Then I see it.
The fork freezes halfway to my mouth, lettuce tumbling back to the plate.
Nate stands in what looks like a hotel lobby, head bent toward a woman with long blonde hair. She's stunning—model-thin with perfect skin and a designer dress that hugs every curve. Her hand rests on Nate's forearm, face tilted up toward his. They look... like they know each other very well.
The caption reads: "Barnes spotted at the Langham with mystery blonde."
I set my fork down with a clatter that draws glances from nearby tables. My fingers tremble as I zoom in on the photo, studying every detail like it's evidence in a crime.
The woman's fingers curl possessively around Nate's arm. Her lipstick is flawless, the perfect shade of red for hercomplexion. Nate wears a dark suit, tailored perfectly to his muscular frame. He's smiling down at her, that dimple I love on full display.
They look like they belong together. Beautiful people in a beautiful space.
The timestamp says the photo was taken yesterday evening—around the same time I was having pizza with my dad, feeling so certain about Nate and me. About the progress we'd made. About us taking things "slowly" and "doing it right."
What a joke.
I scroll through the comments, each one a fresh stab.
"Barnesy’s back at it."
"Blonde today, brunette tomorrow. Classic Barnes."
"She's way hotter than his usual hookups."
My face burns with a toxic cocktail of shame and anger. How could I have been so stupid? So naive? This is Nate Barnes we're talking about—the man whose reputation for bed-hopping is almost as legendary as his scoring record.
I'd believed him when he said he wanted to change. When he said I was different. When he said we were taking things slowly because our relationship mattered to him.
The worst part? Even now, staring at photographic evidence of his deception, some part of me wants to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe it's not what it looks like. Maybe there's an explanation.
God, I'm pathetic.
I click on the profile that posted the image, checking for more photos, but there's nothing else. Just this single, damning snapshot of Nate with another woman while I had sat across from my father, defending him.
My phone buzzes with a text. From Nate.
"How's your day going? Thinking about you."
A sharp laugh escapes me. Thinking about me? While he's what—scheduling his blonde for the evening and me for the morning? Working his way through Chicago's eligible women with the efficiency that makes him such a deadly player on the ice?
I don't respond. What would I even say? "Saw your photo with the blonde. Care to explain?" Too desperate. Too needy. I won't give him the satisfaction.
Instead, I shove my phone in my pocket and dump my half-eaten salad in the trash. The rest of my lunch break is spent sitting in the small courtyard outside the facility, breathing in the chilly air and trying to quiet the storm in my head.
This is exactly what Dad warned me about. What everyone would have said if they'd known Nate and I were together. He doesn't commit. He doesn't change. He takes what he wants and moves on.
I'd been so sure this time was different. That we were different.
By the time I return to my office, I've thought through a dozen scenarios. Maybe the woman is a friend? A cousin? A teammate's girlfriend who needed an escort to something?
Each explanation sounds more desperate than the last.
The rational part of my brain—the part that earned a masters in psychology—tries to assert itself. Don't jump to conclusions. Get the facts before reacting. Communication is key in any relationship.
But the wounded, jealous part of me drowns it out. The part that remembers every story I’ve heard or read about Nate's exploits with women. The part that never quite believed someone like him could be satisfied with someone like me.
A knock on my door jolts me from my spiral. One of the pitchers stands in the doorway, right on time for his scheduled session.
