Page 50 of Offside for Christmas
ELLIE:I'm never late.
COLE:You were late to PT last Tuesday.
ELLIE:That was ONE TIME.
COLE:I'm just saying. I'm making a point.
ELLIE:What point?
COLE:That you're not as perfect as you pretend to be. And I kind of love that.
Ellie stared at that last message for a long time.Love. He'd said love, even casually, even about something small.
She set her phone down and pulled back onto the road, heading toward her apartment.
What am I doing?she thought.This is going to hurt. I know it's going to hurt. So why can't I say no?
Because for the first time in three years, she didn't want to say no.
Because for the first time since Marcus, she wanted to try.
Because Cole Hansen, grumpy and broken and slowly healing, made her feel like maybe taking risks was worth it after all.
She parked in front of her building and sat in the car for a moment, watching the Christmas lights twinkle on Main Street, listening to the muffled sounds of the town preparing for the festival next week.
Tomorrow night. A date. With Cole.
Ellie smiled despite her fears, despite her better judgment, despite everything.
"I'm so screwed," she said aloud to her empty car.
But she was smiling when she said it.
9
COLE
Cole sat on the edge of his bed at 3 PM, staring at his bathroom cabinet. His shoulder was killing him. Had been since this morning, when he'd decided to do some extra resistance band work in his apartment and pushed too hard on the rotations. He'd lost his grip, the band had snapped back, and he'd felt something twinge as he tried to catch himself against the wall. Not a tear—he knew what that felt like—just the deep, grinding ache that meant inflammation. The kind of pain that whispered promises about how easy it would be to make it stop.
He'd already taken four Tylenol. They'd done exactly nothing.
Cole stood and walked to the bathroom, opening the cabinet. Toothpaste. Deodorant. The empty vitamin bottle where he used to hide pills, back when he was still lying to himself about what he was doing.
His phone was in his hand before he consciously decided to pick it up. He scrolled through old contacts. Found the name he was looking for—that guy from Chicago who didn't ask questions, who "helped out" players when team doctors said no.
One call. One prescription. The pain would stop. He could cook dinner without his arm shaking. Could get through the evening without grimacing every time he moved wrong.
Ellie wouldn't even have to know.
His thumb hovered over the call button.
Then his phone buzzed—a text from Ellie.
ELLIE:Still on for tonight? I'm bringing wine. And my appetite. That pasta better be as good as you promised.
Cole stared at the text. At the phone number he'd been about to call. At the choice in front of him.
He deleted the Chicago contact.
