Page 43 of Player Misconduct
I force a smile. “Fine. Just hungry.”
I grab half a turkey sandwich that Isla ordered for me ahead since I was running late with a Physical Therapist who was going over Scottie and Trey’s chart with me, and inhale it before anyone can comment.
Food helps. Sort of.
The girls laugh about something Isla said. Something about Kaenan’s inability to fold laundry, and I laugh too, even though I barely hear it. I’m trying to act normal, to be normal. That’s what I’m supposed to do.
It’s been six weeks since Aleksi left for Finland.
Six weeks since the end of the season.
Six weeks since that morning in Nevada when I woke up tangled in his arms and told myself to run before my heart made a fool of me.
Six weeks of no text messages from him, or likes on my socials… or anything. What should I have expected? I asked for space, and to his credit, he gave it to me.
I thought time would make it easier. That the distance would untangle something that felt too big, too dangerous. But all it’s done is make the silence louder.
The girls are talking about off-season plans. Isla and Kaenan are taking the kids to Hawaii with Vivi, Trey and Adeline. Peyton’s working with Hunter on expanding his podcast network. His long game after retirement. Cammy and JP are planning a trip to Cancun with her dad, Seven Wrenley, the goalie special team’s coach, and his wife Brynn, who is also a part of our group. We don’t see her often these days since she’s been busy working in her writing cave coming up with her next bestselling romance novel.
“You should take a vacation,” Cammy says, stirring her drink. “Get away for a bit.”
“Yeah,” Penelope agrees. “You’ve been in doctor mode nonstop. Even Theo said you snapped at him during rehab the other day. You snap at the players sometimes, but I’ve never seen you snap at Theo.”
“I wasn’t snapping,” I protest, though my tone sounds sharp even to me. I wince and drop my gaze to my coffee that Isla also ordered for me though my stomach barely feels settled enough for the acidic beverage that’s usually my saving grace. “Maybe I was. It was a long season and the off-season hasn’t let up much either.”
“Then take a break,” Peyton presses. “You’re always fixing everyone else. Maybe fix yourself for once. Get a sun burn somewhere naughty and have a fling. I think you could use one.”
“Hey…” I say with a frown, faking insult.
I know she’s right. Getting laid is usually the antidote for getting over someone else like… Aleksi, but truthfully, I don’t think it will help at all.
“Yeah,” I lie, offering a quick smile. “Maybe I will.”
I let the thought cross my mind. The last vacation I took was with Tarron on our anniversary, a few months before the pictures of the cheerleader and the bar appeared on my social media feed.
I’d never been on a ‘vacation’ in my life before Tarron. My mother dropped me off at summer camp once as a kid. That was the closest thing I’d ever had until I met him. Right until she forgot to come get me and no one could get ahold of her. She apparently got evicted from our crappy apartment during the week I was gone and she left. The Department of Children’s Services got involved and I lived with another family for two weeks, until they took away the grocery money she was getting for me and gave it to the family taking care of me. Then suddenly she, conveniently, remembered I existed.
During college, I was too poor to afford to do anything, and then came student loans.
Then when I met Tarron, he always planned lavish and luxurious vacations for us. Just more of the love-bombing and debt building that I didn’t know was happening right under my nose.
But where would I even go if I went on a vacation?
I don’t have family to visit. My mom hasn’t called in years, and I doubt she’d start now. I imagine her still somewhere in Florida, maybe chasing her next heartbreak or the bottom of another bottle. If I’m being honest… probably both. The thought makes my chest ache.
An odd idea of booking a ticket to Finland pops in my head and then just as quickly, I shake it loose. I’m the one who told him that nothing can happen between us. Then I jumped his bones in the deserted motel, and then I fled the scene the next morning without saying goodbye. He must have whiplash.
The last thing I told him was that a summer between us would be good. Showing up to Finland, especially unannounced…? Talk about mixed messages.
I can’t do that to him, and I won’t. No matter how much I miss him. No matter how much duller the stadium is without him making up fake injuries just to see me for a few minutes in myoffice. Or hearing him belt out some folklore song in the locker room. The man has a great singing voice too. As if he needs any more talents.
Playing with him like that isn’t fair, even if the truth is that I’m forcing the words to keep us apart. I know I’m doing the right thing, even though it’s hard.
My heart can’t take a heartbreak like that again and our careers can’t take the scandal.
Maybe this is what healing looks like—coffee with friends, laughter in between the ache.
Then the smell of melted butter hits me again and my stomach lurches.
