Chapter 18 #2
Cole laced his fingers through mine. We sat there long enough to hear a bus brake on the avenue and pull away again. The nightstand drawer was still open.
I stood up and pulled out the single foil wrapper.
“I’m adding them to the grocery list,” I said.
Cole looked up at me from the edge of the mattress.
“What an intensely executive method of seduction.”
“I can bring back the pancake if you need atmosphere.”
“Ruthless.”
I placed the wrapper in his palm.
“Are we continuing?”
His smile faded—not from any lack of desire, but because he was paying attention.
“Yeah. If you still want to.”
I unclasped my watch and set it face up on the bedside table.
“I still want to.”
This time, when his mouth found mine, there was no hurry.
Cole let me guide him to protect his shoulder, and I didn't mistake his care for fragility.
He asked before moving me, waited when my body needed a second, and didn't fill that second with fear.
The duvet ended up on the floor. Sunlight crept slowly across the sheets, and the city carried on behind the blinds.
Afterward, I lay with one leg draped over his, my cheek resting against his chest. His skin was warm and damp beneath my palm. The slow, heavy thud of his heart echoed against my temple.
“I have a confession,” he murmured.
I lifted my head.
“If this is about the pancake, you’re beyond rehabilitation.”
“I watched the next episode without you.”
I pulled away.
“Get out of my apartment.”
Cole hooked his right arm around my waist, his laughter shaking the mattress, and neither of us moved for a very long time.
* * *
The complete New York packet arrived on Tuesday at four-oh-nine in the afternoon.
It wasn't an offer. Not yet. It was the document Halcyon sent to candidates in the final stage before narrowing the field: a start date three weeks after acceptance, a corporate apartment for the first ninety days, a hiring budget, authority over the local team, and four covered trips to Seattle each month during the launch.
The possible extension was still there: five additional months, contingent on opening three clinics and a board review.
Diane stood beside my desk while I turned the pages. Behind her, the whiteboard tracking the Sentinels community partnership was covered in clinic names and green status checks. The HVAC vent overhead blew cold air across my knuckles.
“They need confirmation before ten tomorrow morning,” Diane said. “Simply to verify that you’re remaining available under these specific parameters.”
I paused on the travel clause. Four flights a month. A figure engineered to sound generous while reducing a personal life to an audited ledger of weekends.
“How many people are left on the shortlist?” I asked.
“I’ll share that when the committee closes the evaluation phase.”
“So more than two.”
Diane didn't smile.
“Read it through tonight. If something doesn't work operationally, flag it. Don't offer flexibility before you’ve calculated the actual cost.”
The instinct to say I could absorb any workload rose to the tip of my tongue. I closed the folder.
“I’ll have my answer for you in the morning.”
“I expected nothing less.”
Diane left my office. I looked down at my phone sitting beside the keyboard.
I hadn't accepted anything. Nor had I requested more time, negotiated terms, or pointed out that four trips a month weren't enough. The next step was simply confirming that I was willing to stay in the process.
I opened my chat thread with Cole and typed: Full NYC terms just came in. Have to confirm by tomorrow morning if I’m staying in the running. Can you talk after physio?
I didn't add that it wasn't a formal offer. I didn't use the word maybe to soften the blow.
His reply popped up while the thread was still open on my screen.
Cole: Yeah. And San Diego sent their full draft. Haven't replied yet. Calling you in twelve minutes.
Twelve minutes later, my phone rang.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey.”
In the background behind his voice, a heavy metal door clanged shut, followed by the dull, rhythmic thud of a tackle bag hitting gym mats. He was probably in the concrete hallway linking physical therapy to the team locker room.
“You can change first,” I said.
“Already changed. I sat down because the last time we had this conversation while I was putting on shoes, the execution was subpar.”
I leaned back against the edge of my desk. The floor-to-ceiling glass reflected my silhouette against the glowing office lights.
“Noted.”
Cole fell silent, waiting for me to lead. He’d received my message first.
“It’s not an offer yet,” I said. “It’s the final document before they narrow the candidate pool.
Start date three weeks after acceptance, an apartment for ninety days, four monthly trips back to Seattle, and authority to hire the team.
The five-month extension is still in there.
I have to confirm tomorrow if I’m willing to proceed under those terms.”
“Do you want to proceed?”
I looked at the manila folder. The professional answer was so straightforward it nearly crowded out everything else.
“Yes. I want to be in the room for the final decision.”
“Good.”
“I didn't say I’d accept if they offer it to me.”
“I know.”
“And four trips a month doesn't mean four weekends. They can schedule them around meetings during the week.”
“I know, Kate.”
I stopped. I had started constructing a defense he hadn't asked for.
“Sorry,” I said quietly. “Your turn.”
I heard him let out a breath—steady, carrying neither exasperation nor false relief.
“San Diego sent the complete draft,” Cole said.
“Two guaranteed years, club option for the third, and a medical exam before signing. They want to know by Thursday if I’m authorizing Rick to request a formal transfer route.
If I say yes, he still has to talk to Seattle. If I say no, the conversation dies.”
“Do you want him to request it?”
“Yeah. I want to know if Seattle is going to make a serious offer or if they just like making me wait.”
The answer stung for reasons that had nothing to do with logic. Cole had spent the entire season putting his body on the line while other people measured how much of him was left. Asking for a proposal wasn't choosing San Diego. But it made the city an active possibility.
“Then you should tell him yes,” I said.
“That’s what I’m thinking.”
Neither of us spoke for several seconds. Outside my glass office wall, Priya walked down the corridor carrying a presentation binder against her ribs. She saw me on the phone, gave a quick wave, and kept moving.
“We honored the pact,” I said.
The sentence sounded much smaller than I’d intended.
“Yeah,” Cole said.
“I don't feel any better.”
“Neither do I.”
I rested my forehead against the cool windowpane.
“Come over tonight.”
“I’ll be there at seven.”
He didn't offer to bring food. I didn't ask if he had a plan.
* * *
By seven-twenty, both documents lay across my small dining table alongside a carton of Thai takeout.
Cole had printed his at the training facility.
The blue-and-gold San Diego crest was stamped across the header of every page; the Halcyon logo marked the footer of mine.
We’d started eating without referencing either stack.
Downstairs, the neighbor’s trumpet pushed a low, brassy note through the floorboards. Cole twirled noodles around his fork and lost the entire bite before it reached his mouth.
“That was painful to witness,” I said.
“I’m under pressure.”
“You’re a professional athlete.”
“Not at noodles.”
It was our only attempt at humor. A moment later, Cole set his fork down and pulled the New York folder toward his side of the table.
“Four flights,” he said.
“Paid for. Not scheduled by me.”
“Can you negotiate rollover flexibility?”
“Maybe. I’m not ready to negotiate an entire life structure before I even know if they choose me.”
Cole nodded. He didn't open a calendar. He didn't start calculating flights or offer to follow me during the season. I’d spent all afternoon dreading that exact reaction, and watching him contain it, I had to fight my own reflex to pitch every compromise he hadn't asked for.
I pulled the San Diego draft toward me.
“The physical exam can modify the second-year guarantee.”
“Rick wants to strike that language.”
“Can he?”
“He can try.”
I turned the page. The Thursday deadline was printed in bold typeface. Beneath it sat a reference to Seattle’s postseason window and exclusive negotiation rights. It wasn't a moving truck tomorrow. Nor was it an abstract hypothetical.
“I’m going to confirm that I’m remaining available,” I said.
Cole held my gaze across the table.
“I’m going to authorize Rick to open talks with Seattle.”
I waited for the impulse to demand a guarantee. Stay. Turn it down. Tell me you’d pick this over rugby if someone forced you. I didn't say any of those three things.
“Okay.”
He reached across the wood, covering my hand, and pressed his thumb into the base of my index finger.
“‘Okay’ doesn't mean it’s easy,” he said softly.
“I know that.”
“And it doesn't mean what you want won't matter when the time comes to make a call.”
“I know that too.”
Cole turned his water glass until a small imperfection in the rim aligned with the edge of his placemat. I unclasped and snapped shut my watch once.
Both of us saw the tells. Neither of us pretended they meant anything else.
I placed my phone face up between the two folders. Cole did the same.
I drafted my confirmation to Diane. He opened his message to Rick. We didn't angle our screens to check each other’s phrasing; we no longer needed to turn transparency into surveillance.
I tapped send first.
Cole tapped send a second later.
The messages went out. Left on the table between us were an anticipated start date in New York, an authorization to open transfer negotiations in San Diego, and two takeout boxes that had already gone cold.