Dr. Ballard nods. "That sounds like a thoughtful approach. May I suggest something?"
"Sure."
"True change happens for ourselves, not for others. If you're only doing this work to win her back, what happens if that doesn't occur?"
The question stings, but there's truth in it I can't ignore. "I get that. I want to do this work for myself too. I'm tired of being the guy everyone expects to screw up. I want more than that."
"Good." He makes another note. "That's a solid foundation to build on."
As the session wraps up, we schedule another appointment for next week. Walking out of his office into the crisp fall afternoon, I feel lighter. Like I’ve made the first step towards the person I want to be.
Elena deserves someone who's working on their shit, not just promising to. Someone who can offer stability, not just intensity. Someone who can love her without the constant fear of loss driving every interaction.
I don't know if I can be that person yet. But for the first time, I believe I could be. And that belief is enough to give me some hope, and start hatching a plan.
I'm going to get her back. Not with dramatic gestures or fancy words, but with the only thing that really matters in the end: consistent, meaningful change. The kind that lasts. The kind she deserves.
Chapter 19
Elena
My feet pound the path in perfect rhythm, the steady beat drowning out the chaos in my head. This is my escape—one foot in front of the other, breath measured, mind emptying with each exhale. The crisp autumn air burns my lungs in the best possible way.
The lake stretches out beside the path, water glimmering under the lowering sun. I've been back from Lake Geneva for a couple of days, and already the peace I found there has evaporated into thin air. Dad keeps watching me with those worried eyes. And the walls of the training facility seem to close in a little more each day.
And then there's the job offer. The Chicago Steel. A clean slate. No baggage, no history, no constant fear of being recognized as "that woman" from the grainy photo with Nate Barnes.
Nate.
His name still causes a physical reaction—a tightness in my chest, an unwanted flushing up my neck.
I push harder, increasing my pace. I thought about popping my earbuds in before I left my apartment, but running withoutmusic means there's nothing to distract me from my thoughts. That's the point after all. Face them head-on. Process them. Let them flow through me rather than consuming me.
The Chicago Steel's offer sits in my inbox, the formal email having arrived yesterday. Excellent benefits. Competitive salary. A respected organization with players who need exactly the kind of support I've trained to provide.
I interviewed via zoom with them yesterday and it went really well.
Dr. Shanta called again to talk to me about the opportunity.
"They were impressed by your CV," she'd said. "Particularly your research on performance anxiety in elite athletes."
It's a good offer. A smart move. The sensible choice.
So why does it feel like running away?
I round a curve in the path, and that's when I see him.
Sitting on a bench facing the lake, hood pulled up over his dark hair, a notebook open on his lap. His profile is unmistakable—the strong jaw, the straight nose, the slight furrow between his brows as he concentrates on whatever he's writing.
Nate.
My step falters. I should turn around. Take another path. Avoid the complication sitting twenty yards ahead of me.
Instead, I slow to a walk, my breathing still rapid from exertion—or perhaps from the sight of him.
He hasn't seen me yet. I could still slip away, pretend this moment never happened. But I'm tired of running from him, from us, from the mess we've made.
As if sensing my presence, he looks up. Our eyes lock across the distance. Something flashes across his face—surprise, then a smile revealing that damn dimple that makes my stomach flip.
