Page 40

LENA

As the single-cup coffee maker sputters out just enough for one travel mug, I catch myself glancing toward the door, expecting a cold nose to nudge my leg. The phantom sensation is so strong that I almost reach down to scratch behind ears that aren't there.

I check my phone one more time before leaving—no messages from Alder. The screen shows only the usual notifications—email, news alerts, and a text from my mother that I'll continue ignoring.

Relief and disappointment war in my chest. Relief that I don't have to navigate another carefully casual exchange. Disappointment that he's respecting my request for space.

The walk to Jitters takes me through Shadyside streets that feel nothing like the riverside path I walked with Alder and Gordie: different trees, different smells, different life.

I pass a couple walking hand in hand, their shoulders brushing as they laugh at some private joke.

The pang, I feel, is sharper than expected.

"This is temporary," I mutter to myself. "This feeling will pass. It's just withdrawal from physical intimacy. Nothing more."

If I repeat it enough times, I'll likely start believing it .

Sarah Collins is already at Jitters when I arrive, tucked into a corner table with her back to the wall. Unlike her usual poised and perfect self, today she fidgets with her coffee cup, her dark ponytail slightly askew. She has the unmistakable look of someone who hasn't been sleeping well.

"Thanks for coming," she says as I slide into the chair across from her. "I wasn't sure you would."

I order a latte from the server before turning my attention back to Sarah. "Your text was intriguing. What's up?”

Sarah glances around the coffee shop, ensuring no one is within earshot. "I need to talk to someone who might understand a... delicate situation. And after seeing you at the gala with A-Stag..." She trails off, observing my reaction.

"I was providing medical assessment," I say automatically. The lie feels stale on my tongue.

Sarah's mouth quirks into a humorless smile. She reaches into her bag and pulls out a manila envelope, sliding it across the table. "Medical assessment. Sure."

I open the envelope with trepidation. Inside are several glossy photos—images that weren't published in the papers.

My breath catches. In one, my palm rests gently against Alder's jaw, but it's our eyes that tell the real story.

We're looking at each other with undisguised longing, a tenderness that can't be mistaken for professional concern.

"Where did you get these?" I ask, my voice barely audible.

"A friend at the Press-Gazette owed me a favor. I convinced him these weren't newsworthy." Sarah leans forward. "He disagreed but respected my judgment."

I stare at the photos, unable to look away from the naked emotion on both our faces. We appear to be two people in love, not a doctor and patient.

"Thank you," I finally manage, sliding the photos back into the envelope. "That was... kind of you. "

"Don't thank me yet." Sarah takes a deep breath.

I look up sharply. The moment is too pointed and too relevant to be coincidental.

"If you're implying there's something between Alder and me..." I begin cautiously.

"I'm saying I need to know I'm not the only one drowning here." The vulnerability in her voice surprises me. Sarah Collins has always seemed unflappable and in complete control.

Understanding dawns. "You have feelings for someone on the team?"

She nods once, sharply, not volunteering a name.

"It's completely inappropriate. I'm a coach.

It creates complicated power dynamics when you're in leadership.

" She runs a hand through her hair, further disheveling her usually perfect ponytail.

"We're at the same level professionally, but the optics.

.. it could destroy everything I've worked for. Everything she's worked for."

The pronoun surprises me, but I keep my expression intact, allowing her to continue.

"But then I saw you and A-Stag at the gala," she continues. "The way you looked at each other. And I thought maybe you'd figured something out that I haven't."

"I haven't figured out anything," I admit, surprising myself with my candor. "I moved out of his place because I was scared of losing my job. Scared of damaging his career."

"So there was something between you." It's not a question.

I look down at my coffee. "There was. Is. I don't know anymore."

Sarah leans back in her chair, studying me. "The fraternization policy is more complicated than most people realize," she says after a moment. She traces the rim of her mug with one finger. "But there are procedures for disclosure and recusal for some positions, for some staff. The problem is..."

"Perception and conflicts," I finish for her.

She nods. "As a coach, any relationship with another staff member raises questions about fairness and whether decisions are being made professionally. Who gets promoted, and who gets the choice assignments." She sighs. "And in my case, there are... additional complications."

I understand her implication without her needing to elaborate. A same-sex relationship in professional sports carries its challenges, even in today's more accepting climate.

"My situation with one of the athletic trainers... we've been so very careful. However, I see how you and Alder look at each other and how you’re struggling, and I wonder if I'm making the right choice by hiding.

"I haven't acted on my feelings," Sarah continues, her voice dropping lower. "I'm trying to maintain professional distance. But it's killing me."

"Moving out hasn't helped," I confess. "It feels worse. Like I've cut off a limb."

Sarah's laugh is bitter. "Maybe sometimes the right professional choice isn't the right human choice."

"What are you going to do?" I ask. "About your situation?"

She checks her watch and begins gathering her things. "I don't know. But I wanted an ally…or anyway, another woman who maybe understands my current torture." She stands, slinging her bag over her shoulder. "Especially since yours isn’t necessarily hopeless.”

The implication is clear—my situation might have solutions that hers doesn't.

"Sarah," I call as she turns to leave. "Thank you. For the photos. For trusting me.”

She pauses, looking back at me with a sad smile. "Don't thank me. Just... don't give up without exploring all your options. Some things are worth fighting for." She hesitates, then adds, "And maybe someday I'll find the courage to take my own advice."

After Sarah leaves, I remain at the table, staring into my cooling coffee.

The manila envelope sits beside my cup, its contents burning a hole in my awareness.

I should destroy the photos. Instead, I open the envelope again, studying the image that captures precisely what I've been denying—the depth of feeling between Alder and me.

My chest aches with a longing so intense it feels physical. I miss his laugh, warmth, and how he smells after a shower. I miss Gordie's snoring at the foot of the bed. I miss feeling like I belong somewhere, with someone.

I've spent my entire life trying to be smaller, less demanding, and less trouble—with Brad, with my mother, with everyone. I shrank myself to fit the spaces others allowed me.

Until Alder. Until Gordie. Until the Stag family chaos, which somehow made me feel more at home than anywhere I've ever been.

But I can't lose sight of reality. My student loan payments don't care about my feelings. Over three hundred thousand dollars in debt means I need this job with the Fury. Professionally, physically, and financially—I can't afford to risk it all for romance, no matter how right it feels.

Maybe I gave up too easily. Perhaps we both did. I just don’t know what to do about it.