And now? Now I’m back in my old stomping ground, ready to make new choices. Better choices.

  “Thanks, Joe. It will do for now until I can save up a little more. I would like to move closer to Brentwood at some point to cut down on the commute, but unless you’re in student housing and splitting the rent, it’s pretty expensive.”

  “You’ll get there,” my mom says. “But look at all the natural light in here, and there’s a park across the street, which is nice. You’re not staring at a bunch of buildings.”

  “Yeah, it’s one of the reasons why I moved here.”

  Joe takes a kitchen box and says, “Should I start unpacking, or do you have a certain way you want to put things away?”

  “There’s like two drawers in the kitchen.” I laugh. “I think I’ll be able to find whatever you put away, plus I don’t have a lot.”

  “Which reminds me,” my mom says, holding up a package I saw her bring in from her car. “We got you a housewarming gift. We know you’ve been sharing apartments with girls on your team, and then you know . . . Anthony.”

  “We don’t need to mention him,” I say, pressing my hand to my stomach. My heart’s still cracked because of him.

  “Well, anyway, here’s something from us.”

  “You didn’t have to do this,” I say, sitting next to the box and opening it up.

  “We wanted to. You’ve been through a lot this past year and this is a fresh, new start. We’re excited for you. And assistant coach for the men’s soccer team at Brentwood—the first female coach of a men’s team at Brentwood. We are so proud.”

  I smile softly. “Thanks, Mom.”

  When I got a call from Coach Wilson about a coaching position opening up at Brentwood, I thought she was referring to the women’s team, but when she said men’s, I was completely shocked. We’d been shooting emails back and forth, keeping in touch as I made my way through a professional career that had its highlights and definite downfalls. When I told her I was taking a year off, she told me she’d look out for a coaching job for me, keep her ears open. A year later, I never expected to be offered a coaching job at Brentwood, especially with the men’s team. But she highly recommended me, I interviewed well, and I was called the next day, letting me know I had the job.

  For a few years, Brentwood had been my home, so being here again feels like a better fit. I loved being in Texas, but this place is . . . healthy for me. Restorative.

  I open the box and it’s full of little apartment things like hand towels, soap containers, oven mitts, toilet paper (which makes me laugh), a can opener, and some frames. I pull out the first frame, which is a picture of me and my dad when I was in middle school. It was right after a game, and he has his arm around me, standing proudly.

  Tears well in my eyes as I smooth my hand over the picture. “He loved you so much, sweetie, even if he had a hard time connecting with you sometimes.”

  I give her a shaky smile. “Thanks, Mom.”

  The next picture is of me, my mom, Joe, and Priscilla in Chicago during Christmas last year. We’re in front of a large tree, bundled up and smiling together.

  “I love this picture.”

  “Me too. I have it up on the mantel,” Mom says.

  I reach for the last picture and my heart stops in my chest when it comes into view.

  “I found the picture on your Instagram,” my mom says. “I love this picture of you two, and he’s been such an important person in your life. It feels right that he would be here.”

  Lincoln’s gorgeous smile is beaming at the camera. I’m snuggled into his neck, happy as I can be. I can’t quite place when we took the picture or where since it’s just our faces, but what I do know is that it was during a time when I was happiest. It was during a time where I felt safe and protected, when I could have called Lincoln at any time of the day and he would have been there for me. And I would have been there for him. Because that’s what he asked of me on that painful day when he left Brentwood the first time. It’s what I promised.

  “I’m about to embark on one of the hardest journeys of my life, and I’ll never make it if you cut me off. If you take away my best friend. Promise me, Indie. Promise me you won’t let me go.”

  God, the expression in his eyes had gutted me. And looking back now, I feel guilty I didn’t keep my promise to him. “As long as you want me as a friend, I’m yours.” Words of an emotional twenty-one-year-old? Fanciful?

  “Why don’t you give him a call, sweetie?” my mom suggests, placing her hand on my arm. “You’re both in Chicago again, so it makes sense.”

  I hold up the picture and say, “Thank you.” I set it down and start moving boxes around, not really sure to where, but I need to busy myself.

  “Indie”—my mom comes up to me, pressing her hand to my back—“when was the last time you talked to him?”

  “A year ago,” I say, still remembering the most awkward dinner of my life. I didn’t want to bring Anthony. I wanted to have a private conversation with Lincoln where I told him everything, but Anthony wouldn’t have it. He was a jealous man and hated my relationship with Lincoln, so as he said it, there was no way in hell he was “letting” me go to dinner with Lincoln alone. After the dinner was done, Anthony demanded I not talk to Linc anymore and I foolishly listened, trying to appease him, to make things easier.

  Well, it only made things worse.

  And now, I don’t have a relationship with Lincoln.

  “Indie, that’s far too long. You should reach out to him.”

  I shake my head. “He wouldn’t want to hear from me. Not after the last time I saw him, trust me.”

  “Is that when he met Anthony?”

  I nod. “You should have seen the look in his eyes when I said fiancé. It was as if I’d betrayed him. The rest of the evening was awful. Anthony talked the entire time, filling in the silence, and then we awkwardly shook hands when we left because Anthony wouldn’t let me go long enough to give Lincoln a hug.”

  “You shook hands?”

  I cringe, remembering the confused and hurt look on Lincoln’s face. “Yeah, it was awful. Trust me, calling him would not be the best idea. I think we just need to go our separate ways.”

  “But—”

  “Mom, please, not right now, okay? Let’s just enjoy the rest of the day together.”

  I can see that it’s painful for her to not push me, but thankfully she nods and then reaches into the box, pulling out the oven mitts. “These silicone ones are the absolute best and they make great puppets when you’re waiting for your food to cook.” She moves one in front of me and opens it and closes it. “I love you, Indie.”

  Rolling my eyes, I take the oven mitts from her. “Love you, too, Mom.”

  * * *

  “And here’s your office,” Tyler Morrison, the head coach of the men’s soccer team says. I know him as Coach Morrison, so calling him Tyler feels strange, but he thinks it’s weird if I call him Coach Morrison. Guess who won?

  I sigh, looking out the window, still in disbelief that this is where I ended up. “The field looks amazing,” I say. We’re midway through the season, but the old assistant coach had to move because his wife was transferred to North Carolina. It worked out great for me.

  “Attendance has increased over the last few years, and sponsors have picked up, so we’ve been able to add to the stadium. We’re very proud of it.”

  “I can imagine.” Sighing, I say, “Do the guys know?”

  “You mean do they know that Indie Mayhem, one of the top soccer players in the country is going to be their assistant coach? Yeah, they know. And they’re terrified.”

  “Why’s that?” I ask on a chuckle.

  “Because they’re nervous you’re going to make them do the physical tests that the women’s soccer team has to do.”

  A sly smile crosses his face. “Then they should be terrified.”

  He laughs and says, “I knew you were the perfect hire.”

  One of the sole reasons Tyler hired me is because he wanted my knowledge in building strength and endurance that’s geared to our sport. During my interview, I discussed the many different training techniques I’d bring to their program, with my strength and conditioning knowledge, and how I had no problem showing the guys what it took to perform each workout. In other words, I was going to make them hurt.

  Tyler liked that a lot.

  We spent an hour going over strategic workouts on the whiteboard in his office and when I was done, I could see it in his eyes, he was impressed.

  I always knew I wanted to teach, but I just didn’t realize it was going to be soccer . . . to college-aged men.

  “Let’s get you to the admin office. I think there were a few more papers you had to sign and then we’ll head to the equipment room so we can get you fitted with some gear. We’ll be ordering clothes for you since all we have is men’s fit, and I have a feeling that’s not going to work for you.”

  “I mean, I’ll take what I can get but if you want to order the women’s cut, that would be appreciated.”

  He winks at me and pats me on the shoulder. “Trust me, we want our coaches looking professional, and you drowning in a man’s shirt is not going to do the job.”

  He leads me through the coaches’ hall and up one floor to the admin building where I meet up with Sariah, a lovely lady who remembers me from when I used to play at Brentwood. We reminisced for a few moments, she had me sign papers, and before I knew it, I was being escorted to the equipment room.

  “I think the best thing to do is circle whatever you want out of this catalogue and then we’ll have everything screen-printed,” Nolan, in the equipment room says.

  “That works,” Tyler says, taking the catalogue. “I have about a one-thousand-dollar budget you can use, including screen-printing, so time to go shopping.”

  He hands me the catalogue and I smile. “You don’t have to ask me twice.”

  He looks at his watch and says, “Shoot, I have a meeting with the athletic director I have to get to. Head to your office and start picking things out and I’ll meet you there.”

  “Sure,” I say as he takes off.

  I thank Nolan and then take the long way to the offices, walking past the weight room where I used to work out almost every day. Fresh faces are lined up with the equipment, trainers are walking around spotting athletes, and the dull beat of techno music is playing through the speakers. Nostalgia washes over me. The smell of the weights, the feel of a completed workout with your team, the fighting over what music we’re going to play . . . all of it. I’ve missed all of it.

  “Indie?”

  Oh God.

  The hairs on the back of my neck stand straight and apprehension crawls down my spine as I turn to see Lincoln standing in the hallway, hands in his pockets, a baseball hat sitting low on his brow.

  What the hell is he doing here?

  He’s probably thinking the same thing about me.

  “Lincoln, hey.” I wave awkwardly.

  His brows pull together in confusion. “What, uh . . . what are you doing here?”

  An athlete moves by us, completely oblivious that he just pushed past Lincoln Castle. Noticing that we’re standing smack dab in the middle of the hallway, I pull off into a corridor with him but the minute I do, I realize it’s the same corridor he once confronted me in.

  That moment hits me hard, the emotion of it all. Six years later, here we are again. It’s too much, especially since I wasn’t ever expecting to see Lincoln here. If he’s in Brentwood, he’d be at the stadium, right?

  I know he’s waiting for a response, and lying won’t get me anywhere, so I say, “I was just hired . . . as a coach.”

  His brows shoot up to the brim of his hat. “Seriously? You’re coaching with Coach Wilson?”

  I shake my head. “No, Coach Morrison hired me.”

  “For the men’s team? Hell, that’s pretty awesome.” He shifts and I take that second to observe him, soak him all in. He’s not much bigger than when I last saw him. Maybe his biceps are a little thicker, but that could be me imagining things too. Same handsome face though, scruff lining his jaw, and killer eyes that to this day still make me dream of comfort. “Congrats.” He looks off to the side and asks, “Were you going to tell me you were back in Chicago?”

  I glance at the catalog I’m clutching to my chest and shake my head. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

  “I see.” I feel his eyes on me as he says, “How are things with Anthony?”

  Not wanting to have this conversation here, I say, “You know, I should really get to my office. It was good seeing you.” I try to move past him, but he grabs me by my upper arm and holds me in place.

  “You owe me explanations, Indie.”

  I glance up at him, and his face is as hard as stone. “For what?”

  “You really weren’t going to let me know you were back here?”

  “We haven’t talked in a year, Lincoln. What’s the point?”

  “The point is I thought we were friends. Even when we had periods of not talking, we still met up. How is this any different?”

  “Things have changed.”

  “Because of Anthony?” he asks, an irritated look on his face.

  “I really should go.”

  I start to walk away when he calls out. “Where’s your engagement ring, Indie?”

  I pause and squeeze my eyes shut. Nothing gets past him . . . ever.

  “That’s what I thought,” he says, coming up next to my ear. “You have some explaining to do. Text me your address, I’m coming over tonight.”

  “Lincoln, that’s not—”

  “It’s not a question. It’s a request,” he says in such a stern tone that for a second I don’t recognize him at all. “Text me, Indie.”

  And then he walks off, and I watch as he takes large strides, eating up the hallway and pushing through the doors that lead to the parking lot.

  Text him.

  Yeah, there will be no texting him.

  I’m not ready to answer his questions, especially when I’m still filing through the hurt, the . . . desolation Anthony left me with.

  * * *

  Fresh out of the shower, I dry off and wrap a towel around my torso. That’s exactly what I needed, a nice hot shower to wash the day away.

  After Lincoln left, I went back to my new office and tried not to hyperventilate. By the time Tyler got back from his meeting, I was levelheaded and had a few articles of clothing circled. When he asked why I didn’t pick more, I just said I felt bad, when in reality, I wasn’t mentally checked in to think about clothing. He told me to take the catalog home and figure out the rest of my selections so we could order tomorrow.

  So I did just that. I enjoyed a nice Mediterranean salad, circled the rest of the clothes I wanted, and then took a much-needed hot shower. Once I lotion up, I plan on crawling into bed naked and then spending the rest of the evening watching mindless TV to clear my head of the day.

  I brush my teeth and floss, then I hang up my towel, lotion my entire body with this amazing lavender bedtime lotion my mom got me for my birthday, and just as I finish brushing my hair, there’s a knock at my door.

  I set the brush down, and peer around my bathroom door. Did I hear that right or was it a neighbor? I stand there, holding my breasts for some reason as I listen closely and then a pound to my door. “Indie, open up.”

  Lincoln?

  How on earth does he—

  My mom.

  Damn that woman and her meddling.

  I pull my dark purple silk robe from the back of my door, slip it on, tie a tight knot, and then go to the entryway where I peek through the peephole. A very irritated Lincoln stands on the other side.

  There goes my peaceful night.

  I unlock the door and open it. He doesn’t even bother to say anything, he just charges in.

  “Come on in,” I joke, shutting the door behind me.

  He’s wearing sweatpants, his hand is pushing through his hair, and his shirt is rising high, giving me a brief glimpse of the waistband of his boxer briefs from his raised arm.

  “What the fuck, Indie? I told you to text me.”

  “Looks like I didn’t need to,” I say, leaning against my door.

  Blowing out a frustrated breath, he glances around my tiny apartment and scans every corner. “Are you here alone?”

  “Does it look like I could share this closet with another human being?”

  Not answering, he walks over to my two-person couch and takes a seat, draping his arm over the back like he always does. It’s how he’s the most comfortable, and it’s how he’s gotten away with playing with my hair so many times.

  “Sit, Indie.”

  “Do you really think I’m going to fall in line to your barking at me?”

  “I can force you to sit if that’s better?”

  Insufferable.

  I walk over to the living room, and I watch his eyes carefully as they roam my body, starting at my legs and then traveling up to my breasts where they stay until I sit in the chair next to the couch. No way am I sitting next to him, not when he’d be that close on my tiny couch.

  I cross one leg over the other and my robe exposes more thigh than appropriate, so I quickly try to cover it. “I’ve buried my head in your pussy on multiple occasions, so there’s nothing to be modest about.”

  I run my tongue over my teeth and know he’s right, so I let the robe do its thing but make sure it’s secure up top.

  “What do you want, Lincoln?”

  “A lot of things.” He looks me dead in the eyes. “But how about we start with why the hell you didn’t text me?”

  “Because . . .” I wish I could leave, even though this is my apartment, anything to get me out of this incredibly painful conversation.

  “Because why? If that’s how you’re going to be answering questions, you might as well show me the bedroom, because I’ll be here all night.”

  I don’t doubt him.

  “I didn’t text you because frankly, I was too nervous to have this conversation.”