Chapter Twenty-Nine
Stay
Winnie
The email arrives on Friday morning. I almost miss it, buried under a pile of spam and promotional newsletters. But the subject line catches my eye: Opportunity with Seattle Storm Athletics - Flexibility Program Director.
I click it open.
It’s a job offer. A real one. Apparently, word of the Knights’ improved injury metrics has spread through the league grapevine, and Seattle wants to poach me.
They’re offering a director position—not just instructor, but full program oversight.
More money. More responsibility. A chance to build something from the ground up.
Three thousand miles from New York.
Three thousand miles from Banks.
A week ago, I would have deleted this without a second thought. Now I read it three times, imagining a different life. A fresh start. No messy entanglements, no broken hearts, no man who can’t let himself be loved.
I close my laptop without responding.
The park near Tori’s place is quiet for a Friday afternoon.
Maisie is on the swings, pumping her legs with fierce determination while Tori and I sit on a nearby bench, coffee cups warming our hands against the March chill. The trees are still bare, but buds are forming on the branches—the first hints of spring pushing through.
“You’re quiet today,” Tori observes.
“I got a job offer.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Really? From who?”
“Seattle. They want me to run their flexibility program.”
“Wow.” She processes this. “That’s huge. Are you going to take it?”
“I don’t know.” I watch Maisie swing higher, her laughter carrying across the playground. “Part of me thinks I should. Clean break. New city. No more…”
“No more Banks?”
I don’t answer. I don’t have to.
“Win.” Tori’s voice is gentle. “What do you actually want?”
The question hits harder than it should. What do I want? I want to stop feeling like my chest has been carved out. I want to stop checking my phone every five minutes.
I want him to fight for me.
But he won’t. Because he doesn’t know how.
“I’m in love with him,” I say quietly. The words feel strange out loud—too big, too real. “I know it’s stupid. I know he pushed me away. I know he lied and hid things and did everything wrong. But I’m still in love with him.”
“That’s not stupid. That’s honest.”
“What good is honest when he won’t let me in?”
Tori is quiet for a moment, watching Maisie slow her swinging to wave at us. We wave back. “Can I tell you something?” she says finally. “About Zayden?”
“Of course.”
“When we first got together, he was a mess. Walls everywhere. He’d been burned by his ex, and he was convinced that letting anyone get close was just asking to get hurt again.” She takes a sip of her coffee. “I almost walked away. Multiple times. It would have been easier.”
“What made you stay?”
“I realized that easy wasn’t what I wanted. I wanted him—complicated, wounded, frustrating him. So I fought for him. Even when he made it hard. Even when he pushed back.” She turns to look at me. “Some people weren’t taught how to be loved, Win. They need someone to show them it’s safe.”
I think about Banks. About the foster homes, the families that didn’t keep him, the walls he built to survive. He told me himself—everyone leaves. That’s the lesson life taught him, over and over, until it became his truth.
No one ever stayed.
No one ever fought for him.
“What if I fight and he still won’t let me in?”
“Then at least you’ll know you tried. And you won’t spend the rest of your life wondering what if.”
Maisie comes running over, cheeks pink from the cold, demanding hot chocolate. The moment breaks, shifting into the practical chaos of motherhood and sugar negotiations.
But Tori’s words stay with me.
Some people weren’t taught how to be loved.
I could take the Seattle job. I could run away, start over, protect myself the same way he does.
Or I could stay. I could fight. I could be the person who doesn’t leave, who doesn’t give up, who shows him that love doesn’t have to be a trap.
It might not work. He might still push me away. I might get my heart broken all over again.
But I’d rather break trying than wonder forever what could have been.
I pull out my phone and draft a reply to Seattle.
Thank you for the opportunity, but I have to decline. I have unfinished business in New York.
I hit send before I can second-guess myself.
Then I open a new message. To Banks.
My fingers hover over the keyboard. I type four words:
We need to talk.
I stare at them for a long moment. He might not even see his phone for a while…they have a game tonight and I know how busy all the pre-game rituals can be.
But I hit send anyway, because whatever happens next, I’m done running.