Chapter 9
IVY
Invisible No More
The notification chimes at three a.m., pulling me from restless sleep.
King:
Are you awake? I can't stop thinking about what you said about feeling invisible earlier.
My heart skips. I smile.
Three a.m. isn't the right time to read or reply to such a text from King. But I pick up my phone and type.
Ivy:
Now I am. Why are you awake?
King:
Couldn't sleep. My brain won't shut off.
Ivy:
What's it stuck on?
King:
You.
The word glows on my screen, simple and devastating.
A thrill flows from my chest down to my stomach.
Since I confessed to King that he matters to me, our texts have been growing deeper and more intimate.
He knows things about me I've never told anyone, like how I feel invisible in rooms full of people.
How my greatest fear isn't failure but never being recognized.
I finally reply.
Ivy:
That's dangerous thinking.
King:
Maybe I like danger.
Ivy:
You don't know me well enough to think about me at 3 am.
But even after I send it, I know I'm only deceiving myself. King knows me more than most people.
King:
Then let me know you better. Tell me something that happened to you that you've never told anyone.
My fingers move before my brain catches up. I tell him about secrets from my childhood, about trying to prove my worth.
Ivy:
Sometimes I think I'll end up living my life as a footnote in someone else's life.
The vulnerability in the messages makes me nauseous. I almost delete them, but his response comes too quickly.
King:
You're not a footnote. You're much more significant than that. And anyone who can't see it isn't worth your time.
Tears prick my eyes.
Ivy:
How do you always know what to say?
King:
Because I listen. And you're worth listening to.
I clutch the phone to my chest, his words replaying in my head like a song I can't stop humming.
King is amazing. Kind. Funny. Smart. Polite. I think he might be the perfect man for me.
Which makes me wonder why he’s never asked to meet in person. Maybe he has a girlfriend he’s just never mentioned. But no—I can’t imagine King doing that.
Still, the thought lingers.
Then I picture an actual date with him. We’ve never talked about it, but I’m sure he has plenty of experience with women. What will he think when he finds out I’m a virgin? That I have no idea what I’m doing?
I know he’d be understanding. That’s who he is. But I also know that if I ever meet this perfect man, I want to be more than just understood. I want to be wanted. I want to be unforgettable.
Sex matters in a relationship—I’m not naive. So how am I supposed to blow him away when it’s still a theory I’ve never tested?
With that thought echoing in my head, I turn off the light and drift back to sleep.
***
The smell of the training facility's industrial cleaner hits me when I arrive the next morning.
I hurry to my office, a converted storage closet with a window that overlooks the parking lot.
It's a space where I can lose myself in data and forget about complicated feelings for men I've never met and men I wish I didn't.
I'm reviewing cognitive assessments when a knock interrupts my thoughts.
Tyler Chen leans against my doorframe. His eyebrow scar gives him a roguish look he knows how to use. His dark hair is damp from the shower, and he's wearing jeans and a fitted t-shirt that shows off his build.
"Dr. Chandler, can I call you Ivy?"
"No, you can't call me Ivy."
"Got a minute?"
"For work-related questions, yes."
"What if it's personal?"
I don't look up from my laptop. "Then no."
He laughs, stepping inside uninvited. "You're Marcus's sister, right? That means this is work-related."
I sigh. "I'm Dr. Ivy Chandler, the biomechanics researcher. Marcus being my brother is irrelevant to my work here."
"Touchy." He holds up his hands in mock surrender. "Would you like to grab coffee sometime, maybe tomorrow?"
"That's inappropriate."
"Why? You're not my doctor. You're doing research. There's a difference."
"Mr. Chen..."
"Tyler. It's just coffee, Doc. What's the harm?"
Before I can formulate a polite rejection, another voice interrupts from the hallway.
"She said no, Ty. Back off."
Connor walks into the room, his hair falling across his face. He looks serious for once. Tyler rolls his eyes but steps toward the door.
"Whatever, man. Your loss, Dr. Chandler."
He leaves. Connor's feet shift awkwardly from one side to the other.
"Sorry about that. Ty's... well, Ty." He runs a hand through his hair. "But, uh, if you ever want to grab coffee..."
"Connor," I warn.
"Right. Yeah. Got it." He flashes those dimples anyway. "Think about it for a few days."
I want to scream. Inhaling deeply, I force a professional smile.
"Is there anything work-related I can help you with?"
"Nope. Just you know, being friendly." He nods, smiling. "Have a good day, Dr. Chandler."
The moment he's gone, I drop my head into my hands.
This is exactly what I was afraid of. Being seen as Marcus Chandler's sister first, a woman to hit on second, and a serious researcher dead last.
My phone buzzes.
King:
How's your day going?
I sigh in relief and type back.
Ivy:
Complicated. Yours?
King:
Better now that I'm talking to you.
My lips stretch into a smile.
Ivy:
You're charming when you want to be.
King:
Only with you.
Ivy:
I doubt that.
King:
It's true. You bring out the best in me.
Before I can respond, raised voices echo in the hallway. One of them is unmistakably Marcus.
"Stay the hell away from my sister."
Oh no!
I save my work and hurry toward the commotion. A small crowd has gathered near the gym entrance. Marcus has Tyler backed against the wall, one hand fisted in the younger man's shirt.
"Whoa, man!" Tyler says, raising his hands. "I just asked her for coffee!"
"I don't care if you asked her for the time. You don't talk to her. You don't look at her. You don't breathe in her direction."
"Marcus!" I push through the crowd, my face burning with humiliation. "Stop it."
My brother's brown eyes flash with protective fury.
"He was hitting on you."
"And I declined. I'm an adult, Marcus. I can handle unwanted advances without you creating a scene."
He glares at Tyler. "He deserves this."
"No. He only deserves it if he was being forceful. Let him go."
"I'm just looking out for you."
"You're achieving the opposite," I say sharply, feeling mortified. "You're embarrassing me in front of my colleagues, in my workplace."
Coach Petrov storms in, his face contorted in anger.
“Marcus Chandler. My office. Now."
Marcus releases Tyler, his jaw tight. He looks at me like he wants to say something, but I turn away.
The crowd disperses slowly, everyone suddenly interested in their phones or the floor. I catch a glimpse of Declan near the weight room, his green eyes locked on me with an unreadable expression.
I flee to my office and lock the door. Two hours later, I haven't stepped out. I don't want to see people's pitiful or curious expressions.
There's a knock on the door.
"Dr. Chandler?" an unfamiliar voice says. "Delivery for you."
I crack the door open. A young man in a delivery uniform holds a bag that smells like heaven and a bouquet of white peonies so beautiful they steal my breath.
"I didn't order anything."
"Someone did."
He hands me the bag and flowers, then leaves before I can question him further. The card attached to the peonies is a cream cardstock with elegant handwriting.
Even invisible people deserve to be seen - King
My throat closes.
He remembered. I mentioned white peonies offhandedly once, telling him how my grandmother grew them in her garden and how I loved the fragrance.
And he remembered.
Inside the bag is Thai food from Lotus House, the upscale restaurant across town. My favorite pad thai, the one I mentioned two nights ago when King asked about comfort food.
He's paying attention to everything I say.
I eat alone in my office, the flowers sitting on my desk, telling me that somebody really sees me. Not as an NHL star's sister or a woman to hit on.
Just me.
My phone buzzes.
King:
Did you get the delivery?
Ivy:
How did you know I'm in the office?
King:
I took a guess. Did I overstep?
Ivy:
No. It's perfect. Thank you.
King:
You sounded sad this morning. I wanted to help.
Ivy:
You did. More than you know.
King:
Good. That's all I wanted.
I stare at the message, my chest filling with warmth.
By the time I finish my work and drive to Sloane's apartment, it's nearly eight p.m. She opens the door in paint-splattered overalls, her curly auburn hair peeking out of a scarf she's tied around her head.
"Please, tell me you brought food."
"Ate at work. Sorry."
"Traitor." She pulls me inside, collapsing onto her thrift-store couch. "What's with the dreamy expression?"
I avert my gaze. "Nothing."
“Ivy Chandler, I've known you since undergrad. This is not your nothing face." Her eyes narrow. "Does this have anything to do with King?"
Heat fills my cheeks. "Maybe."
"Yes, I knew it." She bounces excitedly.
"He's smart, thoughtful, and actually listens when I talk. He sent me flowers and Thai food today."
Sloane whistles low. "That's serious game. So, when do you meet him?"
"I don't know. What if I'm building him up in my head? Or even worse: what if he meets me and realizes I’m… not what he imagined?"
“Define ‘not what he imagined,’” she says dryly.
“I don’t know. Awkward. Inexperienced. Too much in my head.”
She snorts. “Ivy, if a man is disappointed because you’re thoughtful and cautious and don’t throw yourself at him on date one, that’s not a loss. That’s the trash taking itself out.”
I exhale, some of the tension bleeding off my shoulders. “You make it sound very simple.”
“It is simple,” she says. “It’s just not easy. You like him. That’s the scary part.”
"What did he look like when you picked up the phone? You said he was handsome."