Chapter 22

Logan

We have a Thursday night game in Week 15 that we barely win. The defense had trouble again, and we weren't as strong as we could have been on offense. We hear all about it on Friday morning. By early afternoon, Coach releases us early with the expectation that we will use the time to rest and recover, before the gala on Monday night and the training he'll squeeze out of us the next week.

My first thought is to check in on Evie again, but no one responds when I knock at her office door. No muffled words make it out either. When I spy onto the parking lot, I don't see her car.

"Fuck," I mutter, before I jump in my SUV and drive home.

Mystery Girl disappeared again. She left me standing in the parking lot and, unlike years before, this time I didn't expect she would hide.

I haven't heard from her in days. She hasn't been around the building, checking in with my teammates and asking coaches about their children or pets. Two days ago, I came half an hour before the pregame hotel curfew, only so I could go to her office. She wasn't there. I've texted her, even sent an email, and I got no response .

I'd never admit it out loud, but I smelled the hoodie she wore, in a desperate search for traces of her. Lavender still hangs around the fabric, so I didn't put it in the wash. Not until I know she's okay.

Something's wrong.

My house has a big, nice garage, but I don't open the door right away and park on the concrete pad outside. I tap my fingers on the wheel, deciding my next steps.

I threw my phone on the console cubby earlier, and I grab it now to text her again. If she doesn't answer, I'll call her.

A notification shows I have several messages, but none of them are from her.

Saint: welcome to the group chat, King.

Dom: we held a meeting and the motion passed. You're in

Leon: if you leave the chat, we'll just keep adding you back

The texts arrived ten minutes ago in quick succession. My brows keep the frown, but humor pulls at my lips after reading their words.

Logan: do I have a say at all?

Dom: of course. You get to say thank you.

Leon: we need to keep an eye on our shiny new QB, and you're cool enough. You handled the intervention well

Saint: we've learned to read between the glares.

Damián: and I'm inviting you over for a holiday dinner. With the BBQ several weeks ago, it will be the second time you get to come home and spend time with all of us. It was time

Logan: is this because your dog liked me?

Damián: Barkley is a great judge of character

Logan: send me the details for dinner. I'll stay in the group chat. I guess you're all cool enough, too

Dom: details incoming

I lock the screen and throw my phone into the dashboard cubby again. The tapping on the wheel returns, but it's a happier sound.

My chest is open. My lips are relaxed enough that I know a ghost smile rests there. This feels big. It's a major step into what I wanted out of joining this team.

I really want to tell Evie.

This time, when I grab my phone, it isn't to text her or call her. Ever since the club, I've had her address saved for an emergency. I don't even make it out of the car, before I follow my GPS directions to a different place.

At first, I have trouble finding a parking spot. Then, she doesn't answer when I buzz her place. A few people stare in my direction. Concern shadows their eyes when they look at me but I don't take it personally. I'm a big guy, wearing jeans and keeping the hood of my jacket up over my head, and standing for a long time by the locked doors. No one interrupts me, so I keep at it.

She still doesn't answer.

For a moment I wonder if this is one of those times when I'm pushing too hard. But worry has wormed into my guts, taking hold of my organs and pulling down like a fucking rollercoaster.

Something happened.

A large person with strong and masculine features approaches me, keys in hand.

"Can I help you?" He asks, eyebrows furrowed. The way his chin is tipped tells me he means business.

I face him. "My friend lives here. I can't reach her."

The moment he recognizes me, his face changes. A child-like joy fills him.

"Holy sh— are you—?"

"I'm Logan King." I offer him a hand. "Do you mind letting me in? I need to check in on my friend."

"Yeah! Yeah, of course."

We get into the building, which gives way to a small hall and a single elevator. From her old text, I know her apartment is on the fifth floor. I'm restless, wanting to run up the stairs tucked to the side of the space, if it means I'll make it faster. But her neighbor is staring at me like I'm a miracle incarnate, sent from the heavens to materialize in front of him to give him a powerful message.

Too bad my mind is blank. The only reason I gaze back is because I can hear Evie's voice reminding me of my social credit with the public. I shouldn't tell him to fuck off and let me go to Evie, though I want to.

I bite my cheek and search for better words to say the same thing.

"Uhm…" He takes his phone out. "Can we take a picture?"

"Sure, but I really need to run after."

"Of course! Thank you so much."

I don't know what face I make in the photo and I don't care. As soon as he snaps the picture, I nod and run up the stairs.

Her apartment is one of four, distributed around a plain room. I find her door, labeled with the number she mentioned in her original text, and ring the bell. Ring it again when she doesn't answer. I'm starting to breathe faster, anxiety twisting my guts.

"Evie!" I knock on her door.

The peephole has a yellow tinge to it, and I tell myself there's light in her place.

I knock again. "Evie!"

The door opens, but no more than I need to wedge a shoe in there. Just in case she panics and tries to close it on me again. Her fingers curl around the wood, and most of her face becomes visible, but she doesn't talk. Two large, tired eyes stare at me.

"You're pale." My brows furrow.

"You're here?!" Shock constricts her words.

She shakes her head in disbelief. The messy bun on top of her head wobbles.

I frown. "I've texted you. Emailed you. Where have you been?"

"Why are you here? I can't believe it—"

"Are you okay? I've been worried about you."

That steals her complaints away. She quiets, and gazes at me with…

Is she tearing up?

My chest caves in.

I move automatically, trying to reach her, holding back from steamrolling her door open, but she blinks it all away.

"Evie, let me in."

She shakes her head. "My place is a mess. I am a mess."

"I don't care."

"I probably smell."

I place my hand on the door, like I want to push but I'm waiting for the green light. "I don't care. Let me in?"

"You have hyperosmia and I haven't showered in three days—"

"Evie. I'll prove to you I don't care. Here, let me sniff your neck."

I pull back my hood, like seeing me properly will help.

"You're being ridiculous!" she says .

"You're being silly, arguing with me like this. Please let me in."

Hesitation etches itself on her face.

I give her an exasperated look. "I have been surrounded by sweaty men ever since I can remember. Do you know what a high school locker room smells like within one week of the start of the season?"

She snorts, and her doubt slowly evaporates. I'm one or two words away from winning.

"Mystery Girl, I'm sure you smell much better than the guys after a game."

"Don't call me that." She sighs and opens the door.

I come into her place with measured movements, in case she gets spooked. But she walks away without paying attention to me and dives onto her couch. She cocoons herself in a large bed comforter, not giving me a chance to see her in her pajamas much, or take in the scent of her neck for evidence. That would have been such a great excuse to get close to her. Hold her, and make sure she's okay.

Her place is small. My wild guess is that the whole apartment fits in the combined space of my bedroom, closet, and bathroom. Despite her warnings, it's clean except for a few plates, mugs, and boxes on the counter. Past them, a small kitchen with minimal appliances and only a few cupboards.

No pile of scrunched up tissues, or medication bottles laying around. She doesn't seem sick. But for her to have skipped days at work, this must be big.

I stroll to her, hands in the pockets of my jeans. She sits on the one sofa in the living room, across from a medium-sized TV. The walls are light blue, like I remember from our video calls, and the comforter is dark blue around her.

The duvet covers most of her. I bend at the waist and peer into the small breathing hole she left open, only big enough to show her eyes, nose, and top lip.

I smirk. "You okay, there, Evie?"

"Mhh."

I almost smile at the sound. She sounds just like me.

"Did you decorate your whole place in the team's colors?" I ask.

"I decorated it with the fashion sense of whatever I could buy on clearance. "

I gently pry the blanket loose, until I can see her whole face and the messy bun on her head.

"What's going on?" I ask. "Was it something I said?"

She deflates but doesn't cover herself further. "No, it wasn't you."

I sit next to her. "What happened?"

"Logan… I'm not good at opening up to people."

"I've noticed."

"You're not good at it either, you know?"

"I know. Tell me anyway."

She rubs her lips together. "Why don't you share about yourself?"

It's clear what she's doing. She explained her distraction techniques last time we talked. This is one of the walls she puts up, when she's feeling vulnerable.

If I balance the scales, it might make it easier for her to open up. I want to know her badly enough that I'll open up for her. If I'm asking her to be brave, courage on my part is a fair ask.

I sigh. "Since I was a kid, people rarely asked something about me. It was always about my dad, or football sometimes. Me? Not really. I learned to cherish the privacy of it. To be known is a two-way gift, and I'm careful with it. Not everyone gets to know me."

She watches me like she's the one putting pieces together now.

I lean closer and offer some more. "But being careful has a cost. I've spent a lot of time alone. I'm not close to my parents, and I never made true friends. That's why I've been trying so hard to get close to the guys. I think I found the right people, so I'm trying to remember how to open up, too."

"And you want to know me, too?"

I nod. "So what's going on?"

She chews on her lip for a while, before her eyes leave me.

She stares at her lap. "It's… my parents."

"Are they okay?"

She opens her mouth as if to tell me more, but then closes it again. She glances at me, as if to check my reaction to the little she has shared.

I don't say anything. In the past, silence has let her push through the struggle, until she tells me a bit more. I cross my fingers and wait, tracking the small changes on her expressive face, and counting seconds until she makes up her mind.

"Maybe I should start from the beginning?"

"Tell me everything, Evie."

She takes a deep breath. "My parents… they came here from Argentina when I was a toddler. By the time I was seven, I was making phone calls and reading government paperwork for them. They wanted me to focus on school, so I had a degree to back me up as our family grew roots here. But that meant that they tried to do things on their own, too, and those turned out terribly for us. They speak English, but get nervous around anything official. I still think people took advantage of them, encouraging them to sign things they shouldn't have, and we're still dealing with the aftermath."

Her voice isn't rough, but it's not steady, either. It's somewhere in between, with a sense of breathlessness to it, like she's trying to get it all out before she can change her mind.

I put a hand on her back and let her get through it.

She rubs her face. "Responsibilities multiplied as years went by. I grew up fast. Now I'm an adult who has no idea how to get herself and her parents out of this mess in time, before everything gets worse. We just got a letter from the bank and I just— I pulled on the emergency break. I'm so tired of taking care of people and having to juggle all the balls. My life can't move forward, because I don't have the energy to figure out where the lines are with people… or even within myself. Am I giving too much? I'd rather give too little, if that will keep me from having to take care of someone else. I'm too damn tired, you know?"

She stares at me, searching for an answer. Do I know? Hell if I do, but I nod, and desperately hope I understand. This is the final key, and it will open doors to things I cannot see yet, but which I crave .

A deep seated sigh leaves her. "I'm constantly chasing after rest. I fantasize about a vacation where I do nothing. Nothing but to breathe, eat, swim, and read in the sun. But there's always another reason to stress, another fire to put out. So I come home and spend time by myself, and I hope it makes a dent in this relaxation deficit I keep running. But sometimes— once in a while— I need more than a quiet evening."

I want to make that vacation happen. To start. I want to find a hundred ways to make it better.

"Do your parents help?" I ask.

I don't think she has many people in her corner. There's no reason I can't be the one to show up for her.

She nods. "They're trying. But they can't keep up with everything, so I keep stepping up. They're my only family, you know? I can't leave them to struggle. They don't have anyone else, either."

"So you only have them, too?"

The idea she's been so alone stabs me in the chest, right between two ribs, so the sharp tip scratches right on my heart.

"Yeah," she says. "The therapists I follow on social media tell me that helping my parents at the age I needed to be helped, crossed a few wires and now I can't ask for support. That it caused hyper-independence on my part. Difficulties with boundaries. You know, all the classics."

I'm alone by choice and trying to change it. She's alone because she's hurting, and unsure if she can change it.

I take a deep breath, and hope it soothes the scrape of the blade still stuck in my flesh.

I lean closer to her, shoulder to shoulder. "Thanks for telling me all of this. I'll take care of your secrets, Evie."

She gives me the first sign of a smile. "I think I believe you. "

I push the comforter further down, until her neck and shoulders come into view. A bunch of her hair comes off her bun, and it falls down at her nape. A few tendrils halo her temples.

"Don't look at my hair." She pats the strands away. "It will ruin the moment. My dry shampoo is holding on strong but it won't take close inspection."

"You're pretty like this. You look… homely."

"Homely?" She gives me a pained expression, but humor weaves through it. "Isn't that a euphemism for plain?"

"To me it means you look—"

I interrupt myself before I can finish the sentence, but I hear the words echoing in my brain.

To me it looks like I'm home.

Damn.

"I look like what?" she asks.

"You look comfortable," I finally say. "Like there's no pretense."

I gulp, forcing the thoughts away for later contemplation.

"Uhm," she utters. "Thank you, I think."

Her deep brown eyes still look sad, and it centers me like nothing else. I can't have that.

"I have only one more question," I say. "It's a critical part in all of this."

I lift my fingers to her chin, and gently invite her to look me in the eyes.

She does.

I jump in and offer myself to the gods.

"Who takes care of you?" I ask.