Chapter Four #2
A few minutes later, as Gale hit the key fob to open his truck, he caught sight of his reflection in the small mirror at the back of his stall.
It was like the other night at the house.
For a moment, he saw his father’s face staring back at him, a stark reminder that the old man was encoded in his DNA.
He quickly looked away, unable to bear the sight.
What if that version of himself wasn’t just a trick of light and glass?
What if it was a glimpse of inevitability, of genetic destiny locked into his goddamn cells?
He climbed into his truck, the leather driver’s seat cold. As he sat there, key in the ignition but unable to turn it, the
full weight of his situation crashed down. While the talk with Coach had given his feelings a bump, it already felt like a
distant memory. Gale couldn’t shake the feeling that he was standing on the edge of a cliff, one misstep away from disaster.
He banged his forehead against the steering wheel a half dozen times, his hyperventilating breath fogging up the windshield.
The truth was, he didn’t know if he had the fight in him anymore. What if tonight’s game was not just another low point in
a slump, but the slow slide toward the inevitable pathetic end?
Fuck.
He started the truck and began driving home. The city lights blurred. He was lost—and he had no idea how to find his way back.
And there was that nagging truth he couldn’t shake. He’d bolted—there was no other way to describe it. He ran from Harriet.
From E.M.M.A. From his past. From everything. Who the hell knew what came next?
He had to figure out how to quit letting fear call the plays.
That decision crystallized in his mind like frost on a winter morning. As he drove, his resolve hardened with each passing
mile. By the time he pulled into his driveway, his path forward was clear as the cold night sky. Maybe the universe put Harriet
back in his path. He didn’t believe in fate.
But that didn’t mean fate didn’t believe in him.
The next afternoon, Gale sat in his truck, the windshield wipers swishing back and forth in a steady rhythm against the drizzle. His eyes fixed on the entrance to Harriet’s office, and he rubbed his face, the stubble that had grown over the past few days rough on his palm.
Last night had turned into a real shitshow of beer and internet stalking. He’d blown off a home workout to drown his sorrows
in some hipster craft IPA while diving deep into Harriet’s online life. Her company website was a maze of tech jargon, but
that staff photo? Holy hell. That elegant neck, those collarbones—they were kryptonite to his self-control.
Seeing her yesterday, hair pulled back tight enough to give him ideas, had unleashed a flood of memories. Back in the day,
she’d been older, wiser, and so far out of his league, it was laughable. But his eyes always found that spot where her throat
met her jaw, drawn like a magnet to those three little freckles. They formed a sexy constellation, one that sent him dreaming
of the night sky.
He tried to focus, telling himself this was strictly business. But scrolling through her socials—artsy coffee pics, horror
movie reviews—felt intimate; she was still Harriet, just grown-up and polished.
His mind drifted: high school Harriet sprawled on that ratty purple beanbag in Brooke’s old bedroom, her ponytail bouncing
as she described some slasher flick, her cute nose crinkling when he squirmed. Now here he was, a grown man and a pro athlete,
and he was still scared shitless of clowns and asking for a second chance.
As if on cue, Harriet emerged from TrainTech, her bubblegum-pink umbrella a bright spot in the dreary gray day, and Gale’s
stomach flip-flopped. She was in a sweater and a skirt that highlighted the curves of her petite legs. He took a deep breath
and exited the truck. Rain soaked his windbreaker as he jogged toward her, slides splashing through puddles.
“Hold up! Harriet!” he called out, conjuring his most charming smile. The one that showed off the gap between his teeth and
was his go-to get-out-of-jail-free card with women.
She spun to face him, and damn—those hazel eyes hit hard, even from behind her glasses.
But he couldn’t miss the dark circles under them, standing out like fresh bruises.
Was she pulling all-nighters or just running on fumes?
He knew that look—the same one he and his teammates would get after a brutal stretch of away games.
“Hi.” His heart kicked into fifth gear as he tried desperately to sound nonchalant.
“What are you doing?” Her tone was neutral. Unreadable. Cool.
“I’ve got some good news,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I, uh, I’ve been thinking about the E.M.M.A. thing. And
I guess I’ve changed my mind. I want back in on the beta testing.”
He waited, his weight shifting slightly, expecting her face to soften or maybe her eyes to light up. Anything except this
detached, unreadable expression, her gaze steady and evaluating. The rhythm of rainfall filled the charged silence between
them.
When she finally spoke, her voice was crisp and decisive. “No.”