Chapter 22
LEDGER
The airport always smelled like burned coffee and nerves.
I’d been through this enough times to know that the anxiety never really went away. It just learned how to sit quietly in your chest while you pretended everything was fine. Trials season had a way of amplifying everything. Sounds were sharper. Thoughts louder. Futures heavier.
Roxie stood beside me in line, phone in hand, sunglasses pushed into her curls. She looked calm and beautiful. Effortlessly so. Like she hadn’t uprooted her life to play supportive spouse for a man whose entire career could hinge on two races.
“You good?” she asked, glancing over.
“Yeah,” I said automatically.
She smiled like she knew better but didn’t push. That had become our rhythm lately—gentle check-ins, careful space. The kind that looked functional from the outside and felt brittle if you pressed too hard.
We boarded, stowed bags, and settled in. Roxie took the window, knees tucked up, already scrolling through emails. Watching her work like that, absorbed and capable, did something unsettling to my chest. Pride and fear tangled together until I couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.
She was coming with me because that was the deal. The wife. The support system. The consistent presence.
But somewhere along the way, she’d stopped feeling like an accessory to my life and started feeling like something vital.
Which was terrifying in a whole new way.
That night, the hotel room greeted us with an unexpected problem.
Two queen beds.
I stared at them longer than necessary, irritation flaring—until I realized what I was actually feeling.
Disappointment.
I’d gotten used to sleeping beside Roxie. To the careful choreography of pillows between us. To the quiet comfort of her breathing on the other side of the invisible line.
Now there was space.
Too much of it.
She raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment, setting her bag down by one bed. I took the other.
The silence that followed felt heavier than it should have, but we fell back into our usual routine, taking turns getting ready for bed in the bathroom.
As we both slid into our own beds, the dark made the silence feel even louder.
“So,” she said eventually. “Are you ready for your races tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” I responded automatically, not giving myself time to even think of a different answer. I couldn’t think about anything else.
I stared up at the ceiling wanting her to keep talking to me but also knowing that it wouldn’t help things. It wouldn’t miraculously make things not feel so strained between us. The smart thing to do would be to go to sleep so I could be as well rested as possible for my races tomorrow.
“Whatever happens tomorrow,” she said, her soft voice floating over to me, “I’m so proud of you.”
I turned my head toward her, only able to see her silhouette. “You don’t have to say that.”
“I know,” she said. “But I wanted you to know.”
My composure started to fracture. The words pressed up against my ribs, desperate to get out.
I need you.
Instead, I swallowed and stared back at the ceiling.
“Tomorrow I’m going to make it happen.”
Her laugh was quiet. “You always say that.”
“And usually I’m right.”
She turned onto her side, facing me. “You don’t have to do this alone, you know.”
That did it. Fear surged fast and sharp.
“Yes, I do,” I said. Too quickly. Too defensively.
Even in the dark I could see her eyes flash with what I assumed was both frustration and annoyance. “Just because I’m here to support you as your fake wife, doesn’t mean that I’m trying to distract you, Ledger.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“You didn’t have to,” she shot back.
The old edge slid back into place between us, familiar and dangerous. The banter that used to be armor.
“I’m trying to focus.”
“And I’m what?” she challenged. “Some focus ruiner? A risk to your career?”
I sat up, dragging a hand through my hair. “This isn’t the time.” I breathed in and out, trying to stay in control of my emotions.
She sat up too. “What?” Her irritation was tangible. “Why does there need to be a time for me to genuinely support you and try to be your friend?”
I ripped back the covers and practically jumped out of bed before my brain could catch up to what I was doing, but I couldn’t just lie there and act like my body didn’t want to move, to do something.
I started pacing, running both hands through my hair now.
I clenched my teeth trying to hold back the words, but I couldn’t do it.
“I don’t want to be your friend, Roxie.” My voice was loud, like I was yelling at her, but my frustration was too strong to tamp down.
Even in the dark I saw her flinch back.
A part of me wanted to take back my words, but another part, a bigger part, wanted her to know that I didn’t think of her like a friend at all. Or at least, not just as a friend. If I was being honest, I wanted a lot more than friendship when it came to Roxie.
She only let my words sting for a fraction of a second before she was throwing off the covers and stomping over until she was right in front of me.
“Well, too bad,” she yelled back. “I’m your friend whether you want me to be or not.”
My lips twitched, fighting a smile. Of course, she was coming back at me, guns blazing.
“And,” she continued, pointing a finger into my bare chest, “I’m going to be the most supportive wife you’ve ever seen tomorrow, so you’re just going to have to get over your whole I-can-do-this-on-my-own power trip.”
With each word she hurled at me, the desire to kiss her became even stronger. The small amount of warmth from her finger on my chest, that skin-to-skin touch, had turned up the heat.
“And why don’t you have a shirt on?” she asked, but didn’t remove her finger.
“I never used to wear a shirt to bed.” My voice came out low, my annoyance gone. “I only started wearing a shirt since we got married. You’re welcome.”
“You’re welcome?” she asked, clearly confused.
I gave her a smirk. “Yeah, so I’m not as much of a temptation.”
Her finger finally lifted, but her hand came back quickly, slapping my chest.
Gosh, it felt good to get back to our old normal. Teasing her and getting her riled up had always been one of my favorite pastimes. Feisty Roxie was one of my favorite Roxies.
I grabbed her hand before she let it drop, pressing it against my skin.
Her breath caught.
“But maybe I should go back to sleeping shirtless when we get home,” I said. “Give you a taste of your own medicine.”
“What are you talking about?” Her voice came out half breathy, half accusatory.
“Don’t act like you’re all innocent,” I argued. “With those short shorts you wear and the oversized shirts that fall off one shoulder, showing off your soft skin and that collarbone …”
I hated how easily my focus unraveled around her.
How she could undo hours of mental discipline with nothing more than cotton fabric and bare skin.
She was a temptation in the most dangerous way.
Not loud or reckless, but quiet and constant.
The kind that slipped under your defenses when you were already worn thin.
She wasn’t just distracting me from swimming.
She was distracting me from pretending I didn’t want more.
“What about my collarbone?” she asked, her voice threading curiosity with amusement.
She was wearing the exact outfit I’d been describing—shorts that showed most of her legs, an oversized shirt slipping lazily off one shoulder. Like she had no idea what it did to me. Or maybe she knew exactly.
I lifted my other hand, letting the pads of my fingers brush her shoulder, slow and deliberate, before tracing the line of her collarbone.
“It drives me crazy,” I admitted quietly, my voice rougher than I meant it to be. “It’s hard not to think about how I’d like nothing more than to press my lips here.”
I traced the curve again.
“And here,” I murmured. “And here.”
My fingers stopped at the hollow of her throat.
I waited—hovering at the edge of a decision I knew I shouldn’t make. Every instinct told me to step back. To put space between us. To protect the thing I’d spent my whole life chasing.
But the truth pressed in just as hard.
I didn’t just want Roxie.
I needed her.
Her breathing had picked up, chest rising faster now, her pulse wild beneath my fingertips. My hand slid up the side of her neck, thumb brushing just under her ear, her skin warm and unreal under my touch.
“Ledger …” she whispered. “What are we doing?”
I didn’t have an answer that wouldn’t sound like a lie.
Her hand was still pressed to my chest, right over my heart, probably feeling how fast it was beating. My other hand cradled the back of her neck, anchoring her there like if I let go, everything would spin out of control.
She kept talking, just like she always did when she was nervous. “What about your races tomorrow?” she asked, breathless. “What about needing to focus and being locked—”
I kissed her before she could finish.
For a split second, fear flared—that she’d pull away, that we were crossing a new line we couldn’t uncross. But when she leaned into me, when her lips parted and met mine with the same urgency, I knew this wasn’t one-sided.
This kiss was just as passionate as our first but held more vulnerability, heavy with unspoken words. We were both knowingly admitting we had feelings for each other—feelings that didn’t range on the I-hate-you scale.
Her lips were soft and warm, pulling me under in a way that made the rest of the world fade.
When her hand slid from my chest to my shoulders, exploring like she was memorizing me, I wrapped my arm around her waist and pulled her closer, needing to feel her against me.
I was wonderfully drowning in Roxie and didn’t know if I’d ever want to come up for air.
For a moment, I forgot about Trials. About times and rankings and futures that were unknown.
There was only Roxie.
Eventually, she pulled back, breathless, forehead resting against mine. “Is this your new way of shutting me up?”
I huffed a quiet laugh. “No. But now that you mention it, I think it has potential.”
She slapped my chest again, lighter this time. “You still didn’t answer any of my questions.”
“That’s because I don’t know how to answer them,” I said honestly. The truth tasted bitter on my tongue. “I can’t afford to lose my edge. Not now.”
She probably didn’t realize that her question hit deeper than anything she’d thrown at me all night.
I exhaled slowly, hoping I could explain this. “I think …” My voice caught, and I forced myself to keep going. “I think I’ve spent my whole life believing that anything I want too much can be taken away. And I don’t know how to chase you and still be the swimmer I need to be.”
Her features softened. Her hand came up to cup my face, thumb brushing my cheek like she was anchoring me.
“Ledger,” she said gently, “you don’t have to choose right now.”
That should have comforted me. But instead, it scared me even more.
Because wanting her wasn’t making me weaker.
It was making me clearer.
And clarity, I was starting to realize, wasn’t the same thing as control.
She stepped back first this time, creating space between us, even though I could still feel her warmth lingering on my skin.
“We should sleep,” she said quietly.
“Yeah,” I agreed, even though every part of me resisted it.
We climbed back into our separate beds, the distance between us louder than before. I stared at the ceiling, heart still racing, replaying everything I hadn’t said.
That night, sleep came in restless waves.
And somewhere between waking and dreaming, the truth finally settled into a coherent thought:
Playing it safe emotionally wasn’t protecting me.
It was costing me clarity.
And if I didn’t figure out how to stop running scared—of failure, of the future, of wanting something that mattered—I was going to lose more than just a race.