular desk of honed black stone sits centered on a woven silk rug, paired with a single high-backed leather chair.
Bookshelves heavy with leather-bound volumes and a few sculptural objects, but interestingly…
no personal photographs. An office is usually where you’d have images of loved ones, but there’s nothing.
Julian moves to a wet bar built into the wall and pours whiskey into two cut-crystal tumblers and hands one to me.
“How’s your father?” he asks.
The question catches me off guard.
I stare at him. “You… know about that?”
He doesn’t blink. “I know my players.”
I take a breath, steadying myself. “He’s… better. My sister and I made some hard decisions recently.” I swallow. “He’s in care now. Real care. It took a lot of pressure off both of us.”
Julian nods once. “Sometimes the best result isn’t healing,” he says. “It’s peace.”
The fire pops. The room breathes. “For him, I guess, yeah, it is.” I glance toward the hallway. “She seems… good company,” I say. “Svetlana.”
Julian huffs a humorless laugh. “She’s pleasant. Intelligent. Beautiful.”
“All you can ask for,” I say.
“Loneliness doesn’t disappear just because you’re powerful,” he says, cutting me off. “It gets quieter, but you can fill it from time to time.” Julian sets his glass down on the desk, the sound deliberate. “Something’s bothering you,” he says.
I shake my head automatically. “I’m fine.”
He doesn’t react. Just watches me over the rim of his tumbler. “No,” he says evenly. “You’re not.”
I sip the whiskey I don’t need. The burn is welcome. “It’s been a long season.”
“That’s not it.” He pauses, then adds, “I know about you and Daisy.”
I stare at him. “You—”
“You’re my franchise player,” Julian says calmly. “And you two weren’t as discreet as you thought you were.” His gaze zeroes in on me even more so. “What happened?”
Heat crawls up my neck. Embarrassment. Exposure. “It didn’t work out.”
“That’s not an answer,” he replies.
I exhale through my nose. “I ended it.”
“Why?”
Because saying it out loud gives it teeth.
“Because I don’t trust myself,” I say finally. “Because I don’t want to ruin her.”
Julian studies me for a long beat, then leans back. “That fear sound familiar to you?”
I don’t answer.
“I loved someone once,” he says at last, voice lower now. “Truly. Completely.” His gaze drifts to the window. “And I lost her.”
I don’t move.
“You’ll be able to survive the choice to let Daisy go,” Julian continues. “You can build an empire. You can succeed beyond anything you imagined.” His voice hardens. “But you’ll carry the absence of her forever.”
I’m at a loss. I’ve never heard him speak like this.
“You don’t walk away from something extraordinary because of ghosts,” he says. “You don’t let the worst man in your life dictate the best thing that ever happened to you.”
I stare into the fire, the truth pressing in from every side. “What if I become him?” I ask. “What if I ruin her?”
“Then you deal with it,” Julian says. “You confront it. You get help. You take responsibility. But if you walk away now, your father still has power over you.”
A long silence stretches.
“There’s another thing you should know,” Julian adds.
I look up.
“Daisy gave her notice yesterday,” he says. “She’s leaving the organization.”
My breath leaves me all at once. “What?”
“She’s going home to Washington for Thanksgiving,” he continues. “Then she’s headed west.”
My pulse roars in my ears. “The job in Los Angeles?”
He nods once and all the puzzle pieces of my life slide into place, locking tight.
Daisy isn’t a possibility or an accident. She’s the one person who saw me clearly—and chose to walk away when I told her to.
Now the pain crushing my chest isn’t whether I love her. It’s whether I’m brave enough to stop history from repeating itself before fear finishes the job for me.