Chapter 4

For ten days, Joe was busy at the training facility, prepping for the upcoming closed camp. We barely crossed paths. Sometimes he'd come home late and I'd already be asleep. Sometimes I'd wake at dawn and he'd already be gone. Occasionally, a sticky note would appear on the nightstand, scrawled in messy handwriting: "Breakfast's in the fridge" or "You looked too peaceful to wake."

I used to find it sweet. I used to collect every note he wrote me, tuck them into a little box. Now I just looked at them, expressionless, and tossed them in the trash.

Today was one of his rare days at home.

I stood in the entryway, scanning the little home we'd built our memories in. The sofa we picked out together, off-white. The curtains I chose, linen. His half-finished protein shake cup still sat on the coffee table, a dried white ring on the rim. Game tapes stacked by the TV stand, arranged by season, neat as a row of silent soldiers.

But I'd already quietly taken down the photos of the two of us from the walls. Only his group shots from summer camp or parties remained.

In this house, he wouldn't find a single photo of us together.

"Where are you going?"

I'd finished packing, bit by bit. Traveling light today—just one bag on my shoulder.

I looked like I was running out for gas. Or a grocery run.

Joe looked up from the couch, game controller in hand, a Formula One race on the screen. He was in a lounge T-shirt, hair a mess, looking relaxed, at ease, like any ordinary weekend.

"Just out for a bit." I hitched the strap up my shoulder. "Be back soon."

"Alright." He pressed a button, the race car roaring through a curve. "Camp starts soon. I'll be gone three months this time. Closed off. Base runs tight—phones get turned in. I probably won't be able to reach you much."

He paused, like he was explaining. Really he was just pre-forgiving himself.

"If anything comes up, leave me a message. Or..." He thought about it. "Never mind. Just—take care of yourself here."

"...OK."

I put on my shoes quietly. He didn't look up.

I pushed the door open. Sunlight spilled in, sharp enough to make me squint. Wind rushed through the entryway, smelling of grass and dirt. Behind me, the race finished on screen. He muttered a curse under his breath—lost again, probably.

I stood in the doorway and looked back at him one last time.

He was on the couch, cross-legged, controller on his knee, frowning at the screen. A cushion was crooked. The curtains weren't fully drawn, a sliver of gray-blue sky showing through.

"I'm leaving."

"Mm. Don't be too late." He answered absently, eyes never leaving the screen.

The door closed. I walked down the steps with steady feet. The sun was good. Bag on my shoulder, I followed the sidewalk all the way to the corner, where Selena's car was waiting.

She took my bag, threw it in the trunk, and looked at me. "All blocked?"

"Mm."

In my contacts, "My love" was deleted. Instagram, Twitter, Telegram—all blocked. Texts set to filter. Even his email went to the blacklist.

"One and done." Selena nodded, satisfied, and started the car. "Clean cut."

"Mm."

When we hit the highway, my phone buzzed. A carrier auto-text, reminding me my data plan was about to expire. Nothing else. Not a single message.

He wouldn't look for me. At least not for three months.

Closed camp. Phones turned in. NFL team lockdowns were strict—players cut off from the outside, dawn to dusk on the field, in meetings, in the training room. He'd done one before. Came out eight pounds lighter, stubble everywhere, and the first thing he did was call me.

But this time, he wouldn't even call. Because he still didn't believe I'd actually leave. He didn't think I'd really go.

He thought I was just throwing a tantrum. Thought I'd adjust, like I always did, and wait for him to come home. Thought I'd always be on that off-white sofa, waiting for him to push the door open, waiting for whatever little gift he tossed my way, waiting for whatever souvenir he deigned to bring back from some airport duty-free.

He didn't know I no longer wanted any of it.

On the highway, Selena turned on the radio. A pre-season prediction show for the Chiefs. The host was hyping Joe Kane's numbers for the new season—how irreplaceable he was, how he was the soul of the team.

Selena reached to change the station.

"Don't." I said.

She glanced at me.

"I want to hear it." I leaned back, closed my eyes. "Hear what he is in other people's mouths. All these five years without me."

Selena said nothing. Turned the volume down a notch.

The host kept going: "...Joe Kane, elite quarterback, four AFC championships in five years, king of Arrowhead Stadium. Word from inside the organization is he's in peak form at closed camp, primed to make a Super Bowl run this season..."

I smiled faintly.

King of Arrowhead. Kansas City's brightest star. The NFL's most valuable "single" player.

Just as he wanted. Now he really was single.

Outside the window, Kansas City's outline grew smaller and smaller. I opened my eyes, watched the skyline shrink in the rearview mirror, and felt the stone that had been pressing on my chest for five years finally lift.

Right now, Joe was on the field, sweat pouring, soaking in the fans' worship, the owner's favor, his teammates' respect. Everyone seemed to love him.

But he didn't know—from this moment on, no matter how many games he won, he would never get back the Vivian who stood at the airport holding a homemade sign, bouncing on her toes, scanning the crowd.