• • •

Whatever disinfectant they sprayed throughout the gym didn't do much.

Laken was at the end of the assembly line— her job to make sure all the items made it into the bag before she handed it off.

Granola bar. Sandwich. Juice box. Fold.

Trey was beside her, complaining, Kelsey was at the beginning watching them like a hawk.

They called it 'Free lunch'. There line of kids in attendance was out of the door.

"For a fucking sandwich." Trey muttered under his breath, shaking his head as he dropped another juice box into place.

"Language," Laken said automatically, not even looking up.

"Man—" Trey leaned closer, lowering his voice but not his tone, "—this line wrapped around the building. For bread and turkey."

Kelsey didn't glance over from her spot at the start of the table. "And you're shocked?"

"Nah... Shit just sad."

The line kept moving. Loud. Messy.

Some kids grabbed and went. Some lingered. Some looked like they were counting what went into the bag before they took it.

A woman stepped up beside Laken then—older, calm, clipboard tucked against her chest.

"You're doing great back here," she said, watching the rhythm of Laken's hands for a second.

Laken glanced up, giving her a small smile. "Thank you."

"We're actually hosting a fundraiser next weekend," she continued, already reaching into her bag. "Helps keep this running. You should come by if you can."

She handed Laken the card. "Oh—thank you," Laken said, taking it.

Trey leaned over immediately. "Let me see that."

"Back up," Laken nudged him with her elbow.

"Charity event," the woman added, glancing between them. "Food, donors, the whole thing. It's a good cause."

Laken examined the card as she continued, "We love having people who care, but we need people who have."

Laken's fingers stilled for half a second on the edge of the card.

Granola bar. Sandwich. Juice box— Fold.

"Right," she said, a small nod following, "I'll be there."

Trey leaned in. "What we wearing?"

"We?" Laken glanced at him.

"Yeah, we. I just said I'm going."

"You're not coming."

"I am," he nodded. "I care now. Deeply."

Laken laughed, "Oh please. Come casket sharp— you might have to shake some for donations."

"Tell Kels to do it. She draggin' around all that ass and won't do nun with it."

Kelsey's glare found Laken as she doubled over in laughter.

"Treyvon," Kelsey said flatly, not even raising her voice, "keep talking and I'm pulling you off the line. And Laken you can go with him."

The line shuffled forward.

Granola bar. Sandwich. Juice box. Fold.

The rhythm returned until she saw someone she recognized.

It took all of her strength to put her head down and pretend she hadn't seen them.

She worked to make it look mechanical— handing off the bags while tears welled in her eyes.

It didn't matter. All of the kids were there for the same reason.

But she taught this one. Listened to her smart remarks, she knew this one.

Laken hoped she'd pass through like the rest of them— head down, hand out, gone.

But the girl didn't move.

They made eye contact, and Brielle looked... scared? Ashamed?

Both.

Trey noticed the hesitance, knew Laken worked in the area.

Bags started stacking at her hand. She didn't look—didn't ask, just passed them over.

Bri took them, shoving them in her book bag, "Don't tell nobody I be here, please."

"Why would I?"

"Thank you."

"I'll see you Monday."

When Bri walked away, Laken turned her attention towards her friend, "Thanks, Trey."

"You know how many lines I been in?" He questioned, "I just never had nobody who gave a fuck."

Granola bar. Sandwich. Juice box. Fold.

• • •

Laken spent her Saturday evening at the studio with Kelsey, her legs dangling off the futon as she braced herself to say something she knew Kelsey wouldn't like.

"It's... ugly. I'm sorry."

Kelsey didn't even flinch. She just shrugged, tossing the canvas toward the wall like it didn't matter. "All this shit is ugly. I can't even focus."

Laken sat up a little, brows pulling together. "What's wrong, Kels?"

"I got dumped."

"By who?" Laken blinked. "Wait, since when were you even dating somebody?"

"Doesn't matter." Kelsey dipped her brush back into paint, mixing it aggressively. "It was going well. Perfect, actually." She scoffed. "Four months in, he tells me I'm too masculine. That I don't want a man—I want to be one."

"Four months? Where the fuck was I?"

Kelsey exhaled, dragging a hand down her face. "You worried about the wrong shit." Her voice dropped, quieter this time. "Am I masculine?"

The way the question was posed, it was clear to Laken that whoever had hit a sore spot.

Kelsey had no physical traits of a man. She was short— fair skin and curls that framed a face of softness. A body people paid for, she was born with.

"No." Laken shook her head, serious, "I just don't think you've found somebody who can match you. Which, again, I didn't know you were looking."

"I wasn't," Kelsey muttered, sliding down the wall until she hit the floor. "That's the problem. I never am." She rested her head back, staring at the ceiling. "It just happens. And then it never works."

Laken watched her for a second before scooting off the futon, sitting on the floor across from her.

"I don't tell anybody about them," Kelsey went on. "Not until I can see it going somewhere. I was literally this close," she held her fingers up, barely an inch apart, "to bringing him around."

Silence sat between them for a second before Laken tilted her head. "So what happened? He just said that out of nowhere?"

Kelsey huffed out a short laugh. "No. It was some dumb shit." She shook her head. "I hadn't eaten all day. Like, at all. He came over while I was finally eating, sat down, and just... stared at me. So I asked what was wrong, and he goes, 'I'm waiting on you to make my plate.'"

"Weird ass nigga."

"Right?" Kelsey pushed herself up enough to lean forward, elbows on her knees. "And it's not even like I don't do that. I've made his plate before. But damn—do you not see me eating right now?"

"So what you said?"

"I told his ass to keep waiting then. He got mad, talkin' about he had a long day and his girl can't even make him a plate. Bitch, do you know what kind of day I had? Did you ask? Fuck out my face."

Laken nodded in agreement, "You're not wrong."

"I liked him, though." Kelsey's voice softened, "And I was actually trying— that's what pisses me off."

It was hard to tell, sometimes, if Kelsey wanted a sounding board or actual advice. Just like she waited to reveal her dates, she sat with her feelings a while before bringing them to someone. By that time, she'd already made a choice.

"Maybe I should have said it differently?" Kelsey questioned.

"You could have, but that's not who you are. And trust me when I say, that shit starts to eat you up inside."

Kelsey glanced at her, but decided not to press.

At first.

"Is that what you do?"

Laken made a face, "Yes. Until the point that he now thinks that's who I am, and how can I be mad at that?"

"But, how do you do that? It's been so long with him how do you turn that shit on and off?"

"It's not hard. Just exhausting."

She paused after that, the words catching up to her a second too late.

It was hard.

It was laughing at shit that wasn't funny. Letting conversations end before she actually said what she meant. Choosing silence because it was easier than the look on his face when she pushed back—confused, then irritated, like she'd broken some version of her he'd gotten used to.

And the worst part?

He wasn't wrong for expecting it.

She'd built that version herself. Piece by piece. Every "it's fine" that wasn't. Every time she softened something sharp before it could turn into an argument. Every time she chose being understood later over being honest in the moment.

Now it showed up without her thinking—automatic. Polished. Easy.

Laken swallowed, eyes dropping to her hands.

"It just becomes habit," she finished quieter. "And once it does, you don't even realize how much of you isn't making it into the room anymore."

"Well... Thank you for making me feel better about it 'cause ain't no fuckin' way."

Laken shrugged lightly, "I do what I can."

• • •

By the time Laken made it to her car, she was tired.

She dropped into the driver's seat with a quiet groan, directing Siri to call Wes.

"Hey." Wes answered, "You on the way to me?"

"Flying to you, actually. I'm tired and I need my bed."

He laughed, "It was that bad?"

"Not really bad." Laken responded, glancing in her mirror as she switched lanes, "The line was just super long— I'm happy we had enough."

"Mm."

It wasn't dismissive, just... short.

Laken continued anyway, "It was cool, though. They're having a fundraiser next week that I want us to go to."

A brief pause.

"Next week?" he asked.

"Yeah. Same people."

"Send it to me," he said, and there was a faint noise on his end—something shifting, water maybe, hard to place.

"I will," she replied, slowing at a light. "You'll come, right?"

Another pause. Not long enough to mean anything.

"I'll have to see what my schedule looks like."

Laken made a face, "Whoever you have on the schedule, kick them off and tell me yes."

"Yes."

Wes' response garnered a smile, "Life is so fun when you do what I say."

"Mhm."

More movement on his end. Closer this time.

"Are you working?" Laken questioned, "You sound busy."

"I'm trying to handle something before you get here."

Laken glanced at her phone for half a second before putting her attention back on the road. "Okay. I'll be home in like 10 minutes."

"Drive safe— see you when you get here."

The call ended abruptly.

Laken drove the rest of the way on autopilot, mind drifting to kids, noise, Kelsey's voice heavier than she wanted it to.

As she made her way into the elevator, her thoughts were on a continuous loop.

Physically tired, mentally exhausted.

Wes wasn't in the living room when she came in. She slipped her shoes off, checked the kitchen, his office, "Wes?"

"I'm in the room."

She found him there, postured as if he were waiting on her. Grabbing her hand, Wes led Laken towards the bathroom where steam curled into the air— candles flickered against the wall.

Wes' hands found the hem of her shirt, and she lifted her arms to make it easier for him to remove it, eyes still on the tub.

Soft touches, even softer kisses, lingered in the space between them.

Laken leaned into it without thinking, her body easing in a way her mind hadn't caught up to yet, her head tipping slightly as his mouth found the curve of her neck.

For a second, everything else fell away.

The noise.

The weight of the day.

Kelsey's voice still echoing somewhere in the back of her mind.

All of it softened.

Because this didn't require a performance.

• • •

Sundays were supposed to be rest days.

The blinds in the apartment were half-drawn, afternoon light cutting across the living room in soft gold stripes.

The TV was too big for the space, mounted on a wall that wasn't his, in an apartment that felt too clean to be lived in.

Carolina.

He still hadn't gotten used to that.

Not because he missed Washington. He didn't. Not really.

He missed routine. Familiar irritation. The same facility. The same roads. The same restaurants where nobody bothered him because they had already gotten over the novelty of him being there.

Here, everything was new.

New team. New playbook. New expectations.

Noah leaned back against the couch, one leg stretched out, the other bent, remote loose in his hand as he rewound the same clip for the fourth time.

On screen, he watched himself take the handoff.

Pause. Rewind. Play.

The linebacker hesitated half a second, just enough for the crease to open. Old Noah would've bounced it outside. Younger Noah definitely would've. Younger Noah had thought every play was a chance to make somebody look stupid.

Now, he saw the cutback before the safety shifted.

He clicked pause again.

"Are you watching football or judging yourself?" Destiny asked from the kitchen.

Noah didn't look over. "Both."

"That sounds exhausting."

"It is."

"Then stop."

He finally glanced toward her.

Destiny stood barefoot in front of the counter, wearing one of his old team shirts. Her hair was tied up messy, face bare, one hip pressed against the cabinet as she picked through the groceries she had bullied him into buying the day before.

She had been "about to start" cooking for forty-five minutes.

"You gon' feed me or keep staring at the onions?" He asked.

She looked down at the cutting board. "I'm emotionally preparing."

"For onions?"

"For cooking in this sad-ass apartment."

Noah's mouth pulled. "Ain't nothing sad about this apartment."

"It echoes."

"It's big."

"It echoes because you don't own enough stuff."

Noah shrugged, "This your way of telling me you wanna decorate?"

"Only if you post it. I can soft launch my interior designer company."

"I've never heard you mention no shit like that."

Destiny pointed the knife toward him. "You're my first client. Congrats!"

He laughed under his breath, turning back to the TV. "You really came over here to shit on my apartment. That's crazy."

"You invited me."

"I asked you to make me oxtails."

"And I said yes."

"You been here two days."

"See? That attitude right there is why I don't cook for you."

He let the clip run again.

The line shifted left. Tight end sealed the edge. He cut vertical, lowered his shoulder, took the contact instead of avoiding it.

Four yards. An ugly four yards.

The kind that kept drives alive and made commentators say.

He hated when they said that.

Mature meant slower. Wiser meant less fun. Patient meant they were waiting for you to fall off but trying to be polite about it.

His phone buzzed beside him.

Kyser.

Noah stared at the name for a second before answering.

"Yo."

"Good afternoon to you too," Kyser said with a chuckle.

"I already know you want some crazy if you calling on a Sunday."

She sighed, avoiding the question, "Can't even check on your clients anymore."

"You got other clients." Noah pointed out, "Check on them."

"My other clients don't get traded, disappear into an apartment outside of the city, refuse three interview requests, and then send me a thumbs-up when I ask if they're alive."

"Dead people can't give a thumbs up."

Destiny snorted from the kitchen.

Kyser caught it. "You got company?"

"No."

Destiny called, "Rude."

Kyser laughed. "That Destiny?"

Noah rubbed at his eyebrow. "Why you know her voice?"

"Because unlike you, she's nice."

"Kyser said hey," Noah said flatly.

Destiny didn't even turn around. "Tell Kyser I said you need furniture."

"She said mind your business."

"I heard what she said."

Noah reached for the bottle of water on the coffee table. "What you want?"

Kyser's tone shifted slightly. Not all the way serious, but close enough that Noah knew the call had a purpose. Kyser didn't waste Sundays unless somebody else had wasted hers first.

"We need to talk about media availability."

"No."

"You have to do something, Noah." Kyser pressed, "You've only done one interview, and acted like you had a gun to your head."

"I did. You put it there."

"The point is, the local outlets want something warmer. Something that makes you look excited to be there."

Noah's tone was bland, "I am excited."

Kyser went quiet, which meant she was either choosing patience or losing it.

Noah preferred when people lost it. Patience usually came with a speech.

"I'm not asking you to tap dance," Kyser said. "I'm asking you to give them enough that they stop filling in blanks."

"I don't give a damn what they fill it with."

"They're filling them with attitude problem, locker room tension, Washington couldn't wait to move on, Carolina taking a risk—"

"Who cares?" Noah tossed the remote onto the couch cushion beside him, "Once the season starts, it'll shift towards my games."

"That would be true if football was only football."

"It is."

"It's not, and you know that first-hand."

Noah didn't answer.

The film kept sitting there paused, his body folded into impact, helmet pressed into shoulder pads, the whole thing looking more violent frozen than it had probably felt in the moment.

Kyser exhaled. "You're in a new market. They need to like you enough not to make you their villain before training camp."

That was the thing about Kyser.

She irritated Noah because she wasn't stupid. She never came with bullshit that sounded like bullshit. She came with just enough truth to make ignoring her feel irresponsible.

Destiny moved around the kitchen, cupboards opening and closing, the soft domestic noise filling the apartment.

"What they want me to say?" Noah asked.

"Progress."

Noah frowned. "What?"

"They want progress. New beginnings. Veteran leadership. Excited to compete. Glad to be closer to family."

"I am glad to be closer to family."

"Great. Say that with a smile— not whatever expression is usually on your face."

"Then it'll be an article saying my smile was sarcastic. You can't win with them."

"Do you understand how easy this could be if you would stop fighting every harmless thing?"

He sat forward, elbows on his knees. "Do you understand how annoying harmless things get when everybody keeps asking for pieces of you like it don't cost nothing?"

The kitchen got quiet.

Not silent.

Just quiet enough for him to notice Destiny had stopped moving.

Kyser didn't respond right away.

Noah regretted saying it. Not because it wasn't true. Because now Kyser would hear something under it.

She always heard something under it.

When she spoke again, her voice was gentle, which was worse. "You don't have to give them anything real. You know how to do that."

Noah laughed once, humorless. "Yeah?"

"You've been doing it for years."

Destiny went back to chopping.

Slow this time.

Kyser continued, "There's a feature request. Not sit-down deep. Lifestyle piece. Light. New team, offseason adjustment, house hunting, family roots. That kind of thing."

"No."

"You didn't hear the full pitch."

"I heard lifestyle."

"It could soften the trade narrative and make fans feel like they know you."

"That's exactly why no."

Kyser made a frustrated sound. "Noah, they're going to ask about why Carolina."

"Team wanted me."

"They're going to ask why now."

"Trade happened now."

"They're going to ask what brought you back this direction."

"My mama lives in this direction."

Kyser paused. "They might also ask about whether there was... personal motivation."

There it was.

Noah's gaze slid away from the TV.

Destiny didn't stop chopping this time, but he could tell she was listening. Not in a messy way. Destiny wasn't messy unless invited.

But she was a woman.

Which meant she could pretend not to hear things while hearing every syllable.

Noah's voice cooled. "What personal motivation?"

Kyser didn't take the bait. "You know how this goes."

"No, tell me."

"You're from close enough. Your parents are close. Old friends are close. People connect dots whether dots exist or not."

Noah reached for his water again, twisting the cap off and back on without drinking.

Kyser said, carefully, "I don't think anybody thought anything of it, until you were at the art exhibit. I guess you took pictures— they saw her in the background."

Noah's hand stilled.

"She's engaged. I went to a mutual homegirl's exhibit. That's not news."

"It isn't if you don't make it weird."

Noah sat up straighter. "How the fuck would I make it weird?"

"By sounding like that."

Destiny set the knife down. "Kyser got you there."

Noah pointed toward the kitchen without looking. "You supposed to be cooking."

"I'm supervising your tone."

"Supervise the food."

Kyser barely contained her laugh, "This is why Destiny should be on all your calls."

Noah dragged a hand down his face.

Kyser softened again, but not too much. "Look, everybody knows she's your ex. If your name gets mentioned near hers, we keep it clean. Childhood friends. Family friends. Congratulations. Happy for her. That's it."

Happy for her.

The words sat in the room like they had weight.

Noah looked back at the film.

On screen, the frozen play finally timed out, the menu dimming around him.

Happy for her.

He could say that.

He had said harder lies for less important reasons.

"I'm not doing the lifestyle piece," Noah said.

Kyser groaned. "You are impossible."

"I'll do one local interview at the facility. Ten minutes."

"Deal. I'll text you the details."

"If they ask me about Lake—"

"They won't."

"If they do."

"They won't," Kyser repeated. "But if somehow they do, you say exactly what I said. Family friend. Happy for her. End."

Noah's mouth twitched, but it wasn't a smile.

Destiny had turned back to the counter, but her shoulders had gone still again.

Family friend.

Happy for her.

That was the kind of answer a man gave when he had sense and no intention of dragging a woman's name into his mess.

He should've liked it. Instead, it pissed him off.

"Anything else?" Noah asked.

"Yeah. Stop hiding." Kyser replied, "Get out some more this week. Be seen. Team dinner, charity event, something normal."

"I work out."

"That's not being seen. That's being employed."

"You love changing the definition of shit to make it fit your narrative."

Kyser laughed, "I literally get paid to make it fit whatever narrative I want."

Noah ended the call.

For a second, the apartment held the silence he had been trying to avoid all day.

The TV. The city outside the windows. Destiny standing in his kitchen wearing a shirt from a life he had technically left behind.

Then she said, "So."

He waited for her to continue.

"Family friend is a bit insane."

Noah sighed, "It's accurate."

"Is it?"

"Yes."

She pursed her lips, "Okay. Fine. Family friend. Congratulations. Happy for her. End."

The way she repeated it made it sound like a joke.

Or worse.

A prayer.

Noah looked away first.

Destiny let him have that. She always had a decent read on when to push and when to let silence do the annoying part for her.

The pan started to hiss. Butter, garlic, onions. Something warm filled the apartment, fighting the clean, unlived-in smell.

Noah pressed play again.

The next clip started.

This was why Destiny worked in his life when she worked. She didn't ask for the part of him he didn't want to give. She took what was available and made herself comfortable around it.

Friendly until they weren't.

Close enough for grocery shopping. Not close enough for promises.

Destiny tilted her head. "You like it here?"

"No."

She laughed. "Damn. No hesitation."

"I don't know here yet."

"That's not what I asked."

He watched the clip again. "I like the opportunity."

"Agent answer." She laughed, "Give me something real."

"That's the truth."

"It can be both." Destiny shrugged easily. "I'm not Kyser. You don't have to package it."

Noah let the remote rest against his thigh as he looked around the apartment.

At the boxes he hadn't unpacked because the house closing was supposed to happen soon, and there was no point making this place feel like anything more than a makeshift hotel.

At Destiny, who had found a way to make his kitchen look less useless in under two hours.

"I like that it's closer," he admitted.

Destiny's expression didn't change, but something in her eyes sharpened. "To your parents?"

He nodded once. "Yeah."

She gave him a second, then, quieter, "Just them?"

Noah breathed a laugh through his nose.

He looked back at the TV and said, "This an interview?"

Destiny's smile was small. "Just a friend asking a question."

"Not today."

"Okay."

And because she was Destiny, she actually let it go.

For about ten seconds.

Then she said, "Does she... still want you?"

Noah closed his eyes, "Destiny."

"I'm just asking." She insisted, "If you would've seen how you looked when Kyser mentioned her, you'd know why."

That was the question that had been sitting under everything since he saw Laken again.

Destiny watched him, waiting.

Noah breathed out slowly, "It really don't matter."

He pressed play on the film again, eyes on the screen,

"She still with that nigga."

• • •