Page 62 of Your Second Chance
Luna didn’t say anything at first. She crossed the room and pulled me into a hug, her arms warm and firm. “You’re going to have to learn that running toward someone is a whole lot easier than running away.”
I shrugged, leaning into her for a moment. Maybe one day I’d figure that out.
As soon as Luna left, the quiet wrapped around me like an old, scratchy blanket I couldn’t shake off. Just me, alone in the silence, like always.
I couldn’t run to anyone—because running terrified me. What if I tripped? The idea of throwing myself into someone else’s life, of depending on them, was enough to make my stomach twist.
Trying to distract myself, I pulled out my phone and opened my notes, setting up my to-do list for work tomorrow. It was methodical, familiar, and numbed the edges of the thoughts. After, I shuffled into the shower, letting the warm water rinse off the day.
By the time I was back on the sofa, I was dry, but still restless. Like clockwork, I did my usual social media scroll. It was mindless until it wasn’t. I stopped mid-scroll, blinking at the screen.
A UK gossip site had posted a photo of Ollie with his hand covering my face.
“Hot New Assistant Coach for the Hands Has a New Love Interest?”
I snorted. Then I laughed. And I laughed some more, until I had tears streaming down my cheeks. I scrolled through a few more posts—because, of course, a handful of other outlets had picked up the photo, too.
I was used to the media circus; it wasn’t the problem. Not really. Or maybe I was too exhausted to care. Either way, the whole thing felt ridiculous. Me? A “love interest”? Yeah, right.
Still, I couldn’t help but notice how Ollie looked in the photo—broad, composed, completely unbothered. Yet, there was something that stood out. It was the way his eyes had flicked back, barely noticeable, checking to see if I was okay. Like he wanted to make sure I was okay, even in the middle of whatever chaos surrounded us.
That’s what I noticed.
And that’s what broke me a little.
I let out a bitter laugh, tossing my phone onto the sofa beside me. “Get a grip, Nova,” I muttered, the words sharp enough to sting.
He was being nice, and nice didn’t mean anything—not when people leave anyway.
I rubbed at my face, the weight of the day pressing down harder. “You’re not the girl people stay for,” I whispered into the quiet, the thought so familiar it barely hurt anymore.
With that, I crawled into bed. It felt less like comfort and more like giving up for the night. At least it was quiet. Maybe, in the quiet, I wouldn’t have to think about the way he looked back at me. Or the way it made me feel.
24
ollie
The pounding in my head was relentless; every whistle from the ref and call from the sideline felt like someone was drilling directly into my skull. I planted my hands on my hips, pretending I was deep in thought about the game when, in reality, I was trying not to look like I was on death’s doorstep. The cold air helped a little, but not enough to chase away the hangover. I’d told myself to take it easy last night—future Coach Ollie would appreciate it, I’d thought. Turns out, past Ollie was a bloody fool.
The first half was painful to watch, and not because of my headache. Missed tackles, sloppy passes, and a general lack of coordination from the team. My growled instructions didn’t seem to land; maybe because my voice sounded like it was clawing its way out of a gravel pit.
At halftime, I rallied them in the huddle, pacing back and forth like I wasn’t moments away from collapsing into the ice bucket.
“We’re getting hammered out there,” I snapped. “Start using your heads, or we’re going home with a loss. Tighten the line, stick to your assignments, and for the love of God, stop passing like it’s hot potato.”
They nodded, wide-eyed. At least someone still found me intimidating.
The second half was better, if only because the other team started to wear out. A well-executed turnover in the scrum got the ball to our fly-half, who kicked it straight into their twenty-two. Our winger was on it like a dog on a bone, dodging defenders and diving over the line.
I tried to keep my celebration low-key—one fist pump, a sharp clap—but even that made my head throb.
By the final whistle, we’d scraped out a win. Not our best performance, but a win nonetheless. The players mobbed each other on the pitch while I hung back near the dugout, leaning against the frame and pretending to be reflective when really I was trying to stay upright.
That’s when I saw her—standing just a few feet to my left on the sideline, bundled in a coat, her hair tucked beneath a knit hat. She had two phones out—one aimed squarely at me, the other recording the pitch. Even with sunglasses on, I could tell she wasn’t smiling at me . . . but something close hovered there.
“Filming my misery?”
She didn’t look away from her screen. “Just documenting the game,” she said, too casually. “Your misery’s incidental.”
