Page 190 of Mending Hearts
He raises a brow. “You once played through a dislocated finger.”
“That was the playoffs.”
“That was preseason.”
I shrug. “Details.”
He grins, then drops his gaze to my shoulder. “Pain?”
“It’s manageable.”
He doesn’t relax fully until I say that. He never will. Not after the last season. Not after the way I strapped it daily, iced itnightly, and refused to admit how close I was to not making it to the end.
Retirement still feels surreal some days.
The Eagles didn’t make it all the way through the playoffs. That stung for about forty-eight hours. Then it didn’t. Because the ending still felt right—earned and whole.
I cross the room and sit beside him, our knees bumping. “You’ve been unpacking,” I say.
“Trying,” he replies.
He gestures toward the battlefield around us. A half-open box sits on the floor, surrounded by packing paper and what looks like the contents of my entire kitchen.
I wince. “You found that one.”
“I did.”
His tone is suspiciously amused.
“I told you there were a few sentimental items,” I say carefully.
“Ollie.”
“What?”
He reaches into the box and pulls out the ugliest ceramic bowl in existence. It’s bright orange. Lopsided. Slightly cracked on one side.
“It’s a pumpkin,” I say defensively.
“It looks like a traffic cone.”
“It’s handmade.”
“It’s aggressively handmade.”
“My grandma gave me that,” I say, grabbing it back. “I used to keep my keys in it.”
He softens instantly. “Then it stays.”
“Even though it’s hideous?”
“Especially because it’s hideous.”
I laugh, the sound easy and unguarded.
This is what the last month has been. Settling. Breathing. Learning each other again without crisis driving every conversation. We kept the new loft in the city, because Rafe insisted I needed a space that was mine, somewhere close to the foundation office and the new work that’s already starting to take shape.
My furniture arrives next week. For now, it’s just clothes, personal things, memories.
