Page 65 of North

Mazzy smiles, a knowing look in her eyes. “It’s never easy. But the best things in life never are.”

The waitress returns, her timing almost comical, breaking the heavy moment with her bright, cheerful energy. “How’s everything tasting so far?” she asks, her notepad in hand as she glances at our half-empty plates.

“Great, thanks,” Willa says. “Could we get another round?”

“Of course,” the waitress chirps, scribbling it down before glancing at me.

As the waitress bustles away, Mazzy takes a sip of her wine, her gaze never leaving mine. “I know it’s scary but you’ve got us. Whatever happens, we’re here for you.”

For the first time in a long time, I feel a flicker of something I’ve almost forgotten how to recognize: hope.

“So,” I ask hesitantly, my voice barely audible over the din of the bar, “what’s it like? Being in love, I mean.”

Mazzy and Willa exchange a look, their expressions softening. It’s not pity but understanding, and for some reason that’s even harder to face.

“It’s not perfect,” Willa says after a moment, her tone thoughtful. “But it’s worth it. Love isn’t about never having problems—it’s about facing them together.”

Mazzy nods, her fingers playing idly with the stem of her wineglass. “For me, it’s about feeling seen. Foster knows me better than anyone, and he loves all of me. Even the parts I don’t always love myself.”

Their words stir something deep and unfamiliar. I take a sip of my wine, hoping the warmth of it will calm the strange ache blooming within me. “But how do you trust it?” I ask hesitantly. “How do you know it’s real?”

“You don’t always know,” Willa admits, her gaze steady and kind. “Sometimes you have to take a leap of faith. But if it’s the right person, they’ll catch you.”

Mazzy reaches across the table, placing her hand over mine. “And if you fall, you’ll get back up. But you have to give yourself a chance to fall, Farren.”

I swallow hard, unable to look at either of them for fear they’ll see too much. My thumb brushes over the rim of my glass as I consider what they’ve said. A chance to fall. It sounds simple, but the weight of it feels like a mountain pressing down on me.

“I hear you,” I whisper.

Mazzy squeezes my hand gently before letting go. “That’s a start.”

The check arrives, and Willa insists on covering it, brushing off our protests with a wave of her hand. “It’s my treat,” she says firmly. “You two have been my sanity more times than I can count. Let me do this.”

As we step outside, the cool night air wraps around us like a gentle embrace. The streets are quiet, the soft glow of streetlights casting long shadows on the pavement. We all ordered Ubers since we’d been drinking.

“You know,” Mazzy says, turning to me with a playfulgrin, “I think North’s good for you. He’s steady, but not boring. Confident, but not cocky. And from what I’ve seen, he’s crazy about you.”

I roll my eyes, though my cheeks flush at her words. The warmth of their support settles in me like a small flame. “You two are relentless. Give it a rest.”

“We’re also right,” Mazzy says with a wink. “And we’re never going to let up, so get used to it.”

I’m still not sure about that, but I’m willing to consider it. Besides, North is doing the same exact thing to me. And somehow, I’m still hanging around.

CHAPTER 22

Farren

The engine ofNorth’s truck rumbles as I pull into the underground garage of the arena. The automatic arm lifts when I approach, the decal on his windshield granting me access. Driving this beast has been a learning curve, but I have to admit, I’m getting the hang of it. This morning as I was driving North to the arena, I took a corner too tight and nearly clipped a parked car. I thought he might have a stroke, but I assured him I knew exactly where that car was the entire time. He was dubious but in the end, he gave me unfettered access to his truck today, which shows a level of trust in me I’m not quite sure I fully deserve. Regardless, after running errands all morning while he’s been at practice, I handle it like a pro—well, almost.

I ease into his reserved spot, cutting the engine. The parking garage is quiet, a few other players’ cars still scattered around. I see a text from North that says he’ll be out in a few minutes and decide to scroll through my phone to kill time.

Job hunting today was… something. I hit up a bunch of bars I’d researched, dropped off a few applications and even had one impromptu interview. The manager offered me a position on the spot, but I told him I needed to think about it. The truth is the thought of stepping back behind a bar is daunting. It’s not that I hate bartending, I’m just tired of it. The hours, the grind, the endless small talk—it’s all starting to feel like a rut.

Funny how I never felt that way before, but it seems since meeting North, nothing is the same.

About fifteen minutes later, North emerges from the arena, his hair damp from the shower, a gym bag slung over his shoulder. His Titans-branded hoodie stretches across his broad shoulders, and he looks every bit the professional athlete, which still messes with my head sometimes. He’s just North to me—a mix of maddening and irresistible—but seeing him like this reminds me he’s also a big deal to thousands of people.

He opens the passenger door and tosses his bag in the back seat of the extended cab before he starts to climb into the passenger side.

---