Page 45 of Guarding the Star

A face that breaks my heart when I see it.

“That woman was just a former U-21 teammate from years ago. Nothing more,” I tell her the second we get in the car.

“I didn't ask about her.”

“Yeah, well, I saw your face, and you looked like you wanted to murder her. We're just friends.”

She stays quiet. Drives.

“Paula.”

“What.”

“It was nothing, okay? We talked for two minutes,” I insist.

“I know.”

“Then why are you pissed?”

“I'm not pissed.”

I drop it. The light changes. Paula drives, eyes fixed on the road. I look out the window and feel something I've never felt before: that my behavior can hurt another person. I never thought about the emotional consequences, because there was never anyone who cared enough to get upset. Now there is.

“Paula.”

“Yeah?”

“You're jealous, but I'm sorry. I mean it.”

Paula says nothing. But her right hand leaves the wheel for a second, finds mine. Squeezes. Lets go. Returns to the wheel.

***

The next day we go for a run. It's a habit of mine. On days off from practice, I like jogging through a park nearby. Lucky for me Paula is in great shape, because she never complains. The first few times I tried to leave her behind, but she keeps my pace without breaking a sweat.

We follow the usual route. I put on my headphones, hit the playlist that gets me going, and we head down the avenue, turn into the park, and loop around the lake. Just under four miles.

Around the two-and-a-half-mile mark, while I'm thinking that the new sneakers my sponsor sent me pinch a little, we pass the coffee shop where I buy coffee on Wednesdays. A man is sitting on a wooden bench. Brown hair. Thick-framed glasses. Looking at his phone.

I keep running, but a minute later I turn my head.

The man looks up from his phone. Looks at me. Two seconds. Looks back down.

My blood goes cold. Eight blocks. Eight fucking blocks. Brown hair, thick-framed glasses, the coffee shop where I buy coffee every Wednesday. It could be anyone.

Or it could be Derek Linden.

I speed up. Paula notices. She pulls even with me.

“You okay?” she asks, grabbing my elbow.

“Yes. No. I don't know. There's a guy on the bench by the coffee shop.”

“Keep running. Don't stop,” she orders.

We keep going. My legs shake, and it's not from the effort. When we get to the apartment, Paula lets me in and goes back out.

“Where are you going?”