He closes his notebook, tucking his pen into its spiral binding. He waits. Not approaching, not retreating. Leaving the choice to me.
I walk toward him. His eyes never leave mine, blue and intense even in the fading light. He's wearing a navy hoodie with the hood pulled up and jeans. Nothing that screams 'pro athlete.' Just a man sitting in a park as evening approaches.
"Hi," I say when I reach him, the word inadequate for everything swirling between us.
"Hey, Doc," he says. "I didn't expect to see you here."
The nickname pulls at my heartstrings.
"I run here sometimes." I gesture vaguely at the path. "What are you doing?"
He lifts the notebook slightly. "Just writing. Thinking."
An awkward silence stretches between us.
"Do you want to sit?" he asks finally, scooting over slightly to make room. "Unless you need to keep going."
I should say no. Should continue my run, maintain the expectations I fought so hard to establish. But the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up makes him look almost anonymous, and the park is emptying as dinner time approaches. No one would recognize us. And I really want to talk to him.
"Sure," I say, lowering myself onto the bench beside him, leaving careful inches between us. "Just for a minute."
Sitting next to him, I can smell the scent of his shampoo and it makes me think about being so close to him that I could bury my nose into his hair.
"How are you?" he asks, and the simple question threatens to undo me.
"I'm..." I search for a word that encompasses everything I've felt these past weeks. "Managing. You?"
"Better." He turns slightly to face me, one leg bent on the bench between us. “I had the flu last week and felt like shit for days. Even missed the game Saturday.”
Ohhh. So that’s why he wasn’t playing. All of that stuff I made up in my mind—all for nothing.
“I’m happy to hear you’re feeling better.”
"Yea, thanks,” he says before changing the subject. “So I wanted to apologize again, Elena. For everything. For putting you in an impossible position, for not respecting your needs, for the photo, for all of it."
His directness catches me off guard. There's no charm offensive, no deflection. Just raw honesty.
"It wasn't just you," I say, picking at a loose thread on my running tights. "I made my own choices."
"Still." He shakes his head. "I should have been more careful. Should have thought about what was at stake for you professionally."
"Have you heard anything more about the photo?" I ask, glancing around instinctively though the nearest people are a couple walking their dog at least fifty yards away.
He gives me a small smile. "The good news is, I think the whole thing's dying down. No one's identified you from what I can tell, and the press has moved on to fresher scandals. Some rookie on the Bruins got caught cheating with his teammate's fiancée, so..." He shrugs. "We're old news."
Relief washes through me. "That's... that's good. Really good."
"Yeah." He nods. "I've been monitoring it pretty closely. Checking to see if your name has been brought up and it hasn’t."
"Thank you," I say. "I appreciate that."
Another silence falls, but less strained than before. A jogger passes, barely glancing at us.
"So," I gesture at his notebook. "What are you writing?"
He looks down at it, a hint of color touching his cheeks. "It's, uh... it's kind of a journal. Something my therapist suggested."
"Your therapist?" I can't keep the surprise from my voice.
