A deep, decades-long sigh released from my lips. “The truth, Coach . . . is that I’ve loved her my whole life. I’ll always love her. And I want to be with her.”
He narrowed his gaze. “Enough to leave this team?”
The crack in my chest fissured, deep and vast.
I pushed past it.
“The Sharks are my life, sir. All I’ve ever wanted to do was be on this team. To play professionally. To one day be a starter.” I flashed an apologetic look to Gage, which he waved off. “I don’t want to choose, Coach,” I said, sighing. “But if I had to, then yes. I would choose her. Every time.”
Warren’s eyebrows went up. Being the one closest to Coach, I think he feared Coach would come across the table and slug me for such blasphemy.
But he’d wanted the truth. And I’d never been more sure of anything.
I loved my family. But I loved her more.
And I was tired of living without her.
“I thought as much,” Coach said, nodding.
Warren’s shoulders dropped at the easiness in Coach’s tone.
“Well,” Coach continued, “lucky for you, you don’t have to choose.”
“Sir?”
He shook his head. “I’m taking my responsibility in this. When we hired her . . . I said she was off-limits because I wanted to protect her professional time here. Wanted her to be comfortable. Didn’t want to deal with any heartbreak.” He looked at me pointedly. “I told her the same thing. That you all were off-limits, too. Didn’t want her crushing one of you either. But I didn’t know your history,” he said with a sigh. “Didn’t know it would hurt you, make you hide from me.”
When he didn’t continue, I asked, “Wait . . . so are you transferring her?”
He pushed out a slow breath. “I have to make the calls and start the paperwork because she filed it with me personally.”
Before my brain had time to register his words and turn them into pain, he was pointing at me.
“I need you to swear to me, Rogers,” he demanded. “Swear to me having her here won’t be an issue. No more fights. You won’t lose your shit if she has to examine a player with a groin tear, you feel me?”
I swallowed around the hope in my throat, not allowing myself to believe as I nodded rapidly.
“I need to hear you say it, son.”
“I swear,” I said. “It won’t affect my game.”
“Oh, it’s already affected your game . . . for the better.” Coach chuckled. “Ever since she came along, you’ve played harder, better. And I know it doesn’t all have to do with her lessons.”
The guys laughed.
Coach leaned back in his seat and nodded. “I’m giving you this approval. You have twenty-four hours to see if you can change her mind—to get her to withdraw the request. Give her a reason to stay.”
I sat there, stunned.
Waiting for the axe to drop. Waiting for Coach to laugh and say he was kidding. That I was fired and Chloe was fired and that I’d cost her everything.
Gage kicked me under the table.
“Ow, dick,” I hissed, rubbing my shin.
“Get your head out of your ass.”
“Right,” I said, blinking as I scooted away from the table.
“Twenty-four hours,” Coach reminded me.
The day.
I had the day to change her mind.
Standing, I glanced at the guys.
“What do you need from us?” Warren asked.
A smirk shaped my lips as an idea took shape in my mind.
It was insanity, but I knew nothing less would be good enough.
Like the team we were, I relayed what I needed from them and we broke apart, springing into action.
I gripped Coach’s hand, resisting the urge to kiss him for the gift he’d given me—my freedom to ask Chloe to be mine.
“Thank you,” I said.
He grunted. “Don’t make me regret this.”
“I won’t.”
I hurried out the door, waving to the guys, trusting them with one of the most important parts of my plan.
Knowing they’d deliver.
Now, I just had to hope like hell I could.
Chapter 22
Chloe
Mom sat by her window, a fresh canvas before her as she stared at the flowers in the garden. The wheels turning behind her eyes as she mentally sketched where to start.
So lucid, so beautiful.
It broke my heart.
Coach had yet to text me any news, and I was starting to think no one would ever hire me after transferring from two teams. It’d only been a couple hours though, so I tried to hold on to hope.
Losing my bonus was astronomical.
But I was determined to keep Mom here.
Where she was happy and healthy.
Where she sometimes recognized me.
Maybe I could get a loan to cover me the next few months while I transitioned.
Then I could pay the loan back while maintaining payments here—I could get a smaller place. Cut back on costs. Maybe somehow set up a camp and make money on the side.
I’d make it work.
Do whatever it took to keep Mom here and to keep Bentley on the Sharks.
Solidified in my choices, I walked into her room, sitting quietly as to not interrupt her train of thought.
Five minutes passed before she saw me.
“Hello,” I said.
“Hi, Chloe,” she said, like she’d been expecting me. Like we saw each other all the time. “I’m thinking of using a more orangish-yellow for those daffodils, she said, pointing out the window. “What do you think?”
I thought my heart would burst at how easily she spoke to me . . . really me.
“I think that’s a perfect idea,” I said, trying not to let my voice crack.
Her lucidity only further assured my choices in doing whatever it took to keep her here. Even going into massive debt. It would be hard, but I would make it happen. Because this was beyond worth it.
We sat like that, in easy conversation for forty-five solid minutes as she painted. She knew me, missed me, loved me. Her brush on the canvas seemed to ground her in the present, in this reality she now clung to.
I hadn’t gotten this much time in so long.
And while it was so wonderful, it hurt ten times worse when I saw the shift.
I knew it was coming.
Had been expecting it every second we spoke.
But, as bittersweet as it was, hope filled my heart.
Because we’d been given this much time . . . who knew how much we’d get tomorrow?
“I must be going,” I said when I saw that flicker of confusion flash in her eyes, her brush pausing on the canvas. “Thank you so much for letting me watch you paint.”
“Of course. Thanks for sending that Shark to see me today,” she added when I’d made it to her door.
“What?” I asked.
“That handsom
e one,” she called over her shoulder. “Such a nice boy. We talked for an hour. He brought me these new paints.”
Tears pricked my eyes, right alongside the confusion. Unsure if it really happened or if she was remembering another time. She hadn’t mentioned Bentley when she was lucid.
“I’m so glad,” I said, but she was already engrossed in her painting again.
I stepped into the hallway, taking deep breaths to right my mind as I approached the front desk.
“Ms. Lewis.” The receptionist beamed at me, much more excited to talk bills than I was. “What can I do for you?”
“I wanted to see if I could get an estimated projection for the next three months’ payments.” I pinched my brow, the headache I’d kept at bay now fully formed behind my eyes. “I know I’m on autopay,” I continued, “but I’m having some career adjustments and need to double check every inch of my budget.”
“Oh,” she said, smiling up at me. “I was going to tell you before you left today . . .”
My heart froze, waiting for her to deliver some awful news—that my bill was rising again or that John would no longer be Mom’s nurse.
“Your mother’s accounts have been paid up for the next year.”
“What?” I gasped, shaking my head. “No, there’s been some sort of mistake. I didn’t approve that . . .”
Her eyes flashed over my shoulder, and I spun around.
“Bentley.” His name came out on a whimper as my eyes landed on him, standing there looking glorious in a black shirt and jeans, a sheepish smile on his lips.
For a moment, I didn’t connect the dots, so lost in the surprise of his presence.
Then my eyes widened.
“Wait,” I said, stepping toward him. “You did this?”
He nodded.
I gaped at him, unbelieving.
I’d known he was wealthy—sponsorships and everything—but I didn’t realize just how well off he was.
“I can’t accept this,” I said, realizing how big of a gift he was trying to give me. “I’m grateful for the gesture, Bent, but I can’t take it.”
“Sure you can,” he said, breeching the distance between us, his hand on my cheek. He sighed, glancing down from where he towered over me. “Chloe, why would you put in a transfer.”