Page 17 of Not Because You Loved Me

"I won't," I murmured, holding the folder tightly against my chest.

I walked out to my car in the freezing night air. This would be a major promotion, a path to medical school, and a clean break across the Atlantic.

It was everything I’d ever wanted. So why did it feel like running away?

CHAPTER 10

Katerina

The Next Morning

I woke up late. The sun was already high enough to cast long, pale bars of morning light across my bedroom floor, a stark reminder that I’d missed my five o'clock run for the first time in two weeks. My head throbbed, and my body felt like lead. Emotional exhaustion had finally caught up to me, pulling me under into a dreamless, dead-weight sleep.

I dragged myself out of bed, threw on an oversized sweatshirt and sweatpants, and padded barefoot into the kitchen.

The heavy folder was sitting on the kitchen island, staring at me like an ultimatum. Zurich. A break from my life here, the potential to step up into a more challenging role and earn enough to get me back to school. I reached out, tracing the gold-embossed logo on the corner, my mind swirling in a chaotic loop. Was leaving the country bravery, or was it cowardice?

A sudden knock at the front door shattered the silence.I froze, my throat tightening instantly. Was it Trent? If he was back on my porch…

My fiery side flared, and I marched over, determined to tell him off once and for all, and yanked the door open. "Trent, I told you…"

The words died in my throat.

Standing on my porch wasn't Trent. It was his mother. Cynthia stood in the cold morning air, clutching her winter jacket tightly around herself. Her dark eyes were red-rimmed and swollen, heavy shadows underneath them proving she had slept no better than her son. She looked small, fragile, and utterly heartbroken.

"Kat," Cynthia breathed, her voice trembling. "Please. Don't close the door."

My heart gave a painful, confused thud. Cynthia had always been kind to me, welcoming me into her home with warm hugs, homemade cookies, and zero judgment. I always admired what she and Davis had done, even after getting pregnant in high school and working incredibly hard to get to where they were now. You would never know, looking at this woman, who was in her early forties, that she had twin sons in their twenties. But seeing her standing here, looking so undone, sent a wave of guilt crashing through me.

"Cynthia," I said softly, stepping back from the threshold. "It's freezing out. Come inside."

She hurried in; the door clicking shut behind her. She stood in my entryway, wringing her hands, looking around my small living room as if searching for answers in the quiet walls.

"I'm sorry to intrude, Kat," she stammered, tears instantly brimming in her eyes. "I know I shouldn't be here. Davis told me to give you space, but... I couldn't. I couldn't just sit in my house knowing my son is destroying himself, and knowing... knowing what a terrible mistake this all is."

"Cynthia, please," I murmured, rubbing my temples. "You don't need to do this."

"He loves you, Kat!" she cried softly, taking a step toward me, her hands clasped in a desperate plea. "He is an idiot, and he was confused and made a mess of things, but please... I am begging you, don't throw away what you two have over a terrible miscommunication."

Her gaze drifted past me, landing on the kitchen island. She froze, her eyes widening as she read the large, bold lettering on the top of the folder.

European Hockey League — Franchise Agreement.

Cynthia turned back to me, her face draining of colour. "Kat... you're leaving?"

"It's a temporary job offer," I said quietly, keeping my voice carefully neutral. "It would be a promotion…"

"No, no, no," Cynthia whispered, her breathing suddenly shallow, panicked. She took a quick step toward the island, reaching out as if she could physically hide the folder. "Please, Kat. Don't do anything rash. Don't run away. He loves you so much, he…"

She stopped mid-sentence. Her hand flew to her head, her eyelids fluttering as her knees visibly buckled beneath her.

My instincts kicked in before my brain even had time to process what was happening. I crossed the room, catching Cynthia just before her knees hit the hardwood.

"Cynthia! Hey, look at me," I commanded, my voice dropping into the steady, authoritative tone I used on injured players who thought they knew better. I gave her a minute, then guided her to my couch and sat her down gently. "Deep breaths."

"I'm fine," she wheezed, her skin sickly pale, a light sheen of cold sweat breaking out across her forehead. "I'm fine, I just... got a little lightheaded..."

"You are not fine," I said firmly. I moved quickly, grabbed a glass from the cupboard, filled it with cold water, and pressed it into her trembling hands. "Drink this. Sips, not gulps."