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P.S. I found this article today. Thought you might find it helpful. Keep your head up and we’ll talk soon.

My thumb hovers over the attachment that readsHow to Recover After a Career-Ending Injury,but I set my phone down instead. I’ve known since that day I woke up in the dry blue hospital gown that I wouldn’t get to play again. Whether or not I had accepted it is another story but I’ve known. I haven’t let myself think past healing and recovering, but if there’s a possibility of training or working with my old team again—my limbs go heavy while I let myself imagine that future for a moment.

It’s justpast midnight and everyone has long gone to bed. I move back to the couch, take a breath, and open the link Coach sent. Number one, in big, bold letters, is to focus on setting goals.This is bullshit.

With an aggravated groan, I toss my phone across the couch. I hinge forward, dropping my elbow to my knee, and scrub my hand across my mouth, before digging my palm into my eye socket.

The fire in the corner is a low whisper but the creak from the floorboards is loud. I press just a little further into my eye before letting out a breath. I’m halfway between sitting and standing when a pair of sky-blue-colored toes hit the last step. Taylor rounds the wall of the stairs, looking around. Her long hair is draped behind her shoulders in two tight braids and her eyes squint as she adjusts to the light in the room until she spots me. She stands in a tight dark green tank top that’s bunched up just enough to show off a sliver of her warm ivory skin, paired with sweatpants so large they couldn’t possibly be hers.

“Hey.” I never thought I could be attracted to a voice before, but hers is raspy and sexy in a way that just does something to me. “I guess I’m a little more jet-lagged than I anticipated. I was hoping to get some food.” She leans against the arm of the couch across from me.

“You’ve missed dinner by about six hours.”

Her eyes roll back and the groan that comes from the back of her throat has me suppressing my own.

“Okay… well can you recommend something in town?”

“The towns closed, love.”

“What?” she snaps. “What do you mean the town’s closed?”

I’m not sure where she thought she would get a plate of fish and chips in the middle of the night, especially without shoes on, but she definitely wasn’t prepared for small-town living.

“Where did you say you were from again?”

“I didn’t.” She crosses her arms across her chest, tilts her head, and lifts her chin.

I narrow my gaze at her waiting for her to give in. “You’re not going to tell me where you’re from?”

“Why should I? You haven’t even told me your name.”Cheeky little thing.I stand from the couch, casually crossing the living room, and when I get close enough to her, her unique scent fills my entire body. It seeps through every pore of my skin. It’s sweet and earthy, something I’m not used to—but goddamn, do I like it. Her eyes don’t avert my gaze for a millisecond, in fact, she puffs her chest up an extra half an inch just to stand a little taller and I can’t help the way the corner of my mouth lifts. I drag my eyes down her body and up again before I continue past her to the swinging door that leads into the kitchen. She whips her head to me and I nod, silently beckoning her to come in.

“Everything in town closes at seven.” Her eyes flirt to the kitchen beyond me and a ghost of a smile crosses her face. Her arms are still crossed but her feet move to follow me. When she passes me in the narrow doorway, I lean down, my mouth hovering just over her ear, and I whisper, “And you can call me Knox.”

She goes eerily still, and her mouth parts slightly, but she cocks a brow, tilting her head. “I have a feeling I’ll be calling you a lot of things.”

“Or screaming,” I mutter to myself but I catch the way her step falters once.

I watch Taylor’s head turn slowly, taking in every inch of the kitchen. Her eyes widen and for the first time, I look at the room I spent most of my childhood in through someone else's eyes. It’s dimly lit, just like all the others, because my mum despises overhead lighting. Taylor’s bare feet pad across the cobblestone floor, her gentle hands glide across the butcher block island, and her eyes light up over the exposed shelves decorated with mismatched coffee mugs and glass tumblers. She opts for hoisting herself up on a linen-covered bar stool rather than sitting at the old round wooden table in the corner. Behind the small table is a built-in cupboard that is stuffed full of recipe books, photos, cutting boards, more flower-filled vases, and handmade art from when my siblings and I were kids. We used to sit at that table every day after school while Mum prepared dinner.

Taylor plucks a plum from the large woven bowl in front of her and raises her brow, asking for permission. I nod in response. Her lips perch on the sides of it, and when she bites in, a sweet line of juice slides down the side of her mouth. Her tongue lazily swipes at the corner of her lips, catching the leftover liquid.

I scrub my hand across my mouth, but the only thing I’m wiping away is my metaphorical drool.

“It’s called an Edda,” I manage to get out. “A local favorite.”

“It’s sweet. Do you grow them on-site?”

I nod. “All meals around here are made fresh daily, and most of the ingredients are either sourced from our own farm and gardens, or from local neighbors. The only problem is—” I open the refrigerator. “Since everything is made fresh, whatever doesn't get eaten usually gets sent home with some of the staff.” I look around at a handful of different ingredients but find nothing readily available.

I feel her presence before I see her. “May I?” Her soft hair brushes my arm as she leans down next to me, eliciting my body to flood with warmth. Aside from offering her a piece of buttered toast, I’ve got nothing, but I won’t be the reason she starves so, I step back, holding my arm out, and she quickly pulls some things out.

I take the stool that she’s no longer occupying just as she begins whisking some eggs. I briefly consider offering to help her, since I didn’t even ask if she knew how to cook, but as soon as she begins chopping vegetables, my worries about her kitchen abilities are put to bed. She handles that knife like it’s an extension of herself, rocking the blade back and forth in a rhythmic motion.

“So, you don’t want to tell me where you’re from. Do you want to tell me what you’re doing in Stoney Meadow?”

She smiles, taking a bite of the pepper she just cut.

“I’m a bigHarry Potterfan.” Now it’s my turn to smile.