Page 36 of Gamechanger

After practice, I pulled out my phone. My thumb hovered over Moose's contact for a long moment before I began to type:

Agent Speedster requests offline debrief with Agent Knitter. Urgent.

I hit send, my heart racing.

Chapter eleven

Moose

Istared at my phone, the bright screen illuminating my face in the dimness of my apartment.

Agent Speedster requests offline debrief with Agent Knitter. Urgent.

My thumbs hovered over the keypad, guilt gnawing at my insides like a hungry beast. How could I explain the tempest of emotions that had been keeping me distant? I took a deep breath and started typing.

I'm sorry, Finn. I've been in my head too much. Can we talk tonight? My place?

The response came quickly:

I'll be there at 7.

I asked for the rest of the day off from my supervisor. When I said it would be a "mental health day," she didn't hesitate to say yes. I raced home before she could change her mind.

As I stepped inside, I realized my apartment had turned into a reflection of my inner turmoil—clothes strewn across the floor, dishes piled in the sink, and a layer of dust on every surface. I hadn't realized how bad it had gotten.

With a deep breath, I set to work. I gathered the clothes, the scent of stale sweat hitting me as I shoved them into the washing machine. Each item felt like a weight, a reminder of the days I'd spent wallowing in my own insecurities.

In the kitchen, I tackled the dishes. The warm, soapy water turned grey as I scrubbed away at crusted food. I'd been eating nothing but takeout, the empty containers overflowing in the trash. As I washed, I couldn't help but think of Finn. He'd always teased me about my healthy eating habits. What would he think if he saw this?

The living room was next. I opened the curtains, wincing as sunlight flooded the room. Dust motes danced in the air, highlighting the neglect. I grabbed the vacuum, its loud whir drowning out my thoughts as I moved methodically across the floor.

As I worked, I found remnants of happier times—a ticket stub from a game Finn and I had attended, a coaster from our favorite bar, and a half-finished knitting project I'd abandoned weeks ago. Each item was a punch to the gut, a reminder of what I stood to lose.

I placed the mementos carefully on the coffee table, arranging them like a shrine to our relationship. Maybe they'd help me find the right words when Finn arrived.

The bathroom was the last frontier. I scrubbed at the mirror, my reflection becoming clearer as the grime disappeared. The face that stared back at me looked tired, worried. I hardly recognized myself.

Finally, exhausted and slightly out of breath, I stood in the center of my now-clean apartment. The space felt bigger, lighter. But as I looked around, I realized something was missing. The apartment was clean, yes, but it lacked warmth. It lacked Finn.

***

When the knock finally came, I nearly jumped out of my skin.

I opened the door to find Finn standing there, his curls tousled from the wind, cheeks flushed from the cold. The sight of him made my heart ache.

"Hey," he said, his voice soft.

"Hey," I echoed, stepping aside to let him in. "Thanks for coming."

I watched as Finn settled onto the couch, his body language tense. The space between us felt vast, charged with unspoken words. I took a deep breath, steeling myself.

"I'm sorry," I began, my voice rougher than I'd intended. "I know I've been... distant."

Finn's eyes met mine, a mix of hurt and concern swirling in their depths. "What's going on, Moose? One minute we're great, and the next you're barely answering my texts."

I ran a hand up and over my head, frustration bubbling up. "I know, I know. It's just... God, Finn, sometimes I look at you and I can't believe you're with me." That was part of it. Work was another ball of wax.

His brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

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