Chapter 13 #2
She walked over toward the head coach. I stayed by the table, staring at the map a second longer than necessary.
“You were great,” Cole said beside me.
“We’re not grading presentations.”
“Then I withdraw my professional review and say I liked hearing you command the room.”
The reply was out of my mouth before I could dress it up in armor.
“I liked that you didn't turn yourself into a marketing brochure.”
Cole dipped his head, a faint curve touching his mouth.
“Now that stings.”
“You’ll live.”
“I have a pretty solid track record.”
The thud of another scrimmage collision echoed across the grass. Cole glanced over at Marcus, who was waiting for his turn against a blue contact shield. Reyes was leaning in, saying something in his ear. Neither of them looked back in our direction.
“Are you okay with them being here?” Cole asked quietly.
It was a clean, direct question. It didn't hide a solution behind it.
I could have said yes and left it there. It was an efficient answer. It was also a lie too small to bother with.
“I’m better than I was twenty minutes ago,” I said. “I don't need you to fix anything.”
“Understood.”
“And if they ever make this feel complicated, I’ll tell you. Don't go borrowing trouble for a conversation that hasn't happened yet.”
Cole nodded.
“No borrowing trouble.”
Tessa called us over for the group photo.
I slotted in between Sasha and a community clinic director holding one corner of the map.
Cole stood two spots over, next to Marcus.
We didn't touch. When the photographer asked for a more relaxed shot, Marcus said something under his breath that I didn't catch, and Cole laughed.
I laughed too. The shutter clicked in the split second before I could decide whether my face was ready for the company newsletter.
That afternoon, Tessa sent me the link from the club’s PR account.
The photo featured a caption about eight referral pathways, local coordination teams, and comprehensive post-discharge care.
My smile was small, but genuine. Cole was in the background, leaning toward Marcus, still laughing at something that had nothing to do with me.
Nobody had dragged my name into the sports gossip columns. Nobody had asked anything else.
I slipped my phone back into my bag and went back to work.
* * *
On Saturday, Cole pulled his truck into the gravel lot at the Rattlesnake Ledge trailhead and killed the engine.
The lot was a patchwork of dried mud, SUVs with bike racks, and two golden retrievers barking excitedly from an open truck bed.
Past the wooden information kiosk, the towering cedars hemmed in the trail with mossy trunks and low, damp boughs.
“We can still turn around,” Cole said, a lightweight daypack slung over one broad shoulder.
I looked up at the trail marker. Two miles up. Nothing I couldn't handle. My body had weathered far harder weeks than a hiking trail, though I kept that to myself.
“I wore hiking boots for a reason. Don't turn this into an executive committee vote.”
“Fair enough. Just making sure the VP of Operations isn't going to file a grievance over trail conditions.”
“The VP of Operations has already noted that your risk mitigation strategy consists of a single granola bar and reckless optimism.”
“The bar has almonds. It’s a comprehensive nutritional system.”
That was our opening exchange. I liked that we didn't need to bury anything heavy beneath it.
The trail climbed quickly, winding over thick exposed roots and wooden steps darkened by recent rains.
Twenty minutes in, my T-shirt was clinging damply between my shoulder blades.
The air smelled of wet earth and pine needles warming under a thin morning sun that barely broke through the canopy.
Cole walked beside me, not ahead. He’d matched my stride without announcing it.
He didn't offer me water every three minutes or ask how my legs were holding up. He simply waited until I pulled up next to a weathered cedar bench, unzipped my own pack, and took a drink from my water bottle.
“Are your ribs hurting?” I asked.
Cole rested one hand against the strap of his backpack.
“A little. Not enough to lodge an interesting complaint.”
“That wasn't what I asked.”
“I know. They’re fine. The physio cleared me for uphill walking with a woman who looks ready to snap a referee’s whistle in half.”
“Marcus had it coming.”
“Marcus always has something coming.”
We kept climbing. Birds called back and forth through the canopy above.
A young couple came down the narrow switchback and stepped aside to let us pass; the woman carried a sleeping baby strapped snugly against her chest in a carrier.
I didn't turn the sight into a test. I registered it the same way I registered a fallen Douglas fir branch or a loose piece of gravel, and let it fade as the trail curved around the ridge.
The final approach grew steep enough to demand both hands and careful footing. The wood of a rustic guardrail was rough against my palm. As I stepped over a slick cedar root, my boot slid on a patch of wet moss. My balance tipped backward before I could find purchase.
“Want a hand?” Cole asked.
He didn't grab for me unprompted.
“Yes.”
His hand closed over mine with steady, dry warmth. He anchored my weight until my boots found solid dirt again, then let go the second I was balanced.
“Thank you.”
“That’s what large hands are for.”
“And here I thought they were exclusively for carrying soup pots.”
“I still haven't brought any soup.”