Page 31 of Summer with a Player

My chest tightens as I contemplate the possibility of never being with her again. "I understand if you don't want to see me, but I just had to tell you how much I care about you. You mean the world to me, and I wish I could go back and make things right. If there's anything I can do to make it up to you, please let me know."

"Anyway, I hope... I hope you're doing well, and... maybe we can talk soon?" I say, my voice laced with a rare uncertainty. There's a brief pause before I add, "Goodbye, Elle."

It's all out in the open now, my heartache etched into every word of the voicemail. As I hang up the phone, I’m relieved yet still uncertain. I don’t know if my heartfelt message is enough to mend the rift between us or if it will only serve as a reminder of what's been lost.

Chapter 20

Elle

The world shrinks to the size of Asher's last voicemail, playing on a loop in my head. "If there's anything I can do to make it up to you, please let me know." It's been two weeks—fourteen days of sleepless nights since I told him it was over, since my heart fractured like thin ice under a skater's blade. The silence of my home is oppressive, an unending reminder that I'm alone, surrounded by vintage trinkets and plants that don't answer when I talk to them.

I trace the line of the sun-bleached curtain with my fingertip, its fabric as worn as my resolve. My thumb finds its way to my mouth, teeth grazing the nail in a recognizable anxious rhythm. I can't go back, not to the aimless existence before Asher crashedinto my life with his vibrant green eyes and laughter that made everything seem possible. He's become a part of me, a vital beat in my pulse. Without him, I'm half-living, half-dreaming of what could have been.

The urgency burns through me, a wildfire that refuses to be tamed. Our love is gasping for air, every second apart another shovel of dirt on its grave. I won't let it suffocate, be buried in misunderstandings and my own fears of vulnerability. I have to make this right, even if it means stripping myself bare, exposing all the scars I've fought so hard to hide.

"Life or death," I whisper to my reflection in the small, round mirror hanging beside the door. "This is it, Elle. Fight for him or lose him forever." And I know, in the marrow of my bones, I'd rather risk the fall than never leap at all.

My crystal blue eyes lock onto my own gaze, seeing the woman who's survived every storm, who's more than the sum of her past. There's a fierce determination there, one that steadies my breath and sets my heart to a determined rhythm.

"Time to chase what matters," I say to the empty space, my voice steady despite the tremors inside me. I'll put it all on the line—for Asher, for us. Because some things are worth fighting for, and I'm done running from the only thing that's ever felt like home.

I slide the last book on emotional intelligence back onto the shelf and let out a pensive sigh. It's been weeks of soul-searching, digging into the cracks of my own heart to understand why Ipushed Asher away with that callous voicemail. I've wrestled with guilt, tumbled through memories like waves crashing against Love Beach's shore. But it's not enough to just learn and lament. I need to act, make amends in a way that speaks louder than any apology could.

A Grand Gesture, they call it. The kind you see in movies where someone holds a boombox over their head or fills a room with candles. Only mine needs to be personal, something that'll resonate with Asher's love for the game and show him he's more than just another victory to me.

I step outside, the neighborhood quiet except for the distant laughter of retirees enjoying the ocean breeze. In the midst of the setting sun, I start to plan. My fingers drum against my palm as I envision what will grab his attention. A banner, big and bold, to unfurl at the next game—his game—declaring my support, my belief in him.

"Go big or go home," I mutter, but there's no going back to that solitude. Not without him.

My flip-flops slap against the wooden planks of the boardwalk as I make my way to the local craft store. Inside, surrounded by colorful fabrics and spools of ribbon, I can almost smell the icy chill of the rink, and hear the roar of the crowd. I choose a swath of red fabric, soft yet sturdy, wide enough to hold all the important words. Black paint, brushes, and stencils follow into my basket because this has to be perfect.

"Need help with anything?" the cashier asks, her eyes curious behind a pair of wire-rimmed glasses.

"Just making something to cheer on the Renegades," I answer, offering a smile that doesn't quite reach my eyes.

"Good luck!" she says, ringing up my purchases. "They're going to love it."

"Thanks, I hope so," I say, though it's really just one Renegade I'm hoping to impress.

Back at my bohemian haven, I clear the tiny dining table and lay out the materials. Each stroke of the brush is a silent plea, a hope painted in stark black against the crimson background. 'ASHER GRAY, YOU'RE MY MVP IN LOVE AND LIFE.' The words are more than ink and fabric; they're my raw heart, spelled out for him—and everyone else—to see.

"Elle, you sure about this?" I whisper, holding the banner up to the light. The shadows play across the words, giving them life, making them dance.

But doubt is a luxury I can't afford. This is my shot at redemption, my chance to show Asher that I'm not just a bystander in his life—I'm his ally, his partner, his cheerleader.

"More than sure," I answer myself when the paint has dried, folding the banner gently. "It's time to step out of the stands and into the game."

The crimson banner lies folded neatly next to me, its message hidden for now. I sit in the passenger seat of my car, parked just outside the bustling arena where Asher's future on the ice hangs by a thread as thin and fragile as my own hopes. My fingers trace the edges of the fabric, a silent rehearsal of the moment I've played over in my mind a thousand times.

"Will he understand?" I murmur, the question slipping out like a secret I can't keep any longer. The air is thick with my doubt, and the lingering scent of lavender from my house does little to calm my racing heart. Will this gesture be enough?

The thought of him hesitating or worse, turning away from what I offer, knots my stomach. But the risk of not trying at all feels like a blade poised at the tender flesh of our relationship, threatening to sever what might still be saved.

It’s now or never. I step out of the car and into the night. The buzz of eagerness from the crowd inside vibrates through the soles of my shoes, up my legs, settling somewhere deep in my chest. It's game night, and the air crackles with energy like the ocean during a storm back at Love Beach.

I move toward the entrance, each step heavy with determination. The cacophony of excited voices swells as I push through the doors, the atmosphere as charged as the sky before lightning strikes. Fans adorned in red and black swarm around, their cheers creating a pulsing rhythm that echoes my heartbeat.

"Let's go, Renegades!" someone shouts, and the chant picks up, rolling through the throng of bodies like a wave. I allow it sweepme along, letting their fervor bolster my courage. The icy chill of the rink hits me, spreading goosebumps across my skin, and there, beyond the glass barrier, is the gleaming expanse of ice.

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