Page 19 of Fumbling Forward
For awork dinner.
I sink onto the edge of my bed, head in my hands.
I’m lying to myself, and I know it.
The way my heart had raced when he touched my back. The way I’d leaned into that touch, just for a second, before catching myself. The way his voice had dropped when he saidchemistry, like the word itself was a confession.
My phone buzzes. A text.
Carter:Made it home. Thanks again for tonight.
I stare at the message, cursor blinking in the reply box.
It was just dinner, I type, then delete it.
See you tomorrow, I try next. Delete.
Finally, I settle on:Anytime. Sleep well.
His response is immediate.
Carter:You too. Dream of dragons.
I smile despite myself, setting the phone on my nightstand.
But when I lie back against my pillows, staring at the ceiling, I know sleep won’t come easy. Because I’m already thinking about tomorrow. About seeing him again. About the way he makes mefeel like I’m standing on the edge of something terrifying and exhilarating all at once.
And the scariest part?
I’m not sure I want to step back from the edge.
I want to see what happens if I jump.
Chapter Eight
Carter
Practice ends late. The sun’s already dipping below the stadium lights, casting long shadows across the field. My shoulder aches, a dull throb that reminds me I’m not twenty-five anymore. I stretch it out, rolling it back as I head toward the tunnel.
Most of the team’s already in the locker room, but I linger on the field, helmet in hand, breathing in the smell of grass and sweat. This is my sanctuary. The one place where everything makes sense.
“You planning to sleep out here?”
I turn. Olivia stands at the edge of the field, tablet tucked under her arm, that professional mask firmly in place. But I’ve learned to read the cracks in it now. The way her eyes soften when she thinks I’m not looking. The slight curve of her mouth when I say something that amuses her.
“Thought about it,” I say, walking toward her. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Really?”
“Freshman year. Lost a big game. Couldn’t face going home, so I slept under the bleachers.” I stop a few feet away from her. “Coach found me at dawn, brought me coffee, and told me the best players aren’t the ones who never lose. They’re the ones who know how to get back up.”
Her expression softens. “That’s good advice.”
“Yeah.” I glance back at the empty field. “I’ve been getting back up for seventeen years. Some days it gets harder.”
“Your shoulder?”
I shake my head. “My head. Knowing when to stop.”
