Page 73 of Stick Fight

God, why am I so deep in my head tonight?

I force my attention back to the game. The final minutes are tense, the score locked at three to one. Everyone’s eyes are glued to the action. And when the buzzer sounds, this time we all erupt like we’ve just won the championship. Hugs, cheers, clinking glasses.

For a brief, shining moment, all that heavy crap I was carrying lifts. Until Melanie, sweet, observant,trainedMelanie, rests a hand on my shoulder. And just like that, the unease returns.

She’s the therapist of the group. And right now, all I can think is—God, I hope she can’t read minds.

She’s beaming when I turn to her, and honestly, she has every reason to. Her husband just made some game-saving stops that lit the arena on fire. “Are you coming to Kilting Around for a drink?” Melanie asks, her smile open, genuine. There’s no pressure in her voice, just that easy camaraderie that makes you feel included—wanted.

But…Kilting Around.

The team’s go-to bar. Ground zero for post-game debauchery. The kind of place where puck bunnies prowl and Instagram stories never die. I’ve been steering clear, but because of that, I’ve kept Roman out of the spotlight, out of reach of the world that used to orbit him. I’ve tucked him away like a secret, hidden in his own life. And that’s not fair. Not to him.

“Yes, I think we will,” I say, forcing a bright smile even as my stomach knots itself into a pretzel.

Melanie watches me for a beat, something flickering in her eyes. Then she softens. “Hey, you don’t haveto go if you’re not comfortable, Gabby. I wasn’t pressuring you.”

She doesn’t know the full story. Doesn’t know I’ve been laying low in Roman’s apartment like a fugitive, trying to avoid Cass, the press, and the avalanche of my old life. But shedoesknow I ran out on a wedding like something out of a rom-com gone sideways. And she’s perceptive enough to know I’m still picking up the pieces. That I’m floating in limbo, a woman with a degree in fashion design who isn’t following her dreams. But she doesn’t push.

“I think it’ll be fun,” I tell her, meaning it more than I expected. “I’m also going to try to make it to book club next week.”

Her eyes light up. “Really? That’s amazing. It’s actually at my place this time.”

I’ve wanted to go. But between Maeve needing a hand with Stella, my designs and sewing, and Roman... there just hasn’t been time. Or maybe I haven’t made it.

But the thought of time, that’s what rattles me.

How much time do I really have here?

I haven’t called anyone in the fashion world back. Haven’t even tried. Call it cowardice. Call it confusion. All I know is, no one from that life knows what to do with me unless I’m walking back into Cass’s arms and resuming my perfectly curated existence.

Is that what Roman is waiting for…the reason we’re not delving deeper? Or is it something else, something that has nothing to do with me and everything to do with him.

I don’t know, but what I do know is the designs I’m working on now, the ones tucked away in my sketchbook like secret love letters aren’t close to being runway material. No, they will never end up in a bridal magazine. But now…does that even matter to me anymore?

Roman bought me that sewing machine to keep the dream alive. Would he be disappointed if he knew I wasn’t clawing my way back to Fashion Week? But it does beg the question. Am I chasing something new… or just reshaping myself to fit into this man’s world? The same way I did with Cass.

Who even are you anymore, Gabby? What do you want?

“You know which book we’re reading, right?” Melanie’s voice cuts through my thoughts.

“Yeah, I saw it on Maeve’s coffee table. Looks... pretty spicy.”

She grins. “That’s how we like it.”

I laugh. These women are bold, unapologetic, utterly themselves. There’s something magnetic about it.

“Okay, we better get moving. Want a lift?”

“I actually drove,” I say, remembering I’d only come to wait for Roman and ride home together.

“Perfect. See you there.”

As the women file out, their laughter trailing behind them, I hang back, digging through my bag until my fingers close around my phone. I shoot Roman a quick message, letting him know I want to go to Kilting Around. He probably won’t see it right away, not with the post-game meetings and interviews, but I send it anyway.

Outside, the night air is crisp and buzzing with residual adrenaline from the win. I blend into the crowd waiting outside the circle, the hum of conversation and flashes of camera phones filling the space. One by one, the players emerge, each one met with shrieks and swoons. The girls—some WAGs, some hopefuls—flock to them like moths to fire. Some of the guys indulge, pairing off with easy smiles and practiced charm, but most just nod, wave, and head toward their rides.

Then he appears.

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