Page 27 of Player Misconduct
Unread messages from Tarron.
My stomach turns.
When you’re faced with the possibility of dying, everything looks different. I hate what he did to me, but he was the first manI ever truly loved. The kind of love that carves deep even when it ends ugly.
I open the thread.
Tarron: I’ll be in Seattle for a while. Trying out with the Sentinels.
Tarron: Would be good to catch up. We might be living in the same city again.
Then two more, from today:
Tarron: Saw you on the Denver game. You’re good at what you do. You always were.
Tarron: Dinner… just give me an hour. That’s all I’m asking.
For a heartbeat, I just stare at the screen.
Then my gaze drifts to my hand—to Aleksi’s ring.
A strip of tape, carefully drawn with Finnish symbols I don’t understand, made by a man who has shown me more care in twenty-four hours than Tarron did in four years of marriage.
If I have one last night on this earth, I’m not spending it reliving a past that nearly destroyed me.
I lock my phone, toss it on the counter, and let the decision settle.
I pull on my bikini—the one that’s never seen daylight—and grab our towels. The mirror catches me as I pass: hair messy, eyes tired, athletic tape glinting faintly on my finger.
I look like a woman who’s finally decided to stop running from what’s right in front of her.
And with that, I open the bathroom door and step out into the hallway, determined to make the most of whatever tonight has left to offer.
Chapter Five
Aleksi
The beer’s half warm, but it doesn’t matter. It tastes like freedom.
Steam curls around us in the massive, in-ground hot tub—probably meant for twenty people but holding ten tonight. The CDC could lock the doors, cut the lights, announce the end of the world, and we’d still be here, floating like idiots in lukewarm bubbles pretending everything’s fine.
The water laps at my chest as laughter erupts from one corner. Someone passes another can of beer down the line.
I tip the can to my lips, lean back, and catch movement in my periphery—soft, slow, unhurried.
Kendall.
Every coherent thought exits my brain.
She’s walking toward us, hips swaying, towels draped over one arm. The bikini she’s wearing is black—simple, but the kind of simple that still hugs every curve I’ve fantasized about. The water ripples around me as a few heads turn.
The guy closest to me lets out a low whistle. “Damn, that’s your wife? What the hell is she doing with your ugly ass?”
“I have no idea,” I say, grinning. Because he’s right.
Kendall Hensen is out of my league. I knew it the first day I walked into the Hawkeyes locker room and she was introduced as the team doctor. The calm, brilliant woman who made every injury sound solvable. I was just a call-up from the farm team, still reeking of nerves and sweat. She’d already been with the team for a year before I signed on. She barely glanced at me, but something in that moment clicked, like I’d just met the person I was supposed to orbit around.
He’s right. She’s in a league of her own. Always has been.
