Page 45 of Player Misconduct
My heart stutters. He looks so happy. So… settled. Gorgeous as ever.
The next photo nearly knocks the breath out of me. A gorgeous brunette woman on skates, her cheeks pink from the cold, laughing as he holds her steady by the waist. They’re both smiling like there’s no one else in the world. It can't be his sister, she’s working in France for a marketing agency the last I heard, and they’re twins but this woman doesn’t have his blonde hair.
Another shot: Aleksi helping her with her laces. One more, this time with his arm slung around her shoulders as they eat ice cream cones, he’s smiling at her like he just finished saying something funny, something so ‘Aleksi’, and she’s mid laugh.
And finally, a group shot: Aleksi, the brunette, his mom, and a little boy I assume is his nephew. A perfect Finnish postcard of domestic bliss.
She’s met his mom.
I zoom out and stare at the screen until my vision blurs.
She’s stunning. Effortless and natural in a way I’ve never been. The kind of woman mothers adore and players settle down with. She’s probably from where he’s from. Maybe they dated in highschool, first loves… or maybe she’s the girl next door. The woman his mother always hoped he’d come home and marry one day, giving her gorgeous, Finnish grandbabies.
My chest tightens until it’s hard to breathe.
I told him to give me space, and he did.
I told him we couldn’t risk it, and he listened.
Now he’s halfway across the world, building a life with someone who doesn’t come with a warning label and a file with the medical board.
And I’m… happy for him.
At least, that’s the story I’m sticking to.
A car honks, jarring me back. I blink hard, realizing they were honking at someone while I stare at my phone like an idiot.
“Jesus,” I mutter, my heart is pounding.
I get into my car and slam the door, the sound too loud in the quiet morning. I rest my head against the steering wheel and let the cold air from the vent brush against my face until I can breathe again.
The phone lights up one more time.
Tarron:Dinner? Tomorrow night?
I stare at the message, thumb hovering. I could ignore it. I should ignore it. But something in me—some mix of exhaustion, curiosity, and desperate need for distraction—wins over.
Fine,I type back.Dinner. Just this once.
The message sends, the little bubble pops up, “Delivered”, and just like that, it’s done. The screen goes dark, and I whisper the lie I’ve been telling myself since Nevada.
“It’s just dinner.”
But even as I start the car, my stomach rolls again, and I can’t tell if it’s guilt, grief, or something else.
I drop the phone into the cup holder and stare at it like it might bite back.
Regret hits almost instantly. Not sharp, but slow and creeping, like water seeping under a door.
What am I even doing?
I pull out of my parking spot and head for home. Maybe I just need a nap. Everything will feel better after that.
I tell myself that dinner with Tarron is harmless. Closure, maybe. A chance to tell him that I’ve moved on, that he can stop with the texts and the “what ifs.”
That’s all this is.
Right.
