Sutton taps his pen against the table thoughtfully. "We're holding a press conference tomorrow about Stag's community service. Would this be ready to announce by then? Show the organization's commitment to player safety alongside our disciplinary actions?"
My mouth goes dry at the thought of standing beside Alder at a press conference, but this is exactly the opportunity I need professionally.
"Absolutely," I hear myself say. "I can prepare all the necessary materials."
"Excellent." Sutton stands, signaling the end of the meeting. "Thompson, make sure Dr. Sinclair has whatever resources she needs for this. I want Pittsburgh leading the conversation on player safety."
As the room clears, Coach Thompson hangs back.
"Good initiative, Doctor," he says. The press conference is tomorrow at 11. The communications team will prep you beforehand."
"Thank you for the support," I say, gathering my tablet.
He studies me for a moment longer than feels comfortable. "Interesting timing."
"I'm not sure what you mean," I say, though I suspect I do.
"Nothing." He shrugs. "Just nice to see everyone focused on their professional contributions to this organization."
The emphasis on "professional" is subtle but unmistakable. Message received, Coach.
Back in my office, I close the door and lean against it, exhaling slowly. Professional success and personal turmoil are all tangled in a knot I can't seem to unravel.
Tomorrow, I'll stand alongside Alder before cameras and reporters. I'll need to maintain composure while ignoring the memory of his body against mine, his voice in the dark, and the way my body stretched to accommodate him.
I sink into my chair and start drafting emails to the equipment suppliers I'll need to contact. Focus on the work. Not on Alder's bruised jaw or how it felt to trace my fingers along it at the gala. Not on the way his eyes would crinkle when he laughed at something I said. Not on Gordie's excited greeting when we'd return home together.
Home. It felt like home in a way no place ever has.
I shake the thought away and continue working, losing myself in specifications and price quotes. By the time I finish, the facility has grown quieter, most of the staff having left for the day.
As I gather my things to leave, my phone buzzes with an email from the communications director: details for tomorrow's press conference, including a brief outline of what I should expect and what points to emphasize about the mouthguard program.
The reality sinks in. In less than twenty-four hours, I'll be face to face with Alder again, in front of cameras, reporters, and the entire Fury organization.
As I drive home through the evening traffic, my mind splits between rehearsing my talking points for tomorrow and wondering how I'll manage to look at Alder without revealing everything I feel.
The mouthguard program is a solid professional accomplishment—precisely what I need to secure my position. I should be celebrating this win. Instead, I'm dreading themoment I'll have to stand beside the man I walked away from and pretend he means nothing to me.
Tomorrow will be a test of everything I've worked for—my professionalism, my composure, my commitment to my career. I can't fail.
When I return, my apartment feels emptier than usual. I set my laptop on the kitchen counter and stare at the sparse furnishings and blank walls I haven't bothered to decorate. Despite my best efforts to make it home, the place still feels temporary.
I reheat leftover takeout and eat, standing at the counter and scrolling through my presentation notes one more time. The information blurs before my eyes, and my mind drifts to tomorrow's press conference—to Alder.
Will he look as tired as I feel? Has he been sleeping any better than I have? Will there be an opportunity to speak privately, or will we maintain this painful distance?
In bed, I stare at the ceiling, sleep eluding me despite my exhaustion. The apartment creaks and settles around me, the sounds still unfamiliar. I miss the soft snoring of Gordie at the foot of the bed, the steady breathing of Alder beside me.
Without fully thinking it through, I reach for my phone and type a message to Sarah:
How do you handle seeing her every day? This is so much harder than I expected.
My thumb hovers over the send button, a moment of doubt. Sarah and I aren't friends, not really. We've had one meaningful conversation. This text is unprofessional, inappropriate even.
I send it anyway.
I immediately regretted it. Sarah reports directly to Coach Thompson. What if she shares this with management? What if this undermines everything I've worked for?
