Page 35 of Chasing The Goal
Another knock. Not loud. Not rushed. But consistent, like whoever was on the other side was just patient enough to outlast my stubbornness.
I groaned into the pillow, dragging a hand over my face. My eyes burned from sleep I hadn’t really gotten, my mouth dry and sour.
Still, I kicked off the covers and padded toward the door, my steps muffled by the worn hardwood. The hem of my T-shirt brushed my thighs, and my sleep shorts were twisted from sleep, clinging to one hip. I didn’t check my reflection. Didn’t smooth my hair. The only thought in my head was: if it’s a package, I’m grabbing it and ghosting back to bed before a neighbor catches sight of me in this disaster state.
I pulled the door open, blinking against the hallway light.
But it wasn’t a package.
It was Jaymie.
With coffee. And orange juice. And a white paper bag that smelled suspiciously like heaven.
“Morning,” he said, like this was something we did all the time. Like it was perfectly normal to show up at your sick neighbor’s door looking like a caffeinated lumberjack.Beanie shoved back on his curls, hoodie pulled tight around his neck, glasses fogging in the morning air.
I blinked at him, more stunned than anything.
“You—what?”
He held up the drinks. “Didn’t know if you were a coffee person or a juice person. Figured I’d cover both bases.”
I opened the door wider, too touched (and too groggy) to find anything clever to say.
He stepped inside, heading straight for the kitchen like he’d done it a dozen times. Like we did this every Sunday.
I ran to the bathroom, heart hammering in a way that had nothing to do with morning sickness.
By the time I emerged—teeth brushed, hair twisted into a semi-respectable bun, cheeks pinched to fake a little color—Jaymie had set the table.
And I mean actually set the table.
Plates out, mugs steaming, pastries arranged like we were on the cover of a lifestyle blog.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” I said, voice still hoarse from sleep.
Jaymie just smiled and poured me a mug. “You needed something warm. And you didn’t look like you ate much yesterday.”
He pushed the mug toward me, nudging the plate of pastries closer. There were croissants, flaky and buttery, and something glazed and sticky and likely a thousand calories. I didn’t care.
I took a bite, closed my eyes, and moaned. “Okay. You’re officially forgiven for waking me up.”
“Figured that might do the trick.”
I sipped the coffee slowly, letting the warmth settle into my chest, then glanced at him across the table. He was watching me again. Not staring in a weird way. Just... focused. Like I was something he was trying to figure out.
“I meant what I said last night,” I murmured. “About thanking you.”
He looked down at his croissant, peeling a corner off. “You don’t have to thank me, Mal.”
“I do. Because I haven’t told anyone yet. Not really. Not even Dakota.”
His gaze flicked up. “You want to talk about it?”
I nodded, more to myself than him.
Took another sip.
Set the mug down and stared at my hands. “It’s kind of a miracle. The whole thing.”
