The Girl I Never Got Over

CHAPTER 18

The stadium lights burned hot, even though it wasn’t game night yet. I stood at the edge of the field, not in uniform—just joggers, trainers, and a hoodie—watching the grounds crew mark the lines like it was just another day. Like nothing monumental was about to happen.

It wasn’t supposed to be this soon.

I hadn’t planned to play again for another few weeks, maybe longer. But the foundation board had been breathing down my neck about visibility, and my new therapist said I was “on pace.”

So I agreed.

Because sitting still wasn’t working anymore.

Because staying off the field didn’t quiet the echo Riley left behind.

I was back in Madrid. Back in the city where everything started. But without her? Everything felt… quieter. Too quiet.

“Dude,” Raphina called from across the hotel gym, his towel slung around his neck as he wiped sweat from his brow. “You sure you’re ready for this?”

“I’ve been cleared,” I replied, not meeting his eyes.

“That’s not what I asked.”

I didn’t answer right away. I just tossed the medicine ball harder against the wall. The slam echoed like thunder in the small space.

Raphina walked closer, lowering his voice. “You know she’s gonna find out, right?”

“Not my problem,” I said. “She left.”

He exhaled through his nose. “So you’re doing this to prove something, then?”

I stopped, catching the ball mid-air. “I’m doing this because it’s what I’ve worked for.”

“Or maybe you’re doing it because if she won’t come back for you, maybe she’ll come back for the game.”

That landed harder than I wanted it to.

I was back in my apartment when the press release dropped. My name, bold and clean in the starter lineup. I stared at it for a long time. Then I did the one thing I swore I wouldn’t do.

I opened Instagram.

Riley’s last post was from London. A shot of the Institute. Caption: New city, same mission.

She looked calm. Composed. Like the chaos I left in her chest had finally quieted down.

I dropped my phone on the table like it burned.

It wasn’t until I glanced at the corner of the room that I saw it—taped to my whiteboard. The logo sketch. Still there. Still crooked. Still… ours.

She was probably panicking by now.

Zara would’ve told her.

Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if she was halfway through an email to my new PT, demanding answers.

She was always like that. Fierce. Protective. Especially when it came to the people she didn’t want to admit she cared about.

I leaned against the kitchen counter, watching the steam curl out of my mug. I hadn’t even touched it.

I wasn’t thinking about tea. Or sleep. Or rest.

I was thinking about her.

The last time I saw her, she looked at me like I’d broken something she was still trying to glue back together. Then she walked away with that look on her face—like leaving me was the only way to keep her standing.

And maybe she was right.

But it didn’t make me want her any less.

She was probably in that sterile little office right now, surrounded by clinical charts and research files and all her tightly kept control.

Maybe she was holding the logo again.

Maybe she was staring at her screen, reading the confirmation that I’d be on the field Saturday.

And maybe—just maybe—that heartbeat of panic I’d always caused in her chest was still there.

Because mine hadn’t stopped.

Not once. Not since she left. Not since she said she was choosing London.

But here’s the thing.

Even if she picked a whole new future, I’d still be the part of her past that never quite let go.

And when I stepped onto that field on Saturday, I knew one thing for sure:

I wasn’t just playing for the team.

I was playing for her to see me.

Even from 900 miles away.