I follow her to the kitchen and start unpacking the groceries, putting things away in her fridge and cabinets. She must’ve run to the store at some point too, because the kitchen is more stocked up than it was the other night, and the cozy cabin feels calming after the tension of visiting Edward.
“Mind if I use the kitchen to make some lunch?” I ask, pulling out sandwich supplies.
“Of course, make yourself at home.”
I start putting together turkey sandwiches, unconsciously prepping two of them as I cut thick slices of the whole-grainbread I bought. I’m lost in thought about the call from Brody, about what it means for my future. Two rejections down, and every day that passes without interest from another team makes the next conversation harder.
I hear Kat start to leave the kitchen, probably giving me space to work, but then her footsteps stop. When I glance up, she’s studying my face with those perceptive green eyes.
“You okay?” she asks. “You seem… I don’t know, justoffor something.”
I’m about to brush her off the same way I did with Edward, give her some generic response about everything being fine. But something stops me. Maybe it’s the fact that she picked up on my mood so perceptively, or maybe it’s the way she asked the question as if she really wants to know rather than just making polite conversation.
“I got some bad news about work today,” I say, opening the package of turkey. “Another team decided to pass on me.”
“I’m sorry. That really sucks.”
“Yeah, well.” I add turkey and cheese to both sandwiches, trying to keep my voice neutral. “It’s part of the business, right? Not everyone’s going to want you.”
“But it still hurts when they say no.”
Something about the simple acknowledgment, the fact that she doesn’t try to minimize it or offer empty platitudes, hits me in the chest.
“Yeah, it does,” I admit in a low voice. “Especially when you start wondering if maybe they’re all going to say no. If maybe you’re not as good as you thought you were.” I blow out a breath, admitting a truth that I’ve never really said out loud before. “I’m starting to worry that the shoulder injury might have totally derailed everything. That I’ll never be able to get back on track. Like maybe my time is just up, you know?”
She frowns. “But you’re fine now, right? Physically?”
“Yeah, I’m completely fine. Cleared by every doctor, every physical therapist, the whole medical team. The shoulder’s stronger than it was before the injury, if anything.” I pause, not sure why I’m telling her all this. “But when I was out for those months, it’s like something changed. I lost my groove, my confidence, whatever you want to call it. And I can’t figure out how to get it back.”
She’s quiet for a moment, considering what I’ve said.
“It’s scary,” she says slowly. “Putting yourself out there with something you love so much, and letting people judge whether it’s good enough. Whether you still have what it takes. I feel that way sometimes when I submit my art for jobs or book illustrations. It’s so personal, you know? When someone rejects my work, it feels like they’re rejectingmeas a person. Like they’re saying I’m not talented enough, not worth their time.”
She stops suddenly, one hand fluttering in the air as if to brush away what she just said. “I know it’s not the same as professional hockey.”
A flush creeps up her cheeks as if she’s embarrassed to have made the comparison.
“No.” I shake my head, my gaze caught on her face. “No, that sounds… it sounds like you get it.”
I’ve never heard someone put it into words like that, to sum up what I’ve been feeling but haven’t quite been able to articulate. Shedoesget it. The vulnerability of putting yourself out there, the fear that maybe you’re not good enough anymore, that creeping worry that maybe you were never as good as you thought.
“How do you deal with it?” I ask curiously. “When you start doubting yourself like that?”
She considers the question while I go back to assembling the sandwiches, cutting them diagonally the way my mom used to when I was a kid.
“I try to remember why I started doing art in the first place,” she says after a beat. “Not for the jobs or the money or other people’s approval. I do it because I love creating things, because I love the feeling of bringing something to life on paper. That it’s for me first, before it’s for anyone else.”
She pauses, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
“My grandmother always tells me that if you do something because you love it, really love it, then the other stuff will follow eventually. The success, the recognition, all of that. But you have to hold on to the love part, especially when everything else feels uncertain.”
I nod thoughtfully, staring down at the sandwiches, lost in my own head for a moment. When I snap back to the present moment, it hits me that I’ve been so caught up in my conversation with Kat that I’ve made the sandwiches bigger than either of us can probably eat. “Want to share these monsters I just created?”
She grins. “Really? Sure. I’m starving.”
We sit at the small table by the window, moving on to lighter topics of conversation. She tells me what she’s been up to so far today, and although I don’t really want to talk about my dad, I do tell her about Murphy and his dramatic personality—as well as his apparent obsession with me. She laughs brightly at that, and as we finish eating, I find myself reluctant to leave. But I can’t justify staying longer without seeming like I’m overstaying my welcome.
“Thanks for lunch,” she says as I start clearing our plates. “And for letting me talk your ear off.”
