Page 90 of Player Misconduct
“Kendall…” he says my name… my whole name instead of my initial as usual. “I agree I was an idiot, but only for losing you. It’s hard to see you pregnant and for the baby not to be mine. I guess, even after everything that happened between us, I stillnever imagined you having kids that weren’t mine. I thought we’d find a way back together—some day.”
“You didn’t see kids with the cheerleader? Or how about the model in LA. Or the female broadcaster from–”
“Okay, okay, I get it,” he nods, cutting me off. “I fucked up, alot.”
“Youfucked alot… that we can agree on,” I say, the sound of my voice a little bitter than I wish it was after years apart. “Butfucked up…” my mind goes to Aleksi immediately, though the thought of him is never far away to begin with. “...Maybe not. Maybe you set me free to find something better for me. I’m finally happy, so please don’t screw this up for me.”
His eyes drop to his hands for the second, his smile dropping. A glimpse of disappointment. It might be the first real emotion I’ve seen from him not hidden behind a mask he’s always got on for everyone else.
When he looks up, he paints back on a smile like rejection does sting. “Fair enough. But you’ll come to the game?”
“I said I will consider it, if you keep to your word this time.”
He sits back as the pizza lands between us, steam ribboning up. We eat. It’s almost normal, which makes me queasy in a different way.
The bell over the door jingles.
I don’t look up until the shift in the room tells me I should. A small wave of attention rolls through Marino’s—not the shriek of true celebrity, just the ripple people make when someone familiar passes through their peripheral vision and lands, briefly, in the center.
Coach Evans steps in—gray suit, handkerchief, a face made for ESPN cutaways. He’s flanked by an assistant in a navy windbreaker with the Sentinels logo. Seattle is smaller than it seems and the sports world makes it even smaller. Of course they eat here. Of course they do.
Evans scans the room the way coaches do—fast, assessing, already three moves ahead. His eyes pause on me, then on Tarron, then on the two of us sharing a pizza with half cheese as if this is a script he expected to read.
“Kendall,” he says, warm, crossing to our table. “Didn’t know you were still in the neighborhood. How’s our guy Slade’s shoulder?”
“Good,” I say, keeping my smile professional. “The off-season plan did its job. He’s healthy and ready for the season.”
“A credit to your program, I’m sure.” He glances at my belly, and to his credit, doesn’t make a face or a joke. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” I manage. “If I could just get past the nausea and the ligament pain, I might feel a little of that.” I tease.
He nods. “My wife Lexi had all of that too. Kids are a handful but we couldn’t imagine our lives without our twins. The investment is high but it pays back in high dividends, I promise.” he adds, straightforward.
“I’ll remember that,” I say.
Evans turns to Tarron, and the temperature drops half a degree. “You on time this week, McCoy?”
“Yes, Coach,” Tarron says, easy. “You know me. The ever professional.”
Evans’ mouth twitches. He and I both know how many mornings that line failed to be true, and now I see why the family man persona Tarron is trying to push is because it’s not just the GM that has his doubts. Seeing it in person gives me a different perspective. Not that Tarron didn’t earn everyone’s concern as to whether he can handle the come back or revert back to his ways.
He shifts back to me. “If you ever get bored on the other side of town,” he says lightly, “we have a couple of research slots opening up with our medical staff. Injury analytics. Player wellness. Could use a brain like yours. You don’t haveto interview, just say the word. Penelope might revoke my christmas party invite though, but I think it would be worth it,” he says with an easy yet professional smile.
My skin prickles. An opportunity disguised in small talk. My future disguised as an escape hatch, but it means giving up the Hawkeyes. Maybe this is the only way Aleksi and I can come out of the shadows with our baby. But does it mean I give up the only family I’ve ever known to do it? Penelope, Isla, Cammy, Theo… the team who treat me like a little sister but with credentials. Am I willing to give them all up for this?
And it would put me back in the NFL. A media circuit that iced me out. That believed the gossip a crooked agent pushed so that my cheated husband got an easy out. I finally have peace in my life in the NHL.
“It’s a long drive,” I say, and he hears what I’m actually asking: Could this be a lifeline if the board comes sniffing? If my situation becomes untenable?
“Seattle’s a small town with good bridges,” he says, eyes kind. “Think about it.”
He squeezes my shoulder. His hand is warm. When he leaves, he pauses just long enough to clap Tarron on the back—not hard, not soft. “Eyes forward,” he tells him. “No detours.”
“Yes, Coach,” Tarron says with a mocking salute. The minute the door shuts, irritation flashes across his face and vanishes. “He loves to perform in public,” he mutters.
“So do you,” I say, but it’s gentle this time.
We make it through two more slices and a detour story about a mascot and a rogue T-shirt cannon before the bell chimes again—and this time the ripple is bigger. I don’t need to look to know why my pulse jumps. My bones feel him first. Our son wiggles in my belly as if he already senses him too.
