Chapter Eight
SIX WEEKS AFTER PLAYOFF Loss
Kendall
Walking into Serendipity’s for lunch is usually my favorite time of the day.
The lunch specials and fresh-baked bread fill the coffee shop with the best
smells that usually make my mouth water.
But today, something just hits wrong and I can’t put my finger on it.
My nose scrunches up the moment the aroma infiltrates my nose and I have
to start breathing from my mouth to keep from gagging.
Something like caramelized onions, mixed with dirty socks drifts from the
kitchen. Realistically, I know that it couldn’t smell like dirty socks with the
line of the coffee shop already forming out the door. Still, my stomach
tightens, a sudden twist of nausea I blame on not eating breakfast. Or stress
from work. Or the fact that I haven’t stopped thinking about Aleksi since the
last night I saw him. Or maybe the stomach cramps are from all three. I head
for our usual table, hoping no one notices how terrible I feel.
“Are you okay?” Peyton asks from across the table, one brow arched over
her latte.
Well, there goes that hope. These girls know me too well.
I force a smile. “Fine. Just hungry.”
I grab half a turkey sandwich that Isla ordered for me ahead since I was
running late with a Physical Therapist who was going over Scottie and Trey’s
chart with me, and inhale it before anyone can comment.
Food helps. Sort of.
The girls laugh about something Isla said. Something about Kaenan’s
inability to fold laundry, and I laugh too, even though I barely hear it. I’m
trying to act normal, to be normal. That’s what I’m supposed to do.
It’s been six weeks since Aleksi left for Finland.
Six weeks since the end of the season.
Six weeks since that morning in Nevada when I woke up tangled in his
arms and told myself to run before my heart made a fool of me.
Six weeks of no text messages from him, or likes on my socials… or
anything. What should I have expected? I asked for space, and to his credit,
he gave it to me.
I thought time would make it easier. That the distance would untangle
something that felt too big, too dangerous. But all it’s done is make the
silence louder.
The girls are talking about off-season plans. Isla and Kaenan are taking the
kids to Hawaii with Vivi, Trey and Adeline. Peyton’s working with Hunter on
expanding his podcast network. His long game after retirement. Cammy and
JP are planning a trip to Cancun with her dad, Seven Wrenley, the goalie
special team’s coach, and his wife Brynn, who is also a part of our group. We
don’t see her often these days since she’s been busy working in her writing
cave coming up with her next bestselling romance novel.
“You should take a vacation,” Cammy says, stirring her drink. “Get away
for a bit.”
“Yeah,” Penelope agrees. “You’ve been in doctor mode nonstop. Even
Theo said you snapped at him during rehab the other day. You snap at the
players sometimes, but I’ve never seen you snap at Theo.”
“I wasn’t snapping,” I protest, though my tone sounds sharp even to me. I
wince and drop my gaze to my coffee that Isla also ordered for me though my
stomach barely feels settled enough for the acidic beverage that’s usually my
saving grace. “Maybe I was. It was a long season and the off-season hasn’t let
up much either.”
“Then take a break,” Peyton presses. “You’re always fixing everyone else.
Maybe fix yourself for once. Get a sun burn somewhere naughty and have a
fling. I think you could use one.”
“Hey…” I say with a frown, faking insult.
I know she’s right. Getting laid is usually the antidote for getting over
someone else like… Aleksi, but truthfully, I don’t think it will help at all.
“Yeah,” I lie, offering a quick smile. “Maybe I will.”
I let the thought cross my mind. The last vacation I took was with Tarron
on our anniversary, a few months before the pictures of the cheerleader and
the bar appeared on my social media feed.
I’d never been on a ‘vacation’ in my life before Tarron. My mother dropped
me off at summer camp once as a kid. That was the closest thing I’d ever had
until I met him. Right until she forgot to come get me and no one could get
ahold of her. She apparently got evicted from our crappy apartment during the
week I was gone and she left. The Department of Children’s Services got
involved and I lived with another family for two weeks, until they took away
the grocery money she was getting for me and gave it to the family taking
care of me. Then suddenly she, conveniently, remembered I existed.
During college, I was too poor to afford to do anything, and then came
student loans.
Then when I met Tarron, he always planned lavish and luxurious vacations
for us. Just more of the love-bombing and debt building that I didn’t know
was happening right under my nose.
But where would I even go if I went on a vacation?
I don’t have family to visit. My mom hasn’t called in years, and I doubt
she’d start now. I imagine her still somewhere in Florida, maybe chasing her
next heartbreak or the bottom of another bottle. If I’m being honest…
probably both. The thought makes my chest ache.
An odd idea of booking a ticket to Finland pops in my head and then just as
quickly, I shake it loose. I’m the one who told him that nothing can happen
between us. Then I jumped his bones in the deserted motel, and then I fled the
scene the next morning without saying goodbye. He must have whiplash.
The last thing I told him was that a summer between us would be good.
Showing up to Finland, especially unannounced…? Talk about mixed
messages.
I can’t do that to him, and I won’t. No matter how much I miss him. No
matter how much duller the stadium is without him making up fake injuries
just to see me for a few minutes in my office. Or hearing him belt out some
folklore song in the locker room. The man has a great singing voice too. As if
he needs any more talents.
Playing with him like that isn’t fair, even if the truth is that I’m forcing the
words to keep us apart. I know I’m doing the right thing, even though it’s
hard.
My heart can’t take a heartbreak like that again and our careers can’t take
the scandal.
Maybe this is what healing looks like—coffee with friends, laughter in
between the ache.
Then the smell of melted butter hits me again and my stomach lurches.
“Are you sure you are okay? Because you look like you’re turning a little
green.” Cammy asks, mid-bite.
“Yeah,” I say, too quickly. “Just… really need fresh air. I need to get back
anyway and check on some more charts with Theo. I’ll see you girls later.”
I stand, gathering my bag and coffee. Then I remember that Theo had to go
home early and isn’t back at the stadium so there’s no point in going back. But
the excuse still stands as I walk to the exit. I need to get away from these
smells. Maybe I’m getting the flu? I check my forehead but it doesn’t feel
hot.
The bell above the door jingles as I step outside. The spring breeze hits my
face, cool and clean. I draw in a slow breath, steadying myself and I do feel a
little better at least.
Seattle’s sky is the usual watercolor gray, the streets damp from a morning
drizzle. Everything smells like rain and espresso—two things I usually love.
I tell myself it’s fine. I’m fine. It’s just exhaustion. It’s just a long season.
It’s just—
The word “just” has become my favorite lie.
I walk toward my car, sipping the coffee I don’t want, wishing the world
would stop spinning quite so fast.
My phone buzzes the second I start down the sidewalk towards my car.
Tarron: Please don’t ignore me. We used to mean something to each
other. Remember?
I stare at the screen until the words blur. It’s ridiculous how fast my pulse
spikes. Not because it’s Tarron, God no, but because for one hopeful second, I
thought it might be Aleksi.
It’s been six long weeks since I saw his name light up my phone.Are you
safe?
And my quick, cowardly reply:Just made it back to Seattle.
His silence now is my fault. And it’s also the right thing for us.
I toss my phone onto the passenger seat, start the car, and sit there with my
hands gripping the steering wheel. The light on my dashboard blinks: Low
fuel. Same, I think.
For a minute, I consider texting him. Something casual. Harmless.
Like, Hey, just checking in.
Instead, I fish the chain from under my shirt, the one with the tiny resin
pendant ring I had an artist jeweler make for me of his athletic tape ring he
made for me. It still fits on my ring finger but I know better than to put it
there. It’s stupid that I kept it. Aleksi probably threw his ring away the
moment he woke to an empty motel room after my escape.
It catches the light, glinting silver against my skin. My secret. No one
knows I have it, and even if they did, I never told anyone about what
happened that night between us.
They know we were both stuck in a motel in Nevada but besides that, I’ve
kept the details to myself, just like I told him that we should.
It’s stupid, sentimental. The kind of thing teenage girls make after summer
camp crushes. But the day I came back to Seattle, I couldn’t throw it away.
Instead, I preserved it in clear resin, like I could trap a moment in time. Like I
could freeze the way I felt that night before everything became complicated
again.
I run my thumb over it and let out a slow breath.
Another buzz. Another text.
Tarron: Consider it dinner with an old friend. I’m buying.
He’s persistent, I’ll give him that. Always was. Charming, persuasive… the
kind of man who can make destruction sound like romance. I know better
now. I’ve lived through it.
And yet, there’s a strange comfort in the familiarity of him. Not love, not
even nostalgia. It’s more like the echo of a dance I used to know all the steps
to.
I unlock my phone. My thumb hovers.
Before I can decide what to do, I open my socials and search out a name I
shouldn’t. It sends me to Aleksi’s page.
Big mistake.
The first photo that pops up is him in Finland, standing on a frozen pond
with a whistle around his neck, surrounded by a swarm of kids in matching
jerseys. His caption reads: Coaching the next generation.
My heart stutters. He looks so happy. So… settled. Gorgeous as ever.
The next photo nearly knocks the breath out of me. A gorgeous brunette
woman on skates, her cheeks pink from the cold, laughing as he holds her
steady by the waist. They’re both smiling like there’s no one else in the
world. It can’t be his sister, she’s working in France for a marketing agency
the last I heard, and they’re twins but this woman doesn’t have his blonde
hair.
Another shot: Aleksi helping her with her laces. One more, this time with
his arm slung around her shoulders as they eat ice cream cones, he’s smiling
at her like he just finished saying something funny, something so ‘Aleksi’,
and she’s mid laugh.
And finally, a group shot: Aleksi, the brunette, his mom, and a little boy I
assume is his nephew. A perfect Finnish postcard of domestic bliss.
She’s met his mom.
I zoom out and stare at the screen until my vision blurs.
She’s stunning. Effortless and natural in a way I’ve never been. The kind of
woman mothers adore and players settle down with. She’s probably from
where he’s from. Maybe they dated in highschool, first loves… or maybe
she’s the girl next door. The woman his mother always hoped he’d come
home and marry one day, giving her gorgeous, Finnish grandbabies.
My chest tightens until it’s hard to breathe.
I told him to give me space, and he did.
I told him we couldn’t risk it, and he listened.
Now he’s halfway across the world, building a life with someone who
doesn’t come with a warning label and a file with the medical board.
And I’m… happy for him.
At least, that’s the story I’m sticking to.
A car honks, jarring me back. I blink hard, realizing they were honking at
someone while I stare at my phone like an idiot.
“Jesus,” I mutter, my heart is pounding.
I get into my car and slam the door, the sound too loud in the quiet
morning. I rest my head against the steering wheel and let the cold air from
the vent brush against my face until I can breathe again.
The phone lights up one more time.
Tarron: Dinner? Tomorrow night?
I stare at the message, thumb hovering. I could ignore it. I should ignore it.
But something in me—some mix of exhaustion, curiosity, and desperate need
for distraction—wins over.
Fine, I type back. Dinner. Just this once.
The message sends, the little bubble pops up, “Delivered”, and just like
that, it’s done. The screen goes dark, and I whisper the lie I’ve been telling
myself since Nevada.
“It’s just dinner.”
But even as I start the car, my stomach rolls again, and I can’t tell if it’s
guilt, grief, or something else.
I drop the phone into the cup holder and stare at it like it might bite back.
Regret hits almost instantly. Not sharp, but slow and creeping, like water
seeping under a door.
What am I even doing?
I pull out of my parking spot and head for home. Maybe I just need a nap.
Everything will feel better after that.
I tell myself that dinner with Tarron is harmless. Closure, maybe. A chance
to tell him that I’ve moved on, that he can stop with the texts and the “what
ifs.”
That’s all this is.
Right.
I pull into the parking garage of my apartment building. It’s dim, the
concrete walls sweating with condensation. I lean my head back against the
seat and close my eyes, the vibrating of the car still idling, lulls me for a
moment.
If I could just stay here for another minute I might actually breathe again.
But my chest is too tight, my stomach rolling in slow, uneasy waves.
“Stress,” I whisper out loud. “It’s just stress.”
The word sounds empty even to me.
I grab my phone and send out a text to Vivi: “SOS, I might need to raid
your closet tomorrow for a dinner date with my ex.”
Then I press my hand to my stomach, palm flat, as if I can will it to settle.
The motion is automatic—doctor’s instinct, self-check, diagnostic calm.
Except my pulse jumps under my fingers. My breathing stutters. And the
nausea doesn’t fade.
Travel fatigue, I tell myself next. Meeting up with Tarron probably isn’t
helping. Too much caffeine and not enough sleep could also be the culprit.
The emotional hangover of seeing the social media evidence that the man you
shouldn’t want looks like he’s finally found someone who’s a better fit for
him.
There are a hundred logical explanations.
My brain does what it always does. It starts cataloging data. Last cycle.
Last test. The last time I had sex…
And then the thought I’ve been dodging all week slips through the cracks,
quiet and cruel.
You’re not… or, could you be?
“No,” I whisper, shaking my head hard enough to make my vision blur.
“It’s not that. We used protection.”
Except it could be.
It’s not improbable. It’s also not likely but that doesn’t mean it’s impossible.
And missed periods mean nothing. During medical school finals, I missed
at least a couple due to stress. Even during my divorce, I missed my periods
for six straight months from heartbreak. It happens and the stress of possibly
dying in the motel, and then the possibility of losing my medical license due
to what Aleksi and I did, is reason enough that I could have missed one.
I’m a doctor. Women miss periods all the time. It proved nothing, and we
used condoms.
I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles ache, trying to ground myself.
My reflection stares back from the windshield—washed out, exhausted, with
that same stubborn streak that’s gotten me through every tough decision I’ve
ever had to make.
I survived my mother. I survived my divorce. I survived Nevada.
If this is what… I think it could be, I can survive this too.
But even as I think it, a quiet panic coils tighter under my ribs.
I open my eyes again and look down at my phone, the faint glow of the
screen painting the inside of the car in blue light. Vivi’s name stares back.
Vivi: Yes! I can’t wait. See you tomorrow. I’m inviting some of the
girls. It’ll be fun. We’ll make him eat his own shorts when he sees
you.
I could still cancel. I could still undo it.
But I don’t.
Because as much as I hate to admit it, part of me wants the distraction. I
want to walk into a room where someone looks at me like I’m still wanted,
even if it’s for all the wrong reasons.
I know how this ends—probably with regret, definitely with indigestion—
but for one night, the idea of being seen feels easier than being alone.
I shove the phone back into my bag, cut the engine and climb out of my car.
The nausea eases with motion. Maybe that’s a good sign. Maybe that’s my
body’s way of saying you’re fine, Kendall. Stop jumping to crazy conclusions.
I can do this. Dinner. Closure. Then home. Then sleep. The nausea will
subside. I just hope it does before Aleksi comes in six more weeks when preseason starts back up.
Easy, right?
