Chapter 5 - Ivy
IVY
Stay Away From Him
My laptop blinks with concussion data that makes no sense. Then my phone lights up with a text that does.
King:
Question: If you could redesign the human brain from scratch, what would you change?
My lips twitch before I can stop them. I adjust properly on my living room couch and reread the text.
It’s been days of messages from King, each one more impossible to ignore than the last. Every text feels like unwrapping a rare gift.
I should focus on the spreadsheet glowing accusingly from the screen. But my fingers are already typing back.
Ivy:
A) Remove the part that makes us second guess ourselves B) Boost the section for emotional regulation C) Maybe add a delete button for embarrassing memories.
King:
Are you still thinking about that embarrassing memory?
Unwelcome heat crawls down my spine. The image of that naked, tattooed disaster of a man appears in my mind.
No. Not thinking about that or him. Or those piercing green eyes.
Ivy:
No. Wasn’t thinking of anything specific when I typed that. That’s just my general principle.
King:
Someone is not telling me the truth.
Warmth unfurls in my chest. The words are playful and challenging yet don’t out rightly call me a liar. I smile.
My phone buzzes again.
King:
I think embarrassing memories make us human. They’re proof we tried something outside our comfort zone.
Ivy:
That’s philosophical.
King:
I can be philosophical when I want to. So what’s your definition of success?
I’m smiling when Sloane unlocks the front door with my spare key and walks in with food. She takes one look at my face and grins.
“You’re texting him again.”
“I’m working.”
“Your eyes look dreamy.” She sets down a pack of burger, chicken and chips on the side table, then starts eating hers. “How long have you two been at this?”
“Since the day he returned the phone. It’s not a big deal.”
“You’ve been texting a mystery man for days, and you don’t think that’s a big deal?” she asks between mouthfuls. “Have you called him? Facetimed him?”
“Not yet. We’ll do that when we’re both comfortable with it.”
“Well, I’ve already seen him. And girl, he’s handsome. But when was the last time you texted anyone this much, including me?”
The answer is never. But I’m not about to admit it.
“He’s just easy to talk to.”
“Mm-hmm. And what else?”
“And nothing. He returned my phone. We’re having conversations. That’s it.”
“Right. Conversations that make you smile like you just discovered chocolate has no calories.” Her voice turns serious. “Have you at least tried to find out more about him? What he does?”
My stomach twists. I haven’t asked any of those questions because part of me doesn’t want to know. King exists in this bubble where he’s just… King. No expectations or judgments.
“We’ll get to that later.”
“I hope he’s not wasting your time.”
I glance sharply at her. “He’s not…”
“Remember the type of men we want: handsome, rich, and stupid.”
My face contorts in disgust. “The type of men you want. Who wants that with you?”
“What? Don’t look at me like that.” She waves her hand dismissively. “You can choose good looking, loving, and rich.”
I shake my head, chuckling. “You’re impossible.”
“Eat up, Ivy,” she says, pointing at the food. “Last night’s party was long, and you haven’t eaten all day.”
I check the time. It’s two p.m. Recalling my family’s monthly Sunday dinner, my face falls.
“I’m having dinner at my parent’s today.”
“The more reason why you should eat,” she calls out as she goes to the bedroom with the rest of her food. “I’m going back to sleep.”
I stare at my phone. King’s last message hasn’t been answered. I should ask more questions, establish some kind of boundary. Find out more about him and figure out if this is going anywhere or if I’m just entertaining myself with a stranger who happened to be nice enough to return my phone.
I type while I start eating.
Ivy:
Why did you choose your job?
He answers immediately.
King:
Because I’m quite good at it.
Ivy:
Somebody is tooting his horn.
King:
It’s a well accomplished horn. If you don’t let people know your worth, they’ll ignore your accomplishments.
That hit deep. After all the years of living in Marcus’s shadow, I’ve stopped telling my parents about my achievements.
King’s text pops up on my screen.
King:
So what about you, Dr. Ivy? Why did you choose your career?
Ivy:
Because I love it. But today, it’s my turn to ask questions.
King:
Interesting. Alright. Go ahead.
Ivy:
Where do you see yourself in the next five years?
King:
I’m focusing on the near future first. I need to end a contract so I can soar. I also hope to have my own family one day.
Ivy:
Good. Tell me about your siblings.
He tells me about his two younger siblings. As he texts about their banter and the way they function as a team, my admiration for him grows.
When that topic fades, another question slips out before I can overthink it.
Ivy:
What’s your biggest fear?
His response takes longer this time. Long enough that I start to regret asking.
Then—
King:
Becoming the person people expect me to be instead of who I actually am.
I read it thrice, my thumb hovering over the screen.
Ivy:
I understand that more than you know.
King:
Tell me.
And I do.
I tell him about growing up as my brother’s little sister. Because I’ve never met King, I leave out Marcus’s name and the NHL part, simply saying my brother is very successful.
I text about how I learned to be brilliant because being anything else means being invisible. About the weight of parental expectations and needing to execute things perfectly every time.
I tell him things I haven’t told anyone except maybe Sloane after too much wine. When I finally look up, I’ve eaten all the burger, chicken, and chips, and it’s almost time to go to my parents’ house.
I type.
Ivy:
I’ve got family dinner.
Then I freshen up and leave a note for the sleeping Sloane before driving out.
***
The savory smell of meat and vegetables from pot roast fills the Chandler family home when I arrive.
“Ivy.” My mother walks out from the kitchen, perfectly styled in a cashmere sweater. “You’re late.”
“Traffic was bad.”
“Traffic is always bad.” She air-kisses both my cheeks. The familiar scent of her expensive perfume makes my nose itch. “Your father’s in his study. Marcus is already here. Go freshen up.”
I don’t bother telling her I already freshened up before coming. She won’t listen.
I head upstairs to my old bedroom, now converted into a guest room that’s erased most of the evidence I ever lived here. There’s still one photo on the dresser. It’s me, at sixteen, graduating high school two years early and looking painfully small next to Marcus in his hockey gear.
My phone buzzes.
King:
How is dinner with the family?
Ivy:
Haven’t started yet.
King:
Hope you’re not nervous. They’ll probably interrogate you about your research.
Ivy:
If they’re interested in my research, I’ll be shocked.
King:
Is it that bad?
Ivy:
My parents are both physicians who value high achievement. Apparently, I haven’t met their criteria.
King:
Don’t worry about it. Just remember you’re brilliant. You don’t need their validation to know your worth.
I smile, lips wobbling. These are the kind of messages that endear me to King. He knows exactly what I need to hear.
“Ivy.” Marcus’s voice carries up the stairs. “Food is ready.”
Placing my phone in my pocket, I head downstairs, where my family has assembled around the dining table like we’re in a Successful People reality TV show.
My father sits at the head of the table.
He’s already meticulously cutting his pot roast. My mother serves vegetables with the practiced grace of someone who’s hosting a dinner party rather than feeding her children.
Marcus looks freshly showered, his hair still damp.
He’s wearing a button-down shirt that shows he’s the responsible adult son.
I take my usual seat, the one facing the window.
My father turns to me. “Marcus told us you’re working with his team now.”
“Research collaboration,” I correct, searching for the water pitcher. “Dr. O’Connell secured a partnership to study concussion prevention protocols.”
“That’s wonderful, dear.” My mother passes the potatoes without looking at me. “Marcus, tell us about that game winning goal everyone is talking about.”
And just like that, I become invisible.
Marcus describes his recent performance while my parents lean forward. They’re engaged and animated in ways they never are in the rare times they ask about my research. Mom asks follow-up questions. Dad offers tactical analysis.
They’re proud of Marcus in an effortless way. It’s painful to watch.
“The facility seems impressive,” I say when there’s a break in the conversation. “The equipment for cognitive testing is state-of-the-art. I’ll be able to collect baseline data that could…”
“Now that you’ve brought that up,” Marcus interrupts, his expression becoming fierce, “we need to talk about boundaries.”
I set down my fork. “Boundaries?”
“You’re working with professional athletes. My teammates.” He leans back in his chair. “Some of them have… reputations.”
“Marcus, I can…”
“I’m serious, Ivy. For example, guys like Declan—”
My stomach flips at the name.
“—they’re players in every sense of the word. They see a smart, attractive woman and think it’s a challenge.”
“I can handle myself.”
“I’m not saying you can’t. I’m saying you shouldn’t have to.” His jaw tightens. “Just keep your distance from them.”
I chuckle bitterly. “How can I keep my distance when I’ll literally be testing them?”
My mother nods. “Your brother is right. Professional boundaries are important.”
I study Marcus’s face. It’s ironic that he’s hardly talked to me since high school when we were in the same grade. He hasn’t even come to welcome me since I started working in his team’s training facility.
Yet, he wants to protect me.
What’s worse is that he’s spent years in a locker room with these men, considers them his brothers, teammates, friends. But the moment his actual sister enters that world, they’re all dangerous predators who can’t be trusted.
“I’m twenty-six,” I say carefully. “I can navigate workplace relationships without supervision.”
“I’m just looking out for you.”
Too late. When I needed your help to confront Mom and Dad, you didn’t.
“By treating me like I need protection from your friends?” I ask instead.
“They’re not my friends when it comes to you.” He frowns. “Especially Declan. Stay away from him.”
“Why especially him?”
He exchanges a glance with our father.
“Because he’s the worst of them. Multimillionaire playboy who thinks his money and looks make him untouchable. He goes through women like they’re disposable.”
The description should put me off. It confirms everything I’ve suspected about Mr. Arrogant Nakedness.
Instead, sharp defensiveness rises in my chest. I squash it before I say something that will make Marcus suspicious.
“I’m not interested in your teammates. I’m there to work.”
“Good. Keep it that way.”
The rest of dinner passes in uncomfortable silence punctuated by my parent’s occasional comment about Marcus’s career. When I finally escape to my car, I feel wrung out and small. The way I always do after family dinners.
My phone buzzes before I even start the engine.
King:
Are you still having dinner? How good was it?
I laugh, the sound slightly hysterical in my quiet car.
Ivy:
2/10 Apparently, I need to be protected from myself and my poor judgment around men.
King:
Their lack of faith says more about them than you.
Dangerous warmth spreads through my chest.
I barely know this man. He could be anyone: a catfish, a creep, someone playing games. But his words burrow deep to places most interactions in my life don’t bother to reach.
I drive home in a daze, the memory of King’s messages keeping me company through traffic.
***
The next morning, Dr. Logan leads me through the facility, explaining the schedule he’s arranged. I’ll be conducting cognitive assessments with players in rotating groups, starting in two days.
The testing protocols are extensive: reaction time, memory tasks, balance assessments. Everything designed to establish a baseline before any head injuries occur.
We round the corner into the training area, and I stop breathing.
The gym smells of the distinctly male combination of sweat and expensive cologne that doesn’t belong together but works anyway. The steady clang of weights hitting the rack punctuates grunts and trash talk. A protein shake bottle rolls across the floor, abandoned.
And there, dominating the space like he owns it, is Declan.
He’s shirtless and glistening with sweat, doing pull-ups with an ease that should be illegal. His muscles flex under tattooed skin.
His jaw is set in concentration. But there’s something almost lazy about the way he moves, like this workout is a warm-up rather than actual effort. Several other players work out around him. But Declan is impossible to miss.
Those green eyes find mine across the gym.
The pull-up bar might as well not exist. He drops down with cat-like grace, landing on his feet without breaking eye contact. His chest rises and falls, abs contracting with each breath.
Reaching for a towel hanging nearby, he drags it across his neck slowly, deliberately.
Heat pools down in my stomach. My eyes follow the movement until I remember that I’m in public and people might be watching. My eyes snap back to his.
A smirk appears. The one from the therapy room. The one that says he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
“Dr. Chandler?” Dr. Logan’s voice sounds distant. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine.” I tear my gaze away. “Just reviewing the protocols.”
But Declan is still watching me. I can feel the weight of his attention like a physical thing.
Stay professional, I remind myself. Keep your distance.
Except when I risk another glance, he’s still staring. Electricity waves run through my skin.
I force myself to listen to Dr. Logan instead of fantasizing about those rippling muscles.
I can’t allow this connection with Declan to grow.
It’s a desire I can’t afford to have.