16. Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Sixteen
Depression, Old Thai Food + Athlete’s Foot
Luca
Present Day
“And don’t bother coming back!” I yell.
I don't even look up from the sofa as nurse number four, or perhaps five, storms past the living room with her face a frantic shade of blotchy red. She doesn’t offer a parting gift beyond a middle finger that I catch in the reflection of the TV screen.
The heavy thud of the front door echoing through the foyer is the final punctuation mark on my morning.
It shouldn’t be this hard to find good help. I just need someone who can handle light cleaning and ensure I don't put too much weight on my knee, but they keep sending the wrong people. I can’t quite put my finger on what makes them a bad fit, but I know they aren't what I need.
There’s a specific kind of hell that comes with a divorce you can’t tell anyone about. Since I’m stuck here heartbroken and injured, I do the only thing I can and stalk my wife online.
Unfortunately, she doesn’t exactly have an updated social media presence. All I can find are these old college photos on some archived Black Planet page, and while she was gorgeous back then, I’m dying for a glimpse of her now.
A moment later, Tatum appears in the doorway, her heels clicking sharply against the hardwood. I quickly put my phone away to hide the evidence of my obsession. I can’t let her best friend see how much I’m still hung up on her, especially since I’m the one who broke her heart.
I can’t let anyone know how much I miss her.
Ending things was the right move, the only move that made sense for everyone involved.
This distance is for the best. It protects Croix, it protects my career, and it keeps the team from imploding.
Most of all, it keeps her away from the wreckage.
I have to keep telling myself that until I actually believe it.
Until every second without her no longer feels like torture.
Tatum doesn’t speak at first. She just stands there with her eyes wide as she takes in the scene with a look of pure disbelief.
The house has become a graveyard of takeout containers and old espresso pods.
I’m sprawled out with my leg propped up, the bulky brace feeling like a lead weight, and I know I look every bit as wrecked as I feel.
Tatum shakes her head, dropping her designer laptop bag onto the coffee table with a thud. “That’s the fourth one this month, Luca. The team is running out of agencies willing to send staff to this address.”
“It’s not that bad,” I counter.
She sucks her teeth. “You look depressed, the apartment smells like old Thai food and athlete's foot, and you’re scaring off the very people sent to get you back on the field.”
“She wouldn't stop talking and she kept pestering me for autographs for her niece.
Not to mention, I have a persistent headache and I specifically told the agency to send someone who wouldn't disturb my peace!” I challenge, shifting my weight and wincing as a sharp pull of pain shoots through my knee.
Tatum gestures to the mess around us. “What peace, Luca?”
“Can we just get to the meeting?” I snap. “I have an image-rebuilding campaign to maintain, don't I?”
Tatum sighs, pulling out her tablet. “Fine. Let's talk appearances. You’re all set for the Young Strikers Soccer League event. Remember? You're giving the keynote to the kids, doing a few photos. It shouldn’t be any different than the routine at Biddy Mason for those students.”
I flinch. The idea of standing in front of those kids who think I'm some kind of superhero when I can barely limp to the kitchen makes me sick.
“I can't do it, Tatum. Tell them I had a setback with the physical therapy. My knee is flaring up.”
“Absolutely not,” she snaps, her eyes narrowing.
“The owners were very clear. If you still want that captain’s armband when you’re cleared to play, you have to fix the optics.
You’re not just a player right now. You’re a brand in crisis.
Your only job right now is to show up, smile, and inspire whenever they tell you to.
” She pauses, her voice softening just a fraction.
“You know Croix is going to be there, right?”
“I'm aware,” I say, my jaw tightening.
The name alone is enough to bring it all back. Three months ago, when that door opened and Croix saw us, the world didn't just crack, it shattered into pieces. Everything we had—years of friendship, brotherhood, loyalty—was disbanded in an instant. Then all hell broke loose.
Croix started picking fights at training, in the locker room, anywhere he could get close enough to spit the word traitor in my face. He insisted I’d stolen Aspen from him, despite the fact that both of us kept trying to remind him that he’d already agreed they were better off as friends.
But the breakup wasn't what killed him. Like he and Aspen agreed, they were better off as friends. What hurt Croix was the secrecy. He couldn't wrap his head around the fact that I’d kept it from him, even if it had only been a week. He believed I should have told him the second I knew, and he’s right.
I should have. Instead, I let guilt turn me into a coward.
I couldn’t face my friend the way I should have, and I couldn’t choose Aspen as simply or as completely as I’d demanded she choose me that morning in the bathroom.
Instead, I tried to hide her, tucking our life into the shadows until I turned a brilliant, vibrant woman into someone insecure and hidden.
She wasn't a secret, but I treated her like one because I was on a fast track to ruining my career and my bond with my best friend.
I needed time. She needed certainty. Especially with everything she had going on with her career and her business.
But the longer I stalled, the more she suffered and the harder it became for her to wait while I avoided the consequences of choosing her. She deserved better.
In the end, I did what I thought was the noble thing.
I let her go. I didn't want her waiting around while I tried to piece my life back together.
I thought it was strength. Now, I just realize we're both miserable.
On the bright side, Croix and I are finally, glacially, on the mend.
Mostly because there's no Aspen in the middle for us to fight over.
Tatum taps her pen against the tablet, the sharp clack-clack-clack snapping me back to the present. “This Young Strikers appearance? It’s important. For all of us. Be there, be charming, and for the love of God, try to look like you've shaved and showered?”
“Fine,” I grunt.
A short, beat of silence settles between us. I know I should let it go. I know that opening this door only leads to a room I'm not allowed to enter anymore. But the question is already burning at the back of my throat, and I can't swallow it down.
“Tatum?” I ask. “She’s good? She’s…happy?”
Tatum lets out a weary breath. “Why don’t you ask her yourself, Luca?”
“She doesn’t want to hear from me,” I say, the memory of our final legal meeting flashing behind my eyes. “You didn’t see her that day at mediation. The way she looked at me.”
“Actually, I did,” Tatum says, a dry, knowing smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth. “You’re lucky you only got a cold shoulder. You almost got your tires slashed and your windows busted out that day, buddy.”
I frown, my brow furrowing in genuine confusion. “I’m sorry? My tires?”
She shakes her head, waving the comment away as she stands to leave.
“Never mind. You’re lucky she’s classier than I am and her mother didn’t raise her fighting boys like mine did.
” Her expression softens then, the professional mask slipping just enough to show a flicker of pity.
“But yeah, Luca. She’s good. She’s doing just fine. ”
She packs up her things, heading for the door, but stops at the threshold. “One more thing. Do you want me to look into some private referrals for a new nurse? Someone quieter than the last few?”
I look around the empty, messy expanse of the apartment, feeling the throb in my knee and the ache in my chest.
“Sure,” I say quietly. “I’ll give them a shot. Send them over.”