Chapter 8: Memories and Warnings

After that, Caleb took two days to pack up three years’ worth of things.

Maybe he felt sentimental, because when he left, he was a bit softer toward me, his eyes full of guilt.

I stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, watching his back as he walked away.

The November wind rattled the glass, cold enough to sting.

"Caleb."

He stopped, the duffel bag slung low on his shoulder, hoodie pulled up against the November chill.

"A pro player’s career is short. One wrong step and it’s all over. Hope you don’t regret it."

He nodded, half-understanding.

In the silence, his gaze fell on the white wall of the living room—a photo wall, filled with memories from the past three years.

The day the Redfield club was founded: a photo of me, Caleb, and Tanya. Tanya had just graduated, hair still dyed yellow.

Our first time with a full team, seven of us raising our glasses at a backyard barbecue, all smiles. Caleb flipping burgers in a Red Sox cap, smoke curling up as Tanya tried (and failed) to light the grill.

There was the polaroid of Caleb flipping burgers at that barbecue, tongue out in concentration, and the faded photo-booth strip from our last team road trip.

And finally, me and Caleb, looking at the league championship photo on the sofa, not yet hung up.

That framed golden confetti—maybe it would never hang in the center of the wall.

Caleb lowered his eyes and said, "Sorry, Natalie."

In that moment, I didn’t know if he was apologizing for the three years we’d spent together, or for leaving Redfield, the club that had given everything to support him.

Maybe both. I stayed at the window until his car pulled away, headlights fading down the street. The apartment felt too quiet after the door shut behind him.