On My Love – Zara Larsson, David Guetta

Addie

Me: I’m willing to hear what you have to say.

I send the text to my dad and promptly slide my phone to the other side of the work station, where I can’t hear or see a notification. Dozens of cardboard boxes, full of fruit, sit beside the sink, and one by one, I wash, cut, and store, falling into a rhythm.

Nina and Louis slice vegetables and put away packaged snacks on the other side of the room, and music fills the air while we work.

It’s easy to get lost in daydreams in the repetition.

Declan’s words have played in my mind on repeat about not letting Nora’s dreams become my own. It forced a lot of self-reflection, and I think it was a way to keep myself safe. If I didn’t dream, I couldn’t be heartbroken.

But, he’s right.

An easel in a bright sunny room appears in my mind's eye. A canvas covered in a mosaic of colors. Painting supplies spread out across a long table. A smaller easel surrounded by markers and glitter glue. Bright blue eyes and dark wavy hair. Slow mornings and quiet evenings.

A life that’s not mine flashes across my mind, but it could be mine. I think I may crave it badly enough to make it so.

Chatter filters from down the hallway, and my daydream comes to an end. It was nice while it lasted, but reality returns, and we all exchange a glance. Prepare yourselves , the look says, it’s going to be war.

Players fill the room, taking snacks from the back fridge and pantry area, and lining up for post-practice smoothies. I get to work, noting the players who are in line and ruffling through the protein powders and supplements.

Each player has a preferred smoothie, with specific added supplements, and I’ve made it my mission to know each player's requests.

The vessel in which they receive the protein and supplements isn’t always the same—I take creative freedom in the flavors of smoothies—but they’ve never been disappointed.

It helps that Deon worships my smoothies. No one argues with the quarterback.

Nina and Louis have improved exponentially with handling the chaos compared to their first day, and they work in unison to blend and pour the smoothies I design and hand them out to the right players.

Interns can be hit or miss, but they’ve been so helpful picking up the slack as we search for another full-time nutritionist.

My eyes dart to the entrance every time there’s movement, hoping a head of wavy hair will appear in the doorframe, and my heart can take a break from beating overtime.

It hasn’t stopped thudding since the words Nora muttered last night. She didn’t mention it this morning after he left, but her guard was down when she was sick, and there’s a sliver of hope in her unintentional confession.

She’s asked about her father before, and why she doesn’t have a dad like other kids at school. I did what I told myself I would, so when he signed away his rights: I told her the truth.

I explained that every family looks different, and there’s no right or wrong. She’s not odd or weird because she doesn’t have another parent.

It sated her curiosity, but she’s continued to have questions over the years, and she’s undoubtedly going to ask more questions soon—questions I need to be ready to answer. Answers that I’m still searching for myself.

I understand what Declan means when he talks about the zing and how you just know when you’re on the right path, with the right person, and it feels like that’s what’s happening. But I need to make sure we’re on the same page—that he understands exactly what life would look like together.

Though it scares me shitless, I’m going to have to lay it all out and let him decide whether to stay or go.

Jack, Henry, and Deon laugh as they file into the nutrition room, and I wait for Declan to follow in, but he never appears.

They loiter in front of the counter while they wait for Nina to divvy out their smoothies.

“Where’s Declan?” I know I saw him this morning, but I miss him, and I want to tell him I texted my parents. The last of the players filter through the nutrition room, but Declan never appears. “Is he with a coach? In the recovery room?”

“He’s sick,” Jack says, grimacing, “Got the stomach bug.”

“ Excuse me? ” My voice cracks at the end, and my eye begins to twitch.

“Yeah,” Deon says, “Guess he was fine, then felt sick after breakfast.”

I slam a blender down, and the three of them stare at me with wide eyes. “That is not how this is going to work.”

“What?” Henry asks, sipping on his strawberry banana smoothie.

“This relationship. He doesn’t get to take care of Nora all night while she throws up, and make sure I take time for myself, then go home and suffer alone. Not fucking happening.”

Anger bubbles to the surface until it consumes me.

He doesn’t get to do this—take care of us and then not allow us to take care of him. He doesn’t get to hold a piece of our hearts, make each of us feel love and protected, and not let us offer him the same.

I hold onto the rage long enough for the players to filter out of the room, and the interns begin to clean. His teammates watch with concern, but they all leap to give me his address when I demand it.

Without another glance, I stomp to Ben’s office and bang on the open door. He lifts his gaze, and he pauses his work. I fall into the seat across from his desk.

“Are you alright?” The question is filled with trepidation.

“No! Why are men idiots?”

“Uh…I am a man?”

“Oh, right. Let me rephrase. Why is my boyfriend an idiot who believes he needs to suffer alone while he has the stomach flu?”

Ben jolts in surprise. “You’re dating Monroe?”

“Yes? I filled out the HR paperwork before the season started. You were cc’d on those emails.”

“Oh.” He blanches. “I think I deleted that. Good for you, though. Fully approve. Has he met Nora?”

“On the first date. And now she’s why he has the stomach flu. He took care of her last night.”

“Go,” he commands. “Take care of him. Call him an idiot. Do what you need to do.” He lifts his hand and flings them toward the door. “And get the hell out of my office. You are a petri dish and if I get the stomach flu again I’m going to be pissed.”

I grab my bag and phone from the nutrition room and head to my car. Panic and anger swirl in my chest, and I pull up my messages to find his address from Jack, but there’s another message.

Dad: We would like to talk in person.

I quickly sent off a response. No way in hell am I going to Omaha.

Me: I’m not traveling.

Dad: We would like to come to you. Spend a weekend in Seattle. Have dinner.

My heart thumps in my throat.

Me: I’ll think about it.

Dad: We were hoping for the second weekend in October. But we will respect your decision.

With that, I close the message chain and plug Declan’s address into the GPS. I make a pitstop for soup, and ten minutes later, I’m pulling up to a large ranch-style home with a bright yellow door and an unkept lawn. A few dahlias sprout between the weeds, and a large wooden fence blocks the view into the backyard.

The soup shakes in my hand as I storm to the door and bang until my fist hurts, and the anger dissipates slightly.

It returns with vigor the moment Declan opens the door. His skin is pale and slightly green, and a slight sheen of sweat covers his forehead. Shorts hang low on his hips, and he’s missing a shirt.

“Addie?” His question is confused and innocent, and if I wasn’t pissed, it might be adorable.

I shove him into the house and follow behind.

“This is not how it's going to work,” I say, voice rising. He pales and then runs down the hall. I follow him into the bathroom and he heaves into the toilet. “You do not get to take care of us, and not let us take care of you.” I dry heave as he clutches the toilet bowl. “We made a deal , Declan. No more. We take care of each other.”

Tears spring to my eyes, and I’m clutching the soup to my chest like a lifeline.

“I’m sorry,” he says into the bowl, the apology echoing.

“Don’t apologize. Just let us in.” He vomits again and then flushes the toilet. His eyes are clear when they meet mine, and he swishes mouthwash around his mouth. “I brought you soup.”

“Thank you,” he says quietly. His hand trails down my arm to take hold of my free hand. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I didn’t want you to worry or get sick.”

“That’s my job,” I respond, voice thick. “I get to take care of you.”

He nods. “Alright.”

I untangle our fingers and lift a hand to his forehead. “How are you feeling?”

“Better now that you’re here,” he says with a wry smile. I smack his arm. “Be serious.”

“Like Nora gave me the stomach flu,” he huffs a small laugh. “I think the worst has passed.”

“Let’s get you on the couch, and you can try to eat a little soup.”

I spin out of the bathroom, but I stop in my tracks at the sight of his guest bedroom.

“Declan, what is this?”

Emotion clogs my throat, and he steps in front of the open door.

His smile is small and unsure, but he answers, “The beginning of a new dream.”