Page 21 of Second Quarter Comeback
“Ah, there’s more to this tale, and what else, Kill?” Kaden prompts.
“When I reminded her who I was she told me to go and fuck myself. . . and, well, there’s the part where she’s my neighbor now,” I admit, the words coming out like a confession.
That gets a low whistle out of him. “Neighbor? Like, same building, or . . .?”
“Penthouse neighbor,” I clarify.
“Fuck,” he says, mirroring my thoughts for once.
“Exactly,” I mutter, grabbing a water bottle and twisting off the cap, taking a long sip to cool the frustration burning in my chest.
“Well,” Kaden finally says, his tone light but careful, “you could ignore her. Pretend you never saw her. Didn’t you say the guy next door wouldn’t sell? She’s probably just renting for a few months.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Sure but what’s going to happen in the meantime? What do I do when we runinto each other in the hall? Or on the shared balcony? It’s only divided by a fucking glass wall that’s maybe three feet tall.”
“Act the same way you did with the neighbors before. Be polite. You’re good at that—when you’re not being a dick,” he says, and I hear Val mutter something in the background that sounds suspiciously like ‘he’s always a dick.’ “Val says to use your PR skills and not create an issue or she’ll fire you as her client.”
I scoff and say, “Thanks for the pep talk, coaches.”
“Hey, you called me,” Kaden reminds me, his tone amused now. “Look, maybe this is your chance to make peace with whatever you’re still holding onto. Closure is good for the soul. Or, crazy idea—you could just get to know her again. As friends. No expectations.”
“Friends?” I repeat, the word bitter on my tongue.
How the fuck am I supposed to be her friend? She wasn’t just some girl I dated. She was my everything. The first person I ever loved. The person I walked away from because I was too much of a coward to fight for what we had. Is that even the truth? Why did I walk away?
“Yeah. Friends. You know, those people you talk to without trying to sleep with them. Try it sometime,” Kaden says, the sarcasm in his voice undeniable.
I lean against the counter, staring out the horizon. The idea of seeing Camille as just another person feels impossible. But Kaden’s right about one thing—I’m not the guy I was at twenty-one.
“I might follow some of your advice,” I say finally, though I don’t even believe it myself.
“Good. Let me know how it goes,” Kaden says, and then, after a beat, “And when you get closure, I’ll let Val introduce you to one of her friends from yoga. Yogis are pretty bendy, if you know what I mean.”
“Noted,” I reply, ending the call before he continues digressing.
Chapter Twelve
Camille
The Passive-Aggressive Pivot
The moment the elevator doors close, I let out a shaky sigh. Relief? Hardly. My heart is beating faster than a cheetah on Red Bull, and my palms are damp. This isn’t supposed to happen. This isn’t how I planned it. And believe me, I plannedeverything. I even made a mood board to avoid this exact scenario. Yet, here I am—heart racing, knees weak, and cursing the universe.
Maybe this is what Zindy meant when she said I’d jinx myself if I continued obsessing.
“There are millions of people in Manhattan,” she’d said, barely glancing up from her glossy magazine while I spiraled. “What are the odds, Cami-Cami? Zero. You won’t even see him. Just stay in your lane for six months—a year, tops—and you’ll be back home. Unscathed.”
Unscathed, my ass. Zindy’s flair for drama might rival mine, but she was wrong. The deal I made with myself was simple since he broke up with me: avoid him and move on. And for fourteen years, it worked. Perfectly.
I stayed far away. I transferred to Stanford and went there for med school, followed by years on the West Coast doing my residency, my fellowship, and . . . I picked places he’d never touch. Sure, I knew he’d play the occasional game nearby, but most athletes go in and out of town like clockwork. They don’t have time to visit. See, easy to avoid.
Distance was my safety net, and I clung to it like it was the only thing keeping me afloat. It kept me from reliving the worst heartbreak of my life. We stayed in our lanes. He had his stupid football career, and I had my dream of becoming a doctor. We were both happy. At least, that’s what I told myself every time his face appeared on ESPN while I was at a sports bar, or on thecover of some magazine while I was in the checkout lane of the grocery store.
The worst moments, though, are when I come across him on social media. Seeing his stupidly perfect face next to some even more perfect woman. Women who are exactly what he deserves—polished, poised, and nothing like the nerdy bookworm he left behind. Women who can be his everything, who are enough.
Okay, fine. Maybe I’m still a little bitter. But can anyone blame me? He didn’t just break my heart. He shattered it.
“Sorry, Cam, but football is more important,” he’d said . . . okay, it wasn’t exactly that, but more or less. He acted like he wasn’t tearing apart the best thing I’d ever had. Like my love for him meant nothing. Nothing. “You get it, right? Things between us can’t go anywhere.”
