Page 9 of Your Second Chance
I don’t know if she fully understood how deep my gratitude ran—how much I owed her for being the one person whose hand I’d always take without question. It was so big, so overwhelming, that sometimes I didn’t know how to say it out loud.
Our food arrived not long after, carried by the same smiling waitress, who carefully placed the plates in front of us. “Here we go, two roasts. Enjoy.”
The plates were almost comically large—piled high with roasted meat glistening under a drizzle of gravy, golden Yorkshire puddings puffed to perfection, crispy roasted potatoes, buttery carrots, and peas.
The hunger hit hard and fast, like I’d been starving for weeks. I dug in without hesitation, barely coming up for air as I shoveled in bite after bite.
Luna watched me with a smirk. “Hungry?”
“Don’t judge me,” I mumbled around a mouthful, already diving back in.
For the first time in weeks, I felt grounded. Not floating. Not drowning. Justhere.Full.
“Feeling better now?” she asked, raising her pint.
“Much,” I admitted, leaning back in my chair as the warmth of the meal settled over me.
An older man wandered over, his face lined with age, but his eyes bright and curious. “Pardon me, ladies,” he said, his voice gruff but friendly. “Did I hear American accents? I thought so. I live in the building next to yours—saw you moving in the other week.”
Luna’s face lit up. She was a people person, so random conversations like this were her thing. “No way. You’re our neighbor?”
He nodded, pulling up a chair like he’d been invited. “I’m Clive. Live on the ground floor next door. Been there twenty years.”
“Nice to meet you, Clive.”
Before I knew it, Luna had ordered him another pint, and Clive was settling in like an old friend.
And then it snowballed. A few more older men from the bar spotted Clive and decided to join, dragging over chairs and plopping down like we were the entertainment for the night. They introduced themselves with booming voices and clinking pints, telling us everything they thought weneededto know about living here.
“Tourists always go to Big Ben first thing. Don’t bother, it’s a clock!”
“If you want a proper local pint, skip the fancy craft beer pubs. Stick to places like this.”
“You’ll need wellies come winter. The rain doesn’t stop here.”
“Markets are the heart of London—Spitalfields, Borough, Camden. But don’t go to Camden on a weekend. Bloody nightmare! Or any of them for that matter.”
The advice kept coming, and soon Luna was in her element, laughing loudly and somehow becoming the center of attention. She had a whole group of older men around her, all raising their glasses and trading jokes.
The pub had gotten louder, more chaotic, and somehow even more alive. More people piled in, squeezing into every available corner.
I couldn’t help but laugh as Luna cackled over another round of pints with her newfound fan club. She was thriving.
The door chimed, the sound somehow cutting through the noise, and for some reason, I turned to look.
Standing a few feet away, framed by the dim glow of the entryway, were Oliver Stone and Will Norman—the coaches for the Hands.
My stomach dropped. Of all the pubs in London... What the hell were they doing here? He said he lived north of us. Why was he freaking here?
“Luna,” I turned and whisper shouted to her while she was talking to Clive about the best strawberries of all fucking things.
“What?” she asked, and I leaned in.
“The assistant coach is here.”
“Hot Coach?” Luna perked up.
“Not hot. But yes. Here. In this bar.”
