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“It’s just that I’m not sure how long I’ll be back for.” His eyebrow quirks up, and it’s clear that he was under a different impression. “I mean, I’m doing my physical therapy in town, which locks me down for at least a few weeks. After that, I don’t know.” I leave the rest unsaid.

“I understand, but while you’re healing, might as well give yourself something else to focus on, huh?”

“I think recovery is going to take pretty much all of my attention.”

“Maybe.” He crosses his arms at his chest and looks around. “But you already lost yourself in this sport once. You plan on doing it again?”

My head rears back just slightly. I’m not sure what he knows or how he even knows anything in the first place, about how much I’ve given up over the years, but I shouldn’t be surprised. My absence in town has apparently not gone unnoticed, and now I’m back, alone and with nothing—if his intention was to give me a little kick in the ass, I think it worked. The problem is this sport is who I am. Rugby is an extension of me and without it, I don’t even know who Knox Browning is. That is the main reason that I’ve been so lost over these past few weeks. All I’ve ever focused on was rugby. Training, preparing, and making it big. Even if I wanted to focus on something else, I don’t think I remember how to.

“You really think that I could coach just because I played well?”

“You didn’t just play well, Knox. You were a goddamn all-star. But—” His thick brows furrow as he looks down at the ground. When he tilts his head back up to meet my eyes, I see an understanding there. “Sometimes it’s not all about the drills.”

I’ve never actually been a coach, but it seems like that’s exactly what it would be about. “As a coach, I’ve learned just as much from these lads as I’ve taught some of them. If not

more.”

Classic Coach Campbell, speaking in riddles. Although, this is one riddle I don’t think I care to solve. The corner of his lip pulls up in a tight-lipped smile, but by the way his posture drops, it’s clear he thinks his efforts to sway me were in vain. His weathered hand pats my shoulder to signify theend of the conversation, and he begins to make his way back toward his truck.

I stand, unmoving, even as the wind picks up enough to bring me back to reality, and the branches of willow trees sway in the breeze. I feel crazy saying I heard encouragement dancing in the whispers of a gust of wind, so I blame it on my loyalty to my old coach when I turn around and lift my good arm over my head.

“I’ll think about it!” I call out.

He pauses, his hand on the door. He dips his head with a knowing smile. “Good lad. I’ll need an answer by Monday. Otherwise, I’ll be visiting Miss Sophie with the same pitch.”

He climbs up into his truck and puts off down the hill, and miraculously the wind tapers off into a peaceful silence.

I rush back upto the main house as soon as I can, hoping to run into Taylor again. I pause at the bottom of the stairs, one arm on the banister, before I swing over it and decide to scope out the kitchen first. I stand at the swinging door, looking for the source of the noise I thought I heard a moment ago, but the room appears to be empty of people.

“Looking for someone?”

“Jesus, Mum.” I bring my hand to my chest, whirling around. “What are you doing hiding in the corner like that?”

“I’m not hiding, I was trying to get this dish out but it’s got too much heavy stuff on it.” Her shaky hand points to the hutch in the corner. I move toward the old piece of furniture. My hand looks like a bear's paw compared to the delicate, original brass handles on the navy blue cabinets. I start pulling out large glass bowls and the other ‘heavy stuff’ that my mum was struggling with. “So you going to tell me who you were looking for?”

I peer up at my mom and point to an old hand-painted ceramic casserole dish.

“This the one you were looking for?”

She raises a hand to her face, sheiling a guilty smile and I only now notice that her knuckles seem to be rather swollen. I carry the dish to the sink and wash it off before setting it on the counter for her.

“When’s your first physical therapy?”

“A few days,” I shrug.

“Have you met Riley yet?”

“Riley?”

“She took over for Old—” Her eyes go wide but she recovers quickly. “Walter Murphy. She's a wonderful girl. Really funny, too.”

“I haven’t met her yet, but Liam seems like he might very well throw himself down a flight of stairs to break his leg just to have a date with her.”

“That boy.” My mum's soft laughter fills the kitchen, and something squeezes in my chest. It’s been years since I’ve been in the kitchen alongside her—more than half my lifetime ago, but it still feels like only yesterday when my mini grubby hands were reaching for things on this same butcher counter.

“Yeah, I—” I freeze, watching her scrub potatoes. “Wait, how do you know Riley?”

“I saw her for a short while after my surgery,” she says like it’s no big deal. Like it’s common knowledge. My heart rate accelerates and my molars grind together because I’m definitely only hearing it for the first time.