An anchor for the mind

We slept through the night, a profound, restorative collapse into the deep comfort of the hotel bed. For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, my mind achieved genuine, uninterrupted rest, sinking into the secure, familiar weight of Vic’s arms. The quiet exhaustion of the previous night’s intense intimacy had finally subdued the hyper-vigilance, locking the fear outside the bedroom door.

I woke first, gently disentangling myself from Vic's tight, protective hold. The room was washed in the soft, diffused light of an Auckland morning, quiet save for the slow, steady rhythm of Vic’s breathing. The silence felt heavy with the necessity of action. The confrontation with my psychological damage could no longer wait. I retrieved my phone and the contact for my therapist, Blake. I needed to act, not think. I sent a rapid series of texts, a furious, stream-of-consciousness summary of the last seventy-two hours—the terrifying recognition, the hospital chaos, and the diagnosis—needing to externalize the heavy truth. While Blake was fully aware of Patrick's history from previous discussions over the years, he wasn't aware of the recent events from the past few days until i told him. Charlie didn't think it was appropriate to tell him He responded instantly:

Blake: I am so sorry that you've been dealing with that. When are you available to meet? If need be, I can rearrange my morning appointments.

Me: I can meet you in an hour and a half. Want to meet you at your tiny office?

Blake: Yes, that works. I'll see you then.

With the appointment set, I headed to the bathroom, the cool tiles underfoot a welcome, grounding sensation. The shirts we had washed the night before were now completely dry, hanging crisp and neat over the shower curtain rod—a small, tangible victory of order over chaos. I took them down, folded them, closed the curtain, and stepped into a scalding shower. I let the water beat down, turning the cleansing into a ritual of preparation, allowing the heat to penetrate the deep muscle memory of the hospital gurney and the violent, uncontrollable shivering. Once dry, I took my time, brushing my teeth and putting in my contacts, layering the mundane acts as a necessary defense before facing the emotional exposure ahead.

I walked back into the bedroom and pulled on comfortable, functional clothes—layered cotton and soft denim—a deliberate choice to counter the vulnerability of the night before. I was standing at the desk, preparing to leave a note for Vic, when his low groan cut through the quiet. He rolled heavily onto his back, his eyes still heavy with sleep. “Where are you going, amore?” he murmured, his voice thick with sleep and concern.

“I was able to get an in-person session with Blake—we usually just have virtual sessions. I'll be heading out shortly,” I said, placing the pen down.

Vic sat up immediately, his eyes focusing on me with a sudden, intense concentration that wiped away all residual sleep. He rubbed his jaw, his eyes fixed on mine. “A session? That’s good. I’ll be ready in fifteen minutes. I’ll wait in the waiting room at the office.”

I smiled faintly. “It’s not exactly an office, Vic. Blake just has a small space in a building—more like a utility closet, honestly. Most of our sessions are walks. It’s less claustrophobic that way for many of his clients, and it just looks like friends taking a walk.”

He frowned, then nodded, the security implications registering instantly. “A walk is better than sitting in some small box. If you’re walking, I’m walking too. Can I walk right behind you?”

I shook my head, walking over to the bedside and sitting next to him. “It’s better if you don’t invade the session that closely. I need the space. But listen, Agent Riley has a bike. I ask him to lend it to you. That way, you could still be nearby me but not actually invade the session itself.”

Vic considered this, a slow, determined grin spreading across his face. “A bike. I like the idea of moving. That sounds like a good idea. I agree. If it helps you get through this, I’m in.”

“You have to keep at least one hundred feet away from Blake and I during the session,” I stipulated, holding his gaze. “I need to feel like I’m truly having a session with him.”

“One hundred. Understood,” Vic confirmed, already climbing out of bed and headed to the bathroom to take a shower. The lingering stiffness from the gurney was still evident in his movements, but his focus was absolute. “Let’s get this done.”

As we headed downstairs after his shower, brushing his teeth and getting dressed, the security detail was already on alert, seamlessly anticipating our movements. I pulled Agent Riley aside. “Vic would like to borrow your bike to be near me while I have my session with Blake. Would you be able to lend it to him?”

Riley was already moving toward the back of the SUV, his movements economical and swift. “Consider it done. I need ninety seconds to load it onto the rack.” He made a quick dash to where the agents’ door was located, went inside and came right back out with his bike. the sharp click of the bike rack securing the mountain bike confirmed his efficiency.

Once the mountain bike was securely attached, Agent Riley drove us the twenty minutes across the city to the building where Blake’s “office” was located—a discreet, unassuming block nestled in a quieter area, designed specifically for anonymity.

We got out. Vic and I introduced him to Blake, who was waiting discreetly on the sidewalk, calm, wearing simple walking clothes, and professionally observant. I briefly explained to Blake that Vic would be riding a bike near us while respectfully maintaining distance during the session. With a genuine, understanding smile on his face, Blake immediately agreed. “Not a problem at all. My priority is her comfort and safety, and if having him nearby helps you open up, that’s what we’ll do.”

Blake and I headed down the street immediately. Vic followed us down a moment later after retrieving the bike from Riley and quickly checking the tire pressure.

Once Blake and I were moving, I set a rapid pace down the sidewalk. I needed the physical rhythm—the movement of my legs, the swing of my arms—to contain the deep, anxious energy that had returned with the daylight. The initial politeness vanished as I launched into the details of the Patrick fiasco. I spoke in a continuous, measured stream, forcing the ugly, terrifying history out into the daylight, needing to externalize the burden of the last few days. I told Blake how Patrick had walked right out of the facility, and no one had said a thing. I recounted the terrifying moment I recognized him at the club Vic and I had gone to, and how I had convinced myself I was hallucinating, choosing not to accept what my eyes were telling me. The next day, he was brazen enough to dress up as a taxi driver I had used years ago—a truly poor get-up, but effective enough to confirm my dread.

I recounted reporting the incident to Cathal, Patrick's subsequent arrest, and his placement in a high-security prison. The story culminated with the bleak finality: somehow, Patrick was able to commit suicide while incarcerated. I then described the immediate physical fallout—my hospitalization for exhaustion and dehydration, the discharge, and then the return twelve hours later. Finally, I summarized Ronan’s - Dr. Hayes' - intervention—the battery of tests he ran, how everything was considered normal, and how he ultimately suggested I was experiencing acute physical and emotional PTSD from the culmination of all these events.

Blake listened without interruption, his posture open and completely nonjudgmental. His steady presence was a necessary anchor. When I finally finished the harrowing recital, he paused only briefly, letting the silence settle. His initial response was an apology—not for himself, but for the sheer violation I had endured while attempting to do my professional duty for the All Blacks.

“Treating patients with PTSD is always inherently difficult,” Blake stated. “It is a profound psychological response to a situation no human should ever have to endure. What makes recovery complex is that not every patient is the same; the path forward requires an intensely personalized, individualized treatment approach.”

We continued to talk about how I felt about the entire situation and then shifted to discussing Vic's reaction. I admitted that I didn’t actually know how Vic felt about it, as he actively avoided talking about it, often just tightening his arm around me or trying to change the subject.

Blake suggested that Vic and I sit down and discuss it directly, stressing that while it would be hard, it was necessary to move forward as a couple and process the shared trauma. “You can’t navigate this alone, and he can’t navigate his worry alone. You have to open that conversation, no matter how difficult it feels.” He also suggested that I journal about the events, the emotions, and the physical symptoms, noting that the physical act of writing can help externalize and manage the trauma. “Get it out of your head and onto the page. You control the narrative there.”

I agreed with Blake about the necessity of talking it over with Vic, and I also agreed with him about starting a journal. We agreed to meet again in three days.

The session concluded naturally as we looped back toward the building. Blake and I shared a quick, firm embrace, a calculated move to reinforce the public perception of us as two friends parting ways—a useful pretense, even though most residents of this quiet area knew his profession. They adhered to a code of silent respect, giving both he and his patients a notably wide berth. I searched for Vic down the path, and my eyes locked onto his, a powerful sense of grounded security washing over me. He pedaled up to me, covering the distance swiftly on the bike. He then dismounted the bike in a single, fluid motion. He moved with the quiet, inherent authority of someone claiming his ground, his presence immediate and solid.

“How was it?” Vic asked, immediately taking the bike’s handlebars in one hand and reaching for my hand with the other, his gaze searching mine for residual distress.

“It was necessary,” I replied, squeezing his hand. “He said it’s going to be a different kind of treatment for recovery.”

Vic nodded, his eyes scanning the quiet street and the SUV parked nearby, a perpetual guardian. “Different is good. Did he give you homework? Did he need me to tackle anyone?”

I laughed softly, a genuine sound, releasing some of the tension I hadn’t known I was holding. “No tackles needed. And yes, homework. We need to talk, Vic. And I need to start writing things down.”

“The hard stuff?” he asked, his voice low and protective.

“The hard stuff, Papa. All of it.”

“Okay,” he said, meeting his eyes, a promise in the look. “We’ll do the hard stuff. Starting tonight.”

We exchanged silent acknowledgement of the work done, and together, we headed back to the waiting SUV, the completion of this first, critical step toward recovery settling deep in my bones.

The drive back to the hotel was quick and silent, a necessary calm settling over the SUV after the emotional intensity of the session. Vic’s hand never left mine, a quiet reassurance that the hard work had begun. Agent Riley pulled into the underground parking garage, and we were quickly escorted back up to the secure floor. The familiar faces of our agents were a silent wall of safety as we re-entered our room, the heavy door locking behind us with a solid, satisfying thud.

The immediate need was simple: food. The morning's activity had burned through our energy reserves. I picked up the phone to dial room service.

Cosmos answered on the first ring, his voice smooth and professional. “Good afternoon, Cosmos speaking. How may I assist you?”

“Hi, Cosmos, it’s Deppgrl. We’d like to order lunch, please.”

There was a slight, almost imperceptible hesitation on his end. “I sincerely apologize, but the kitchen is completely closed until dinner prep begins. We had an unexpected surge in demand this morning due to the hotel being booked to maximum capacity, and we ran into a temporary issue with insufficient inventory. Our delivery of fresh produce and meat will arrive just before dinner service, but we simply cannot fulfill any further lunch orders right now.”

I frowned, glancing at Vic, who was already pulling out his phone. “Oh, I understand. It happens. Not an issue, friend!”

“I insist on assisting you immediately,” Cosmos cut in, his tone warm. “Please, order whatever you like from an outside restaurant—anything at all—and have it delivered. We will arrange for an agent to collect it at the security checkpoint and bring it right up. Of course, the charge for your lunch will be placed directly on my account. Consider it a thank you for your patience.”

I smiled, warmed by the gesture, though accepting such a generous personal offer felt inappropriate. “That’s incredibly kind of you, Cosmos,” I replied. “Thank free order something simple on our own. We truly appreciate the thought.”

“My absolute pleasure. Enjoy your meal, and please do let me know if you require anything else,” he replied, before ending the call.

I placed the phone back in its cradle, the silence heavy with decision. “Food truck,” I said. “I need something that's quick and off the hotel property."

Vic instantly agreed, his eyes lighting up at the thought of leaving the hotel again. “I’m in.” After a moment of rapid discussion, we settled on a local food truck I knew well. It, unfortunately, was in Scott’s neighborhood only a few blocks away. That was something that I wasn’t going to tell Vic until we got there.

The real diagnosis

The hospital's blue polyester blanket offered little comfort, its thin fabric a poor substitute for the warmth of peace. Yet, the heavy, anchoring presence of Vic at my side compensated for the sterile chill of the private exam room. We occupied the narrow confines of the gurney together, its rubber wheels locked and silent within the privacy Ronan had secured for us. Vic was utterly spent, his sleep deep and restorative, his soft, rhythmic exhale brushing my collarbone. It was the only weight I welcomed, a reassuring counterpoint to the dread that cinched my lungs.

I felt a bizarre envy for his oblivion. My own body refused to capitulate to rest. The residual exhaustion from the last two days had morphed into an energy, fueled by the muted clamor seeping in beneath the closed door—the muted conversations, the distant coughs, staff screaming out for crash carts, nurses calling security to come to the ER, and the relentless thrum of the institution. My physical anchors were the thin bundle of wires taped to my chest and arm, connecting me to the trio of sticky monitor pads. The machine beside my head offered a quiet, measured beep… beep…

My eyes tracked the cracks in the ceiling, a meaningless pattern that did little to distract from the lingering ghost of the cold, hard surface of the PET and CT scanners. The PET and CT were complete. We had rendered the necessary images, injected the contrast, and now the truth existed, digitized and waiting. I found myself in a state of excruciating suspension, balanced on the verge of life-altering news. I gently shifted my hand, my fingers interlacing with Vic’s where they rested against my hip. He muttered something low and indistinct in his sleep. I stayed perfectly still, listening to the dual, necessary rhythms: his solid breathing, and the monitor’s sterile confirmation of my survival.

He hadn't left my side for nearly forty-eight hours nor had me out of his sight for long, surviving on vending machine rations and uncomfortable chairs. Thankfully, he had real food before we arrived here. Now, finally, he was claiming his deserved rest.

The silence was broken by the squeak of approaching footwear, and my heart hammered against my ribs, a sudden, frantic counter-rhythm to the machine's steady beep. Vic sensed the shift. Though his eyes remained closed, his arm tightened around my waist, pulling me closer to the familiar scent of his shirt.

“We’re okay,” he mumbled, his voice a gravelly comfort ripped from sleep before falling back asleep.

A brief, polite knock preceded the door opening. Ronan and his nurse Pia arrived back. Ronan held the results on a slim tablet, his expression guarded but notably softer than before. Pia offered a small, sincere smile—a vital sign of hope.

Ronan looked straight at me. “We have the results back from the PET and CT scans. There’s nothing of concern within your organs and bones. However, I think due to your situation with Patrick, the exhaustion and dehydration got the best of you.”

The wave of relief that crashed over me was so immediate and overwhelming it threatened to undo me. It felt like a deep, calcified vice around my entire being had been shattered. My eyes blurred immediately. I buried my face into Vic’s shoulder, a single sharp sigh escaped. The sound jolted Vic fully awake.

“Negative?” Vic’s voice cracked, raw with terror and exhaustion.

“Negative,” Ronan confirmed. “Structurally, based on the imaging, you are clear. However, the symptoms—uncontrollable shivering and sleeping—were profoundly real. The physical cause isn't a structural problem to your bones but mental trauma.”

Ronan's expression became one of focused empathy, his gaze holding mine. “What you experienced wasn’t being cold. It was a severe, acute response to trauma. The terror of knowing Patrick was loose as he escaped and was in extreme proximity to you, coupled with the finality of his death, combined with the physical strain of dehydration while exploring Auckland, it overloaded your central nervous system. Your body staged a complete emotional shutdown, a kind of seizure in response to overwhelming anxiety.”

The explanation resonated, chilling and undeniable. The fear of an unseen physical illness was replaced by the hollow understanding that the psychological wounds ran deeper than I had permitted myself to acknowledge.

“I’m moving to discharge you,” Ronan stated. “Are you still seeing your therapist?”

“Yes,” I answered.

“Then I strongly urge you to begin discussing everything that dealt with Patrick over the last two days as soon as you can. You’re physically clear, but your mind needs dedicated recovery.”

“I agree,” I said. Vic said nothing, only pulling me tighter as the tension of the last two days finally dissolving.

Pia stepped forward. “That is truly excellent news. I’ll prepare your discharge papers now.”

“Vic, you’re the unofficial but officially unofficial caretaker of Deppgrl when you get back to the hotel,” Ronan said.

Ronan reviewed the aftercare instructions: rest as needed, eat throughout the day, stay hydrated but only use two rehydration packets a day – one in the morning and one in the afternoon – and to relax as much as possible. Vic and I nodded

After Ronan and Pia left, Vic did not move. He didn't leave the gurney until I was officially discharged.  Pia returned to peel away the wires and sticky monitor pads. Vic helped me into my clothes, and we left the blanket and the commotion behind. Stepping out of the room and into the main corridor was like re-entering the world after a long, blinding immersion.

The hospital's air, though filtered and cooled, felt like a rush of freedom. Vic’s hand never left the small of my back as we navigated the final corridors, his touch grounding and protective.

We passed through the automatic glass doors, and the late afternoon light of Auckland washed over us, weak but real. The city sounds—the rush of traffic, the low, wet sigh of tires on pavement—were overwhelming in their normalcy.

Agent Riley's black SUV was waiting precisely where it should have been; at the ER entrance. Riley, a familiar face with an air of contained competence, offered a tight nod as he held the door open for me. I slid onto the cushioned seat, a profound luxury after the gurney's vinyl. Vic followed but from the other side, but his movement was visibly slow and stiff. He had to use the frame of the door to lever himself in, his joints protesting audibly.

“Tough climb, old man?” I murmured, reaching for his hand.

He settled in, letting his head rest against the window for a second before turning to me. “That gurney was built to punish the sleep-deprived. I’ll be stiff for a few days.” He gave my hand a tired squeeze. “But I’ll take stiff over scared any day.”

Riley pulled away silently. We drove in comfortable silence, Vic’s arm wrapped securely around my shoulders, his chin resting lightly on my head. I watched the city blur past feeling like a foreigner that I am working in a country I didn’t know nor understand.

Riley pulled up at our hotel by a discreet side curb. Riley helped me get out of the car as Vic was slowly getting out of the car. I am thankful we had Riley as he ensured I was steady on my feet.

“I’ll take it from here, Riley. Thanks,” Vic said, rubbing his lower back.

“Get some rest,” Riley replied, nodding to me. “We’re right here when you need us.”

We walked inside of the hotel, holding hands. We took the elevator up to the sixth floor, got out and headed to a private elevator where Cosmos and Lorraine were waiting for us. They let us in and Vic hit the button for our floor and suit.

When we got to our floor, we saw three armed agents outside of our door. Vic didn't waste time as he pulled out the electronic key card from his wallet, unlocked the door, and let me step into the sanctuary of our room first. He followed, closing the door firmly, then immediately engaging the series of complex locking mechanisms we had installed ourselves—the double deadbolts, the metal bar brace, the electronic tamper sensors. The clunk and snap of the locks were the final, satisfying signal of security.

The room smelled faintly of clean laundry and the distant aroma of the ocean.

“Shower. Now,” I stated, already unbuttoning my shirt.

Vic chuckled, undoing his own belt. “You read my mind. I feel like I’m wearing the hospital.”

We stripped and got in the shower, forgetting that the shirts were in there already. The rush of hot water was a luxurious physical balm, washing away the tension and the lingering smell of antiseptic. As we showered, we unplugged the drain so the water from our soaking shirts could drain as well as take the hospital scent with it. We rinsed the laundry detergent out of the shirts, kneading the fabric until the water ran clear. The shirts came out clean and the grease from the birria tacos were no longer there. We took our time in the hot shower, letting the steam and the heat seep into our muscles. I leaned against his chest, listening to the solid beat of his heart.

“Promise me you’ll call your therapist tomorrow,” Vic murmured against my hair.

“I promise,” I said as I washed my hair for the third time before applying conditioner. I scrubbed my body with soap as Vic used another bar of soap to wash his hair and body…I could tell he was exhausted. We rinsed off.

Finally, we turned off the tap. We dried off, and the shower curtain was left open so we could hang the shirts over the shower rod to dry overnight without a barrier. I walked to the counter, took out my brush, and began the familiar, calming ritual of brushing and braiding my hair, a habit that always settled my nerves. I hung up my towel, brushed my teeth, applied deodorant, and headed straight for the bed.

As I got to the bed, I saw it: a small, cream-colored envelope on my pillow.

“What’s this?” I asked, picking it up.

Vic, who was hanging his towel on the rack, looked over. “Looks like some kind of note.”

I opened it. Inside was a handwritten note from Cosmos and Lorraine: “Dear Deppgrl, We very sorry to hear that you had an emergency. We and the staff are so relieved to know you are back with us and hoping you’re doing well now. Please let us know if either you or Vic need anything. We hope you feel much better very soon. Warmly, Cosmos and Lorraine”

The gesture was kind, but the thought of a note handled by multiple people resting where I put my face instantly broke my peace.

“No,” I decided instantly, dropping the card into the waste bin with a decisive thump. I stripped the pillowcase off the pillow and tossed it onto the floor in the pile of the clothes we wore to the hospital. “I don’t like things that have passed through many hands placed on where I am going to sleep.”

Vic came over and watched me find a fresh, clean pillowcase from the closet. He didn't argue. He knew this level of detail was part of my coping mechanism.

“Good call,” he said.

I adjusted the fresh pillow, smoothing the cotton. We folded the bedding further down to the foot of the bed so we could climb into bed. Once comfortable, we pulled up just the sheet.

The stillness was thick, but not the same sterile dread as the hospital. This was a quiet charged with exhaustion. I lay on my back, watching the shadows deepen in the room.

Ten minutes later, I shifted, my voice a quiet intrusion. “I can’t sleep.”

Vic exhaled slowly, the sound rough. “I can’t either.” He rolled toward me, his face close, his eyes reflecting the soft ambient light filtering through the window. “I’m too keyed up.”

I reached for him, rolling fully to face him. I kissed him, a long, deep kiss that tasted like steam and relief. As the kiss ended, I stretched my hand down to his hardening dick.

He gasped, a deep, immediate sound of pleasure. He cupped the back of my neck, pulling me back to his mouth. “Wait,” he whispered, his voice thick, his eyes searching mine. “Tell me, amore. Are you really wanting me, or are you just trying to forget everything?”

I held his gaze, my hand gripping him. “I want you. More than anything,” I told him, the truth of it solid and immediate. “I need you to remind me I’m here. Now.”

He smiled then, a flash of pure, loving relief, and kissed me hard. I began to stroke his dick, pulling him toward me. When he was ready, he spread my legs, pushed his large dick into my pussy, and started thrusting deep in me, slowly and gently.

“God, that’s good,” he muttered, his forehead resting against mine, his breathing ragged.

He picked up his pace. The long, slow tension of the hospital was finally, forcefully released in a building storm of pressure and heat. In no time, we climaxed, and he shot his cum in me.

He caught his breath for a second, his body heavy and still on top of mine, before he lifted his head and started sucking and pinching my nipples. He let out a low groan, and then, without warning, he began to thrust his dick in and out of me again. I moaned, the pleasure almost too much after the intensity of the day. “Don’t stop, Vic. Please, don’t stop,” I begged him.

“I won’t,” he promised, his voice raw, his movements becoming more animal and driven. “Not until I can’t cum anymore.” We came again, a massive, shuddering climax that stole the breath from both of us. He shot his cum in me, his body shaking with the force of it.

Driven by a frantic, urgent need to reaffirm life and presence, we spent the next few hours having passionate sex throughout the room. We left the bed for the leather couch, where I took control in Cowgirl position, rocking and grinding with desperate energy. The momentum drew us toward the large bay window; with the curtains wide open, he lifted me and pressed me against the glass in a tight Standing Missionary, driving into me hard and fast, indifferent to the dark world outside. We didn’t care if people on the street could see us nor people in the other sky rises nearby. Finally, seeking a different sensation, we moved to the hard, cool surface of the bathroom counter. I sat on the counter edge, pulling him into me as he was controlling the speed and the angle as he stood between my legs, driving into me until the echoes of the hospital were completely silenced by the sounds of skin and breath

We finally returned to the bed, collapsing onto the sheets. Vic moved over me, his powerful dick driving deep inside me for the last time this night. This final time was a quiet force, a powerful, steady rhythm that settled deep in my core, less frantic than the earlier passion and more profound. As the final climax broke over us, Vic's entire body seized. His groan was deep and primal as his long, shuddering orgasm began, filling me with a final, load of cum. The release was a deep, powerful draining torrent of cum, the culmination of all the tension we had carried; his muscles continued to contract and release, his whole frame trembling for several minutes as his dick twitched and pulsed inside me until he was completely empty of cum. He collapsed forward, his great weight sinking onto me, a final, comforting anchor.

He finally pulled out of me and laid down next to me as he pulled me into his arms, tucking me against his chest.

“Do you think you can sleep now, amore?” he asked, his voice rough but deeply content.

“Yes, Papa” I answered, the word a soft sigh.

He smiled, kissed the top of my head, and said, “Good. I can too, amore.”

He pulled me closer to him, pulled up the sheets to cover us, and we fell asleep.

Necessary goodbyes

The first thing I registered was the cold, sterile smell—a mix of disinfectant and dry air conditioning. Then came the steady, rhythmic beep... beep... beep... of a cardiac monitor next to my head. I tried to move, and a dull ache settled across my chest.

When I forced my eyes open, the bright fluorescent light above was blurred, but the four massive figures clustered around my bedside were unmistakable. Charlie was standing closest, his normally pristine suit slightly rumpled. Cheech was a hulking, silent presence near the foot of the bed, his arms crossed, the concern etched deep into his features. Cathal leaned against the wall, watchful and tense.

And then there was Vic. He was sitting beside me, his good eye fixed on my face. His black eye had deepened to an angry purple, and the skin around his nose was still swollen, the bridge covered in a small, taped splint. He looked exhausted, but relieved.

My throat was dry, scratchy. I swallowed hard and managed a weak whisper.

“What happened?”

The simple effort of speaking, of trying to grasp the reality of the last few hours, was too much. The sterile white ceiling swam, the faces of the four men tilted and merged, and the rhythmic beeping of the monitor faded into a deep, comforting silence.

A short time later—it felt like mere seconds, though it could have been minutes or hours—my eyes snapped open again. This time, the edges of the room were sharper. The four men were still there, leaning forward now, their faces closer, their anxiety palpable.

Vic immediately reached out and gently laid his hand over mine, avoiding the IV line running into the back of my hand.

“Hey, you’re back,” he murmured, his voice thick with relief. “Don't talk. Just look at me.”

Cheech let out a heavy sigh that sounded like a gust of wind. “Don’t ask what happened again, Deppgrl. Just breathe. We've been sweating bullets here.”

Before I could form a response, the heavy door clicked open. Two men entered the room, moving with the practiced efficiency of doctors. One was familiar: Bobby, the team doctor, looking tired but alert. The other was a distinguished-looking man in a crisp white coat with a name tag that read: Dr. Ronan Hayes, Head of Emergency Services.

I looked at Ronan, finding a hard time how I knew him. I strained to focus. “Bobby,” I rasped, ignoring the new face and trying to get a straight answer from someone familiar.

Bobby walked straight to my bedside, his eyes scanning the monitors. “Welcome back, Coach. Glad to see those eyes open. We're running on fumes here, too.”

Vic, still holding my hand, looked up at the doctors, his voice strained and raw. “How is she, Doc? Is this going to be long-term?”

Charlie stepped forward, running a hand over his hair in frustration. “She doesn't normally pass out like that, Doctor. We think it’s the stress, dehydration, and not sleeping for the last thirty-six hours that finally caught up with her. It was a hell of a day.”

Dr. Hayes looked at the screen, then at me, his tone firm. “We’ve stabilized her heart rate as her heart rate was a bit high and given her fluids. Bobby and I reviewed the situation. The cumulative stress is immense. It was an adrenaline crash, compounded by physical exhaustion and severe dehydration. She needs absolute quiet and rest.” He looked sternly at the four men. “Which means only one person stays, and the rest need to leave immediately. This is not a social hour.”

Vic tightened his grip on my hand, pulling my attention back to him. “I’m staying.”

“Vic, your face looks like a road map of a fight club,” Cathal noted dryly, stepping away from the wall. “You look worse than she does, man. Go get some actual sleep.”

“Not until she’s fully alert and we’ve talked,” Vic insisted, his gaze locked on me, challenging anyone to argue.

I managed a slight squeeze of his hand. It was the only signal I could offer.

“Vic stays,” I rasped, my voice sounding like sandpaper. “The rest of you, go. Thank you.” I looked at Cheech, who looked ready to argue. “Call Kay.”

Cheech nodded instantly, his eyes tightening with understanding. Charlie sighed, looking defeated but compliant, knowing an order was an order.

“We’ll be right outside, Coach. Literally,” Charlie promised, pulling Cathal and Cheech with him. “Don't move a muscle without telling me.”

As the door clicked shut, leaving only Vic, Bobby, and Dr. Hayes, I took a deep, shaky breath. Six hours of sleep and constant IV hydration had finally pulled me back from the edge, leaving me weak but present.

Dr. Hayes consulted a tablet clipped to the foot of the bed. “Through constant monitoring and testing through the night, the final results confirm your assessment, Coach. This was a severe case of stress, exhaustion, and dehydration. Her body simply shut down.”

“Dr. Hayes,” Bobby began, looking worried. “We need to discuss the specific treatment plan before we move forward. I have her medical history on file.”

Dr. Hayes held up a hand, cutting him off politely but firmly. “Bobby, I appreciate the excellent temporary care you’ve provided, but I’ll need to take over now. For patient privacy, and due to the sensitive nature of the information we'll discuss, I need to ask you to leave. As a longtime friend of the patient, you can’t maintain a dual relationship with you also being her primary care physician at the moment, especially given the situation.”

Bobby paused, then nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation and the unwritten rules. “Of course, Doctor. I’ll be downstairs if you need anything at all.” He gave me a brief, concerned look and left.

Dr. Hayes sighed softly as the door closed, before turning back to me, a genuine, warm smile finally breaking through his professional demeanor. Ronan, my old college friend, was still in there somewhere.

He walked over and sat down gently on the edge of the bed by my feet. “Listen, you idiot,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, affectionate register. “You scared the hell out of everyone. Vic wouldn't leave your side, Charlie looked like he was having a stroke, and Cheech nearly took the emergency room apart trying to find me. Don’t start me on Cathal…..I swear he’s your long lost twin. You owe me big for this one.”

“Sorry, Ronan,” I mumbled, feeling the old guilt surface. “I’ll pay whatever damages were done by Cheech. And thanks for hiding our friendship; I owe you for that too.”

“Don’t apologize to me, apologize to your body. Look, you’re stable, but I want you to stay for a few more hours. We need to run some repeat tests to ensure you’re completely clear, medically safe, and that all your vitals are holding steady before I sign off on your release. You need to be better before I do so,” he said, squeezing my foot. “You’re welcome. I’m thankful that Cheech didn’t blow the secret but he was close! Now rest.”

I nodded slightly. “As long as I get to nap in between testing, I’m okay with it. Don’t try to talk to me when I’m sleeping, okay? I get cranky.”

Ronan chuckled softly. “Deal. Now, you sleep. I’ll be back in a bit to start the next round of blood work.” He squeezed my foot through the sheet, a gesture of old friendship, and rose quietly.

I was asleep before he left the room.

I slept through the next round of testing, only vaguely registering the cool pressure of the blood pressure cuff. I was eventually woken up by Ronan gently shaking my shoulder.

“Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty,” he said, pulling back the curtain. “All done. All clear to go. You’re good to go.”

Vic immediately rushed in, followed by Charlie. Vic’s face showed the strain of the last 12 hours, but he looked completely relieved.

Ronan looked at Charlie. “She’s medically safe to leave but needs rest and to follow Ronan’s instructions to the letter. No working for at least 48 hours. Get her out of here, Charlie.”

Charlie stepped forward, rubbing his hands together. “Excellent news. I’ve already done some damage control. Vic, your flight home has been extended for another eight days. Your boss understood that this was a legitimate emergency, and once I sent your wife pictures of that face, she stopped arguing. She thinks you’re legitimately too hurt to fly and needs a few days to recover.”

I stretched, letting out a massive, audible yawn. “That’s fantastic. Thank you, Charlie. I really appreciate that.”

Charlie nodded. “We’re heading back to the first hotel, but you’ll be in a different room—a heavily secured suite on a secure wing for diplomats. We’ll have security throughout the hotel for the next few days until things settle down. Just for your peace of mind,” He leaned down and lowered his voice, winking conspiratorially. “Dr. Hayes told me your urine test came back pristine clean. No need to worry about that mandated test on Tuesday.”

I gave him a wide, genuine smile. “That’s the best news I’ve heard all day.”

Vic walked over and held up a small plastic bag for me to see. “These are instant ice packs, pain medication, and antibiotics—both oral tablets and eye drops—to make sure my eye doesn’t get infected. Ronan had an ER doctor and an ophthalmologist check me out as a precaution. They were impressed with Bobby's temporary splint and confirmed nothing was seriously damaged. Like I said, the antibiotics are a precaution.”

Just then, Cheech cleared his throat from the doorway. He looked anxious, his massive frame shifting nervously.

I knew this was the important part. I gave Charlie a look, and he nodded, immediately ushering Vic out.

“Give the Coach a minute, Vic. We need to talk to her about the logistics and new team schedule,” Charlie lied smoothly, guiding Vic toward the door.

Once the door was closed, Cheech stepped in and closed the door behind him. “Kay did the impossible. She got a certified copy of Patrick’s death certificate, signed by four separate medical doctors. They were the ones who confirmed his death was real. They also sent over a certified copy of the autopsy report. He is officially gone.”

I let out a shuddering sigh of relief that I hadn't realized I was holding. “Thank fuck. That’s good. That weight is finally gone.”

Cheech nodded, but his expression remained serious. “Look, Deppgrl. The underground is buzzing with rumors that Bunny and I helped you escape, and that’s enough for us. We need to disappear for a few years and Kay agrees. We need cosmetic surgery to alter our appearances and get new identities; Kay is helping us with everything. As her clients, she can’t break confidentiality. We hope to see you in a few years, but the possible connection between us has to be forgotten in the meantime due to those rumors. We're too well-known.” He leaned in, his voice thick with emotion. “Your brother Bob will be the only one who can contact us.”

Tears welled in my eyes. “Don’t say that. I can’t lose you guys. You’re family.”

“You won’t lose us,” Cheech insisted, stepping closer. “It's too dangerous right now. I’ll call Bob soon and fill him in on everything. Including that you’re okay, but that we’re gone. He’ll handle everything else. Be safe, Coach.” He reached out and gently squeezed my shoulder.

“I love you, Cheech. Be safe. Both of you.”

He nodded, a deep sadness in his eyes, and then he was gone.

Vic came back in a minute later, carrying a large tote bag with my clothes, phones, IDs, the licenses for the gun and taser, and my utility belt. Cathal followed, carrying the gun and taser himself, as Vic didn't have the necessary clearances or licensure for either weapon.

“Time to get dressed, Deppgrl,” Vic said gently, looking concerned. “Cathal’s driving us back. You ready to move?”

Vic and Cathal helped me out of the bed. My body felt heavy and brittle, a patchwork of aches and bruises from the fall. I let them help me into my clothes, and Bobby returned with a wheelchair, already waiting by the door.

We took the elevator down to the loading dock where Cathal’s sedan was parked. Charlie and Scott were waiting there. Scott came over and made sure I was safely transferred into the back seat. Charlie hovered nearby, looking pale and subdued. They would follow us back to the hotel to assist me in getting out, ensuring a smooth transition.

“Try to relax, Coach. Don’t even think about the team until Wednesday,” Charlie instructed. “We’ll be right behind you.”

Cathal took off, driving slowly and carefully, knowing I was in pain from the significant bruising and fall. We arrived at the second hotel room in the first hotel just ahead of Charlie and Scott.

I gathered myself and the tote bag, preparing for the unwanted help. As Cathal opened the car door, he intercepted Scott, who was eager to assist.

“Scott, wait. She’s covered in bruises, man. Be careful and e gentle with her,” Cathal warned in a low voice, positioning himself between Scott and the car door. “I’ll have your head if she’s in pain when you get her out of the car.”

Scott nodded, his expression softening slightly. He carefully helped me swing my legs out of the car. The second my feet were on the ground, I grabbed Vic’s arm, pulling him close and leaning heavily on him.

I whispered to Vic: “Make it look like I don’t need anyone else but you, Papa. Get Scott to back off so he leaves on his own. I need Charlie and Cathal gone once I’m settled.”

Vic immediately put his arm securely around my waist and gave Scott a polite but firm look. “I’ve got her, Scott. Thanks for help getting her and out of the car, man.”

Scott hesitated for a moment, then backed away, recognizing the dismissal. Charlie firmly told Scott to wait at the car as Charlie had some private team information to share with me and since Scott is currently suspended, he isn’t authorized to hear it. Scott turned and headed back to Cathal’s waiting car without a word.

Vic, Charlie and Cathal helped me into the hotel suite and onto a plush armchair.

“Alright, Coach, here’s the plan,” Charlie announced, pulling out his phone. “You are officially taking Monday and Tuesday off. No check-ins, no calls. You need to recover and sleep. Vic will look after you.”

“And who will be babysitting the team? I’m worried they’ll think I’m abandoning them,” I asked, rubbing my temples.

“Cathal and I will handle it. We already told the players the drill,” Charlie said, a mischievous glint in his eye. “They know Cathal isn’t as nice nor as beautiful as you are. They are now on three-a-day practices for the rest of the week. They'll be too tired to cause trouble when you return.”

Cathal added, “A morning practice focused entirely on team-building skills, then lunch and a quick, mandatory therapy session, followed by the afternoon practice dedicated to plays and scrimmages. Plus, both offense and defense players will learn the plays of the others. Offense will learn defense, and defense will learn offense. No more silos. You'll thank us later.”

I smiled, despite the pain. “I love that. It’ll help grow the team and open them up to trick plays and personnel changes during games. That’s brilliant. You two did a good job.”

Charlie laughed. “See? We can be smart sometimes. Get some rest, Deppgrl. We’ll see you Wednesday. Don't worry about a thing.”

“Thank you, both of you. You’ve been absolute lifesavers,” I said, feeling the exhaustion hit immediately.

Charlie and Cathal left, closing the door softly.

Vic came back from locking the door, and I was already fast asleep in the armchair. He left me there for an hour and a half, letting me catch up on the sleep I needed.

I woke with a gasp when Vic gently shook my shoulder.

“Hey, sleepyhead. Time to move,” he said softly. “Want a shower and something to eat? You need food, amore, not just IV fluid.”

“Yes, please,” I murmured, my stomach protesting immediately. “But I need help in the shower. I can’t risk falling and hurting myself worse.”

“I’d be happy to help, but slow and steady,” he said, his voice warm.

He helped me to my feet, steadying me as I swayed slightly. I let him undress me, then he quickly stripped off his own clothes. He carried me into the bathroom and set me gently on my feet, allowing me to lean against the marble sink while he tested the water temperature.

Once the water was perfect, he stepped in first, then helped me over the tub. I immediately grabbed the support bar mounted on the shower wall. He went to work, carefully washing and conditioning my hair.

“Do you need help with washing your body?” he asked, his hands moving gently over my curves, checking my bruising with a feather-light touch.

“No, I think I can manage that part,” I whispered, trying to reach the soap dish. As I tried to bend, a flash of pain hit my ribs, and I nearly slipped. He caught me instantly, his powerful arms locking around my waist.

“Nope. My job now,” he declared, his voice firm but tender. “You just hold on.”

He scrubbed my body, paying careful attention to my back and legs, then told me to hold on tight to the bar as he quickly washed his own body. After we rinsed off the last of the suds, he turned the water off, grabbed a fresh towel for me, then one for himself. We dried off, and he carried me, wrapped in the towel, straight to the bed.

Vic carefully placed me on the crisp hotel sheets and placed my robe around me. He looked down at me, a genuine, if exhausted, smile on his face.

“Okay, you’re clean and you need clothes. Sweats and fuzzy socks?” he asked. “Then, we eat. What are you craving? And don't even think about saying salad,” he warned, a playful edge in his voice.

I sighed happily, sinking into the soft mattress. “You know me too well. Yes, to the sweats and fuzzy socks. What I want most is you, Papa, but food wise, I’d love birria tacos—tons of them—with that incredible consume to dip them in. And the greasiest refried beans and the best rice you can find.”

Vic chuckled, running a hand through his damp hair. “If I had the ingredients and a full kitchen, I’d cook that entire meal for you myself, bruises and all. I figured that was exactly what you wanted. I called the Mexican place just after Charlie and Cathal were leaving to confirm that birria tacos were on the menu.”

Vic grabbed my clothes from the dressers and had picked the ugliest panties I own—so faded and the waist band so stretched out. I couldn’t help but laughed when I saw them. He placed them next to me and then remembered that he needed to order before the restaurant got busy.

“Do you want help to get dressed before I order? Or are we prioritizing food?” he asked, his eyes crinkling.

“I’ll wait as all I want is food right now. Don't keep me from my tacos,” I said.

“I’m going to place the order then. I’ll step out of the bedroom and into the kitchenette to make the call so you can rest if you want to.”

I nodded and watched this gorgeous man leave the bedroom. At times like this, I wish I was married to him because of how much he takes care of me but at the same time, I’m glad that we’re not married as we’d constantly cheat on each other. Thinking about this conundrum, I couldn’t fall asleep though my eyes were closed but grateful for the silence.

“Amore?” Vic said quietly as he entered the room. I opened my eyes so he knew that I was awake. “I just placed the order. Four orders of birria tacos—that’s twenty tacos total—two orders for you, two for me. There’s going to be so much rice and I asked for the greasiest refried beans that they could make. And they came with horchata, which I know you love.”

“You’re the best,” I whispered and smiled, feeling a genuine warmth spread through me. “Thank you for taking care of everything.”

“They said the order will be ready in ten minutes but delivered to the hotel in fifteen meets and delivered to the room by an agent. So, we need to get decent to open the door, even if it’s just for the agent.”

“I’m not sure how the agents would be able to handle your weapon, Papa,” I chuckled, a playful challenge in my eyes as I glanced at his briefs. “They’d definitely be envious.”

Vic laughed hard and loud at that then quickly pulled on a pair of briefs and a t-shirt. He then helped me out of the towel and robe and into some comfy clothes—soft sweatpants, my ugliest panties, an oversized t-shirt, and hotel slippers, leaving the socks and the sweatshirt to the side for now. Just as I was about to drift off, a sharp knock came at the door.

Vic glanced at the peephole. “Hold up. That’s not the guy who usually covers this floor. He's new.” He grabbed the burner phone. “I’m calling Cosmos.”

He waited a beat, then spoke into the phone. “Cosmos, it’s Vic in 1403. We have an agent at the door with our food, but I don’t recognize him. Tall guy, dark hair, looks like he’s trying too hard to blend in. Can you send up Agent Riley to confirm the agent before I open this?” He listened for a moment. “Got it. Thanks, man.”

After hanging up and a knock on the door a minute later, Vic looked through the peephole again and opened the door just enough for Agent Riley to confirm Agent Parker. Vic took the massive paper bag of food, thanked the agents and as he was closing the door, Agent Riley said that in the morning, he would get all the agents working in the hotel assigned to us as well as assigned to diplomats and have us meet them so we would know who they were.

“Would it be ok if I did a background check on them after we meet them all? For my peace of mind?” I asked, stepping up behind Vic.

“We already have, ma’am! Sorry….Coach,” Riley said, nodding respectfully. “You’re more than welcome to. We understand that you’ve had a few rough days and want to be extra cautious. I’ll bring a list of third party companies for you to use, if you'd like.”

“Thank you, Agent Riley,” I said. “I appreciate the list but the companies would be partial to you guys. I have contacts in companies I’ve used around the world. If you could just provide the roster in the morning.”

He nodded, a slight smile showing his appreciation for my cautious nature, then left. Vic carried the still piping hot food and the ice cold horchata to the table in front of the couch.

Once our butts were sat on the couch, Vic carefully arranging the containers on that tiny table as I turned on the tv and chose a movie. We ate both our orders in what felt like no time at all. Neither of us had realized how truly famished we were. We quickly finished the sweet, creamy horchata. We looked at our clothes and our hands then laughed. Our shirts and arms were covered in grease and consume from the birria tacos. We got up to wash our hands. In the bathroom, I grabbed a travel sized pouch of laundry detergent. “These shirts are done for if we don’t hit these stains now,” I squirted a small amount of detergent directly onto the grease spots on both shirts for pre-treatment. Vic plugged the tub and turned the water running. As the tub filled, I poured the rest of the pouch under the running water, creating suds. After a few minutes, he stopped the water, and I tossed our shirts into the soak.

We headed back into the living room area of the suite. Vic gathered the containers, wiping down the table with a napkin while I put on a different oversized shirt. I sat down and when he was done, he scooped me up off the couch. “Alright, back to bed, you. You look like you're about to fall over.”

He slid me under the covers. “I sleep better naked,” I mumbled, already halfway to sleep and reaching for my clothes.

“I know, amore. I sleep better when you’re naked too,” he said, his voice dropping to a low rumble as he gently pulled the blankets tightly around me. “But you’ve been shivering non-stop for the last forty-five minutes. I need you to just sleep for a little bit while I talk to Ronan about why you’ve been shivering. You're not cold, but your body thinks it is.”

I fell asleep before Vic left the room.

“Hey Ronan, I am so sorry to bother you again,” Vic said quietly into the phone from the kitchenette. “Deppgrl has been shivering for about forty-five minutes but she’s not cold. I know she had an IV of saline solution while she was in the hospital. She ate well, drank more water and is alert but still tired.”

Ronan’s voice was instantly concerned. “Is she more tired than usual or did she have a ton of those rehydration packets mixed with water? If she had a few of those packets since getting home, it would cause too much hydration, which can mimic hypothermia in rare cases. Is she sleeping right now?”

“Yeah she is,” Vic said, rubbing his temple. “Should I wake her and bring her in? I don’t like this, Doc.”

“I want eyes on her. I’ll feel better if we check her electrolytes again,” Ronan instructed. “I should be there in about ten minutes. When can we expect you there?”

“About fifteen minutes,” Vic sighed. “She hates being woken up and can be a bit of a bear, so give me a few minutes to get her moving and explain why we’re going back.”

They hung up then Vic reached out to Agent Riley to tell him that we need a ride back to the hospital and then came to wake me up.

“Amore? Mama…?” Vic said, shaking me gently. “Wake up. Ronan wants you back at the hospital, just for a quick check. He’s already on his way.”

“Ok,” I mumbled as I got out of the bed and made my way to the bathroom to brush my teeth, too tired to argue.

When I was done, I grabbed my glasses, my two passports, my phones and their chargers. I walked over to Vic. When we stepped out of the room, Agent Riley and a few others that we have seen before, escorted us to an SUV and we sped off to the ER.

Vic got out of the SUV, picked me up out of the SUV and carried me through the ER doors to a gurney that was waiting by the door for us. One of the nurses pushed the gurney and I to an exam room where Ronan just arrived to. Between Ronan and a few nurses, they took my vitals and took a few vials of blood. My blood pressure was a little lower than usual, my temperature was in range, and my oxygen levels were also fine. I slept as the blood work was being run.

I woke up for a few seconds to overhear Vic and Ronan compare a CT scan and PET scan for imaging. “I want to be absolutely certain we haven’t missed anything, Ronan. We need both,” Vic insisted, his voice low and firm. “No expense spared.” Ronan agreed. I vaguely remember being sent for both sets of imaging as all I was doing was sleeping.

By the time I got back to the exam room, I woke up and Ronan looked a bit relieved, flipping through a report on his tablet.

“Ok, trouble,” Ronan said, sitting down on the stool. “Good news is that your blood work is fine—your electrolytes are back in range, and the shivering should stop soon. The preliminary read on the PET and CT scans are a bit inconclusive, but we should get the final radiologist report soon. How you feeling? Any more shivering?”

“Exhausted and not so thirsty anymore,” I yawned, rubbing my eyes. “Honestly, I think I am just recovering from the whole ordeal with Patrick, the exhaustion, and the dehydration from checking out Auckland. All this moving around isn't helping, Ronan. Can I just go home?”

“Let’s hope that’s the end of it,” Ronan said, nodding to a nurse. “Pia Louise, one of my favorite nurses on staff, will set you up on a monitor while we wait on the imaging results. Just a temporary measure. We don't leave until we get the all-clear from Radiology.”

“Even if I don’t want to? I'm tired of monitors,” I asked.

“Yes, Deppgrl,” Ronan said with a tired grin. “You’re still, by far, the worst patient I have ever met in my entire working life as a physician. Now let Pia do her job.”

I threw him a look that made him laugh as Pia walked into the room to set me the monitor. Once set up to the machine, Pia took my temperature and blood pressure again and both were fine. Feeling frustrated that I was back in the hospital and feeling like I was caught up on sleep, I asked Vic if he wanted to join me on the gurney as he looked as tired as tired could be. He kicked his flipflops off and joined me on the gurney and once I was snug in is arms, he fell asleep almost instantly.

 

The day in Auckland

The morning light was a heavy, warm curtain draped across the room, pooling in gold bands on the rumpled bedsheets. I was the first to stir, tracing the quiet, even rhythm of Vic’s breath beside me. He shifted, his eyes fluttering open to give me that familiar, sleep-softened smile that instantly dissolved the morning's tension.

“Morning,” I whispered, sliding carefully out of the warmth.

“Morning,” he murmured, his voice a low, rough rumble. “Sleep well?”

I paused, noticing my dress and his suit, neatly hung and  our shoes lined up. “Did you do this?” I asked.

He rolled onto his side, a faint grin tugging his lips. “Just didn’t want you starting the day with a tripping hazard.”

I let out a soft laugh, shaking my head. “Ridiculous.”

“Thoughtful,” he corrected, his voice warm and possessive. “You yourself are a tripping hazard and didn’t want you to take a risk.”

We moved through the routine in tandem, side-by-side at the twin vanities, our reflections meeting in the mirror with shared smiles. A light knock on the door let us know that breakfast was there. Vic went to the door and grabbed the tray of food. It was fruit, yogurt and hard boiled eggs. We ate at the small desk as there wasn’t a larger table in the room.

“I plan on checking out Auckland today,” he announced. “Want to join?”

 “Here’s some money,” I handed him a few crisp notes. “I'm going to dive into those psych evals for the players and coaches first but I definitely will later. I’ll text you when I’m done..”

He pocketed the money. “Thank you. My phone is useless here. How will we link up?”

“I have a backup burner phone just in case the phone from home stops working here and the original New Zealand phone isn’t charged. I’ll put in the phone number of the original New Zealand phone and my name in the burner phone so that way when I text or call from either phone, we can figure out our plans.”

“Sounds good,” he agreed, pushing himself up. He looked at me, a different kind of spark in his eyes. “Since my exploration starts in an hour, what do you say to a quick shower? I think some fun times are definitely meant to be had in this hotel bathroom.”

“Sounds like a fun plan,” I agreed.

We headed to the bathroom. As we showered, I was able to wash and condition my hair this time. As I leaned over to grab the soap, Vic kissed and nipped at my neck as he grabbed my hips. I felt his hard dick harden even more.

I spread my legs, leaned against the shower wall and shifted my hips back, grabbing onto the handle against the shower wall for more support. Vic slid his hard dick into my waiting pussy. We both climaxed immediately and he shot his cum deep inside of me.

While his dick was still inside of me, he began to slowly thrust in and out of me, allowing me to catch my breath before carefully picking up the pace. He reached around to squeeze my tits and pinch my nipples. I moaned in pleasure, tilting my head back under the spray. "Just stay right there," he murmured, his pace becoming relentless. We both climaxed again, a slower, drawn-out climax, and he shot another load of cum deep inside of me.

We caught our breath, Vic’s heavy chest pressed against my back and his dick still providing a powerful, comforting weight inside me. "Can you handle another round?" he whispered, pressing a kiss to my shoulder.

"Yes, Papa," I managed, the rush of water muffling my panting.

He began to thrust faster, driving into me with energy. He was still pinching my hard and now bruised nipples, the friction adding a delightful edge to the deep penetration. I moaned and screamed his name in pleasure. He reached his climax first, letting out a roar that was cut short as he drove his hips forward, shooting a massive load of cum in me. As his dick was pulsating and twitching in my pussy, I was gripped by my own hard climax, clutching the handle for dear life as my body dissolved in pleasure.

He leaned back, resting his weight on the shower wall beside me, his arm bracing him.

Then, with a final, deep groan, he pulled out of my pussy, and as he did, he shot another load a warm, thick splash deep of cum deep inside of me. "That was... perfect," he rasped, his eyes closed.

We finished our shower in quiet, our bodies tingling with a deep, satiated pleasure. As we dried off, he looked down at me, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "Get on the bed. Lay down on your back and spread your legs for me."

I didn’t hesitate. I walked over to the mattress, lay on my back, and opened myself up. He joined me, kissing and caressing my body with slow reverence before sliding down. He began to use his tongue and teeth on my pussy. I don't know how many times the man made me climax on his tongue; it felt like a relentless wave of pleasure. He moaned, a guttural sound of triumph, the more I screamed his name. When he finally gave up eating my pussy, he pushed his hard dick into my sore pussy. He was rough and I kept climaxing hard on his dick. With a grunt, he placed my ankles onto his shoulders and tilted my hips up to the ceiling. He began to thrust with devastating power and kept pouring his cum deep inside of me. The last load of cum he shot in me was the largest he put in me; it took him several minutes to finish. He finally unhooked my legs and pulled out, unable to cum in me anymore as he was drained.

He collapsed next to me, chest heaving. "Remind me again why we ever leave this room?" he whispered, pulling me close.

"Because the All Blacks pay me to leave the room," I managed, kissing his sweat-damp shoulder. "And you have Auckland to explore."

Vic got up, got dressed, and put in his contacts, his movements slow and satisfied. As he was leaving, he grabbed his wallet and my burner phone off the nightstand. I tossed him a small bottle of spray sunscreen I always carry with me.

He caught it one-handed and laughed. "I appreciate the thought, but I'm brown, baby. I don't burn like you do."

"Don't whine and complain when you return looking like a lobster," I warned, but I was smiling and caught the bottle when he tossed it back to me.

"Try not to have too much fun," he said giving me a kiss.

"I’ll try to stay bored,” I said. “Have fun, Papa.”

Once he left, I immediately opened up the lock box on the desk, retrieving the psych evals. I read through the assessments for each player and the coaches, taking copious notes on my laptop. I composed an email to the owners.

To: NZR, Silver Lake and private owners

Subject: Psychological Evaluation Recommendations

Hey all,

Following my review of the player and coach psychological evaluations, I am making an immediate and firm recommendation. The majority of the team and coaching staff require mandatory, ongoing therapy two to three times per week in the privacy of their homes. This needs to be implemented immediately.

Additionally, due to the complexity of his situation and his proximity to me, I recommend that Scott receive therapy at the arena four times per week. This can be cut down to three times at his house once I find lodging elsewhere. He is in denial of his need for help; he is currently separated from his wife, Jane, as she is currently in rehab for alcoholism and sex addiction. He doesn’t believe that he is part of the reason why she’s in rehab but she does have a family history of alcoholism. Finding me in bed with Scott caused something to trigger the addiction. Had I known that he was married prior to starting my sexual relationship with him, I would  not have become involved with him. As per their prenup, she won’t get anything if he files for divorce and she would if she filed but she is accustomed to the lifestyle he has set her up to. He often blames others for things that are known to be his fault and can hardly take the responsibility.

The team's success depends on the mental health infrastructure we put in place now. Let me know the next steps.

Best regards,
Deppgrl Smith

The replies came back within a few minutes. All owners agreed to the therapy recommendations. Charlie's email was slightly different: "We agree to all your recommendations. The rest of the owners and I are concerned about the current living situation and want to help find you a separate place to stay while you're here. We can move you out of the house as soon as possible."

I replied to all of them: "Thank you all so much. I truly appreciate the support and the quick action on the therapy. Charlie, I would especially appreciate the assistance with finding a new place, given how things are between Scott and I right now. It’s making the current living arrangement untenable."

I put my laptop in my bag and placed the evaluation paperwork back in the lock box, locking it securely. I got dressed, put in my contacts, did my makeup, and grabbed a small over-the-shoulder bag. I filled it with my wallet, passports, sunglasses case, hand sanitizer, phones, and their chargers. There was just enough room left for the spray sunscreen, which I tossed in as well.

Stepping onto the balcony, I found a spot where I could spray on the sunscreen after shaking it. It was SPF 15 and not nearly strong enough for my skin in this intense sun, but it would do something to help prevent me from going from Casper the Friendly Ghost to a cooked lobster in a New York minute. I threw the bottle back into my bag, then texted Vic.

Me: Hey, you find anything cool yet? Where should I meet you?

Vic: Found the biggest needle in the world, ha. I’m heading to the Sky Tower now.

Me: Perfect. I'll be there in a few.

Vic: Got it. See you soon.

I used the ride share app and booked a lift to the Sky Tower. The driver and I didn't talk, which was fine; it gave me time to be productive. I quickly booked a reservation at the bar at the tower, booked the All Blacks Experience for both Vic and me so he could better understand what I was involved in, and booked the Sky Walk experience for us.

When I got there, Vic was just walking up, looking up at the massive structure. I got out of the car. "Thanks for the ride," I told the driver as I closed the door.

Vic and I greeted each other with a long, satisfying kiss. "Missed you," he mumbled against my mouth.

"You've been gone less than two and a half hours but I have missed you too," I replied. I led him past the line toward the check-in counter and gave my name.

"Welcome," the attendant. "Here are your tickets for the Sky Walk. And because we've flagged your name as one of the All Blacks coaches, we're happy to tell you that the All Blacks Experience is complimentary. You'll receive a full refund to your bank in a few days for that portion of your booking."

Vic raised an impressed eyebrow at me. "I knew you were a big deal, but free access?"

"Perks of the job," I shrugged, though I was secretly thrilled. "Come on, let's go learn about rugby."

We did the All Blacks Experience first, immersing ourselves in the roaring crowds and history of the team. The noise, the lights, and the simulated Haka were intense, giving Vic a real sense of the power and culture behind the sport I was dedicated to. We then took an elevator up to The Sugar Club bar, where we relaxed with cold drinks and some light fare, taking in the sweeping panoramic views of the harbor and city spreading out below us. Finally, we moved to the Sky Walk experience, a thrilling walk around the exterior ring of the tower, 192 meters up. It was an incredible rush of adrenaline, leaving us giddy and slightly breathless from the height and the exposure.

When we were finished with the Sky Walk experience, we spent a few hours walking around the city, taking in the sights and the bustling atmosphere, enjoying the feeling of being outside together. We passed colorful markets, modern architecture, and historic streets. The sun was absolutely blazing, forcing us to seek out any patch of shade we could find. We stopped a few times so I could reapply my spray sunscreen, meticulously covering every exposed patch of skin, shaking the small bottle vigorously before each application. After about two hours, Vic started to feel his skin prickle with heat and I could see a faint redness on his neck.

"Okay, I was wrong," he admitted, pulling the bottle from my bag. "I think I'm starting to crisp around the edges."

"Told you so," I teased, but I watched him mist the spray onto his arms, legs and face before quickly rubbing it in. In no time, I had to throw the empty bottle away as we had used the last drops of the spray. It was incredibly hot, and I was definitely not used to the relentless sun exposure that came with being outside the perpetually air-conditioned arena. The heat was physically draining. We stopped a few times to get bottled water as we were tired and rather dehydrated.

"We are super close to the hotel, like maybe an eight-minute walk," I groaned, leaning my head against his shoulder. "I don't think I can make eight more steps."

Vic chuckled. "Agreed. Dehydration station needed immediately."

I booked a ride share back to the hotel, and while waiting, I quickly texted the hotel manager.

Me: Hi, this is Deppgrl from the All Blacks. Could you please have a few gallons of bottled water and some rehydration powder packets put in our room right away? We're heading back now.

Manager: Absolutely. We'll take care of it immediately.

Me: If you guys need more time, we can wait in the lounge for a few minutes.

Manager: Not necessary but thank you.

The driver came a few minutes later, and we climbed into the cool, dark backseat. "I apologize for our appearance and the smell of sunscreen," I told the driver.

He smiled in the rearview mirror. "Oh, don't worry about it at all. It's not every day I get a coach from the All Blacks in my car. And the sun's strong here, everyone smells like sunscreen. Is that a coral reef safe kind?"

"It is," I confirmed, smiling back.

The drive took just three or four minutes—a negligible amount of time for how exhausted we were.

It took us no time to get to the hotel. When we were walking past reception, Cosmos, the hotel manager, stopped Vic and me to give us bottled water with the rehydration powder packets already mixed in.

"Coach, Vic," Cosmos said, a small smile on his face. "We thought you might need this immediately. To ease my conscience, please drink it now before you head up." He handed each of us a cool bottle.

"You're a lifesaver, Cosmos," Vic groaned, already unscrewing the cap.

"Thank you so much," I added.

We chugged the slightly salty, sweet water, feeling the relief instantly. Cosmos just nodded, satisfied, and said, "Thank you."

We headed up to the room. A mini fridge had been placed inside the room, holding several water bottles, and the rehydration packets were laying on top. Vic grabbed a packet and combined it with a new bottle of water for each of us. Since the water was cold, we took our time drinking. In between big sips, we stripped our clothes off. I looked at the pile of our sweat and sunscreen-soaked day clothes.

"I think it's best we have all this washed and dry cleaned by the hotel. This pile is getting ridiculous," I mentioned to Vic, gesturing to the clothes on the floor and the hung items. "That includes your suit and my dress from last night, too."

"Agreed. That's a necessity, not a luxury right now," he confirmed, taking a deep drink.

I quickly sent a message to Cosmos—the reception manager.

Me: Thanks again for the water and packets. We are currently drinking the water and using the hydration powder packets that you and your team graciously put in the room. Could Vic and I please have our clothes from yesterday, last night, and today's adventures washed/dry cleaned?

Cosmos: Happy to hear you’re rehydrating! I can certainly arrange that. I'll come up shortly to grab the laundry.

Me: Perfect. I'll put them in a large plastic bag. How much would this cost? I know this isn't a normal service.

Cosmos: On average, it’s about $300 NZD, but I'll bill Charlie directly for this.

Me: No, please. I will pay for it.

Cosmos: Okay, in that case, I'll adjust it for you. It'll be $150 NZD. I'll see you in a few minutes.

I quickly threw our clothing into a large plastic bag for Cosmos to grab. I threw on an old oversized shirt—one I had planned to launder once my new housing situation was sorted—and opened the door when Cosmos knocked.

"Here you go," I said, handing over the heavy plastic bag and the money. "And this is for the laundry and dry cleaning."

He took everything. "My pleasure, Coach. Anything for you," he said with a genuine smile. "Enjoy your rest."

Cosmos left, and Vic and I finished the water. Afterwards, we hopped into the shower together. I felt so gross from being covered head to toe in sunscreen and sweat that I washed my hair three times, conditioned twice, and scrubbed my body several times. Vic washed his hair twice, didn't bother conditioning his hair, and also scrubbed his body with soap for a few minutes. We finally turned off the water and toweled off.

We winced as we looked at our skin. Vic looked well-tanned, but his neck and shoulders were definitely a little pink. I, however, looked like neon pink lemonade.

"Ouch," Vic said, gently touching my arm. "You look like you feel."

"God, this is going to be painful," I sighed. "I'm going to pay for those few hours of walking in the sun for the next week."

After we both applied our individual antiperspirants/deodorants, I grabbed my large bottle of aloe-based lotion. I applied the cooling, thick lotion to Vic's lean and muscular, now-sore body, and he applied it to my chubby, sun-kissed body. The lotion felt amazing for both of us.

"If we had sex right now, the friction from the sheets would cause havoc," Vic giggled, testing the movement of his shoulder.

I laughed. "I agree. We'd end up peeling. Let's talk about it later before bed and go from there."

A few minutes later, the phone rang. It was Cosmos. "Coach, I just received an update from Charlie. A car will be sent in the next 90 minutes to take you and Vic to a very upscale Chinese restaurant. The attire is similar to what you wore last night."

"Thank you so much for the heads-up, Cosmos," I said.

"Are you two feeling okay? Or do you need me to call Bobby up?" he asked, sounding genuinely concerned.

"We feel fine, just exhausted and sunburnt, but thank you for asking," I replied. "We're just going to need more water, though."

"You won't have to worry about that, Coach. The water is already on its way up."

"Thank you again, Cosmos. You're the best." I hung up.

I quickly found two blank envelopes and put in $45 NZD in both. I then wrapped a towel around my sun-kissed body so I could open the door. His assistant, Lorraine, came up with more water—three one gallon jugs this time.

"Hi, Lorraine! Thank you so much for water," I said, taking the jugs. I held out both envelopes. "These are for you, and for the person who brought the water, the rehydration packets, and the mini fridge up earlier."

"Thank you, Coach, but that was actually Cosmos and I. We took care of everything," she replied with a friendly smile. “We love having you stay with us.”

"Oh, perfect! Then these are both for you two," I corrected. "I appreciate hearing that. I love staying here!"

Lorraine chuckled, covering her mouth lightly. "That is very kind of you, Coach. Have a wonderful dinner."

When she left, Vic and I shared one of the cool gallons of water and put the other two in the fridge to keep cold for later. We laid down for 45 minutes to rest before getting ready for dinner. Vic wore another suit—a loaner from Charlie—a sharp charcoal gray. I wore a dark emerald green dress. Like the maroon one, it was snug. Unlike the maroon dress, this one was low cut and my tits would fall out if I leaned any which way. The top half of the dress was a very similar cut to the shirt that I'd worn out exploring Auckland, so I didn't have to worry much about tan lines—or should I say "burn lines"—on my pasty skin. Thankfully, it was a side zip and didn’t help getting dressed.

Once I got my shoes on and put a few essential items in my clutch, I stepped out of the bathroom. Vic turned from the window, his eyes widening.

He let out a low, soft whistle of appreciation. "Wow. That color on you is... dangerous."

"You clean up pretty well yourself," I said, smoothing the fabric over my hip. "Ready to eat?"

He came over, wrapped his arms around me from behind, nipped my neck with his teeth, and told me how beautiful I looked. "I really don't want to share you tonight, you know that?"

I leaned back into his chest. "I don't want to share you either, but I am hungry and require sustenance before I become hangry."

Vic kissed the top of my head. "Duly noted. Your hunger takes precedence over my desire for you. It's almost time for the car to get us." Vic grabbed one of the spare key cards, gave it to me to put in my clutch, and headed downstairs.

When we got outside, the car was just pulling up, and the same driver from last night, Cathal, was our driver tonight. He quickly opened the door for me and helped me inside. Vic was on his own to get in from the other side. The driver gave me a subtle wink in the rearview mirror, and I smiled back.

Once Cathal was back in the driver's seat and headed to the restaurant, I leaned forward slightly. "Cathal, I hope Charlie booked a table at Huami. Their food is excellent, and their drinks are amazing."

Cathal chuckled. "You have great taste, Coach. How did you know Mr. Charlie was sending you guys there?"

"I didn't," I admitted, relaxing into the seat. "I was just thankful that Charlie had an idea of what food I was craving. I've been thinking about their dumplings all day."

As we were on the way there, Cathal realized we'd still be about 10 minutes early for our reservation, so Cathal drove us around the waterfront for a few more minutes prior to pulling up to the front of Huami. He parked, helped me get out of the car, and Vic slid out of the car on the same side, as the other side was alongside heavy Saturday night traffic. Vic adjusted his suit jacket, grabbed my hand, and we headed inside. I quickly turned to thank Cathal.

"Thank you, Cathal. We'll see you later," I said.

He nodded from his spot. "Enjoy your dinner, Coach." 

We entered the luxurious lobby of Huami, the air instantly cool and fragrant with fine wood and delicate spice. A host in a tailored jacket greeted us, already knowing my name, and led us through the main, dimly lit dining room to a quiet, semi-private corner booth flanked by decorative wooden screens.

We settled next to other, the ambient light catching the emerald sheen of my dress. Before we could even open a menu, the staff was already at our table.

“Welcome back, Coach,” one server said, placing a glass in front of me. “The Dragon’s Breath, and the Aged Whiskey Sour for you, sir.”

My cocktail was stunning: a vibrant, rose-hued drink in a coupe glass, garnished with a single, delicate dried lotus flower floating on the surface. Vic's was deep amber, served over a large, single spherical ice cube in a heavy tumbler. Another server followed, placing a small bamboo steamer basket and a black slate plate between us.

“And today’s appetizers to begin,” the second server announced.

The slate held three perfect Pan-fried Wagyu Beef Dumplings, the crimped edges lightly crisped, gleaming with a fine oil. The steamer held four translucent Crystal Shrimp Dumplings (Har Gow), the pink shrimp visible through the delicate, almost invisible skin.

"Xièxie nǐmen," I said smoothly, offering a small smile and a polite nod of thanks in Mandarin.

Vic blinked, picking up his chopsticks. He put them back down, staring at me. "Wait, you speak Mandarin? Fluently?"

I laughed, picking up a har gow. "Fluently is a strong word, Vic. It's a struggle, honestly. But enough to be polite and get what I need in a lot of places."

"No, I mean, you just casually switched languages," he pressed, an astonished grin spreading across his face. "Does speaking French and Mandarin make it hard for you to remember to speak in Spanish?"

I dipped my shrimp dumpling lightly into the soy-ginger sauce. "It can be tricky sometimes, but I manage. I speak quite a few languages. French, Mandarin, yes, and Italian, Romanian, Dutch, German, and Russian. A little bit of Swiss German, too."

If his jaw could literally hit the floor, it would have. He sat back, his eyes wide, then slowly picked up his whiskey sour. He took a long, thoughtful sip. "You are honestly the most fascinating woman I have ever met. I thought I had you mostly figured out, and then you drop the polyglot bomb. Seriously, what do you do for a living? And don't give me the 'stocks and portfolios for the rich' line again."

"But that's the truth," I said, a slight shrug moving the low neckline of my dress. "My company manages the wealth and portfolios of some of the richest families in the world. It’s a very complex, very high-stress job that requires constant international travel and discreet negotiation."

"Okay, fine," he conceded, waving a hand. "But I meant, why does a renowned, high-profile national sports team keep hiring you, the wealth manager?"

I leaned forward, lowering my voice conspiratorially, though we were well-screened. "I wish I could say that I was an international spy, but I'm not. The truth is slightly less dramatic, but just as specialized. Sometimes, coaches and owners around the world come to me to help them with their national sports teams when there's internal conflict—be it between players, coaches, or ownership. I'm a mental health advocate and a conflict resolution specialist for professional and semi-professional athletes. It's my job to help the players, the coaches, and the owners realign their goals and repair the damage before it sinks the entire program." I took a careful bite of the Wagyu dumpling—the savory rich beef flavor was incredible.

Vic watched me chew, utterly captivated. "I'm still not entirely convinced you're not a spy."

I chuckled, wiping my mouth with a napkin. "I'm 99% sure I'm not, Vic. If I were, I wouldn't be able to work this job, because I'm very well-known in the sports world. Too many people have seen me, and it would absolutely blow my cover."

We spent the next few minutes savoring the dumplings and sipping our cocktails.

"Are you enjoying your time here in New Zealand?" I asked, setting down my chopsticks.

"More than I can say," he replied honestly, swirling the ice in his glass. "It's exactly what I needed. Everything about it."

I hesitated, gathering my nerve. "What happens between you and your wife if you stayed for a few more days, then?"

Vic looked down into his glass, the easy smile gone. "I don't know, but most likely? It would end in divorce. I think it's been heading that way for a long time and being here has just... clarified things."

That was the answer I needed. I quietly grabbed my phone from my clutch so I could text Charlie.

Me: Hey. Quick favor. Could you extend the hotel stay for a few days for Vic and I? Also, could you reach out to his wife and let her know he caught a stomach virus on the flight over, and the doctor said he needs a few more days to rest before he heads home?

Charlie: Is he truly sick?

Me: No, but he wants to stay for a few more days.

Charlie: I appreciate your honesty. Consider it done. I'll reach out to his wife now and confirm the room extension.

I put my phone away and smiled at Vic. "Charlie is extending the hotel room for a few extra days. The cover story is a nasty stomach virus you caught on the flight over, and the doctor advised a few days of rest before flying back."

Vic's eyes lit up, the relief washing over his face. "You did that?" he leaned over and kissed my cheek softly, his hand lingering near my ear. "Thank you. Thank you so much."

Just as he ended the kiss, our main courses and fresh cocktails arrived. For Vic, they presented a generous portion of Wok-fried Black Pepper Beef, served alongside glossy, perfectly steamed rice, its sauce rich and dark. The server placed a new drink in front of him: a tall, smoky highball called the Shanghai Spice, garnished with a star anise and a chili sliver. My entree was a beautiful Whole Steamed Grouper topped with fragrant ginger, scallions, and a light soy dressing, served on a long, elegant white platter. My new drink was a crisp, pale yellow Kumquat Sparkler, served in a flute with tiny bubbles rising steadily to the surface.

"This looks absolutely incredible," Vic murmured, his eyes scanning the feast.

"It does," I agreed, lifting my Kumquat Sparkler for a small toast. "To extended, unplanned vacations."

Vic clinked his Shanghai Spice against mine. "To that. And to my incredible, multifaceted, definitely-not-a-spy lover."

The atmosphere of soft lighting and shared smiles shattered when my phone, resting on the white linen next to my plate, vibrated with a call from Barb. The blood drained from my face. She would only call here if it was an emergency. I slid out of the booth, signaling to Vic that I needed a minute.

"I need to take this, I'm sorry," I murmured, heading for the quieter, pillared end of the dining room.

"Barb, what's going on?" I asked, keeping my voice low and tight.

Barb’s voice was frantic on the other end. "Scott's been arrested. We went over to get your stuff and medication before the apartment was ready, and he went completely off the rails. He started yelling about you, the team, and how you were ruining his life. He threatened to end Charlie if he didn't get out of his house."

My mind instantly went cold and professional. "Okay. Deep breaths, Barb. Charlie's fine, yes?"

"Yes, but he's shaken. We had to call the police. They took Scott in."

"Good. Don't worry about the belongings right now. Just tell Charlie to go home and relax. I'll take care of this." I paused, considering the situation. Scott was angry about his failing marriage, the mandated psych evaluations, and was now likely infuriated and jealous over seeing me with Vic. This was a dangerous, predictable escalation. "Barb, tell Charlie and the officers that I want Scott kept there overnight. Do not bail him out. I will handle it in the morning."

"Overnight? Are you sure? The bail is going to be high," she questioned.

"I'm certain," I stated firmly. "When I post bail, it will be my money, not the team's. I will require a contract. He will pay back 100% of the full bail plus 50% interest within 15 days. He's also suspended without pay until further notice—and that repayment deadline stands regardless of his salary status. Get Kay working on that contract immediately and send it to the hotel. It needs to be approved by an overnight judge."

"The amount of interest is..." Barb trailed off, stunned.

"It's a penalty for his behavior. He needs a consequence he feels in his wallet. Now, go home. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Will do. Be safe."

I hung up, placing my phone back in my clutch, my hand shaking slightly. I took three slow, deliberate breaths before walking back to the booth, my emerald dress flowing behind me. I slid back onto the cushioned seat, forcing a slight smile that didn't reach my eyes. I was fuming, but beneath the anger, there was a stark sense of relief. 

Vic immediately set down his chopsticks. "What happened? You look like you just called a drone strike."

"Scott happened," I sighed, picking up my Kumquat Sparkler and taking a large gulp. "Charlie and Barb went to his house to get the rest of my stuff, and Scott threatened violence on Charlie. He was arrested."

Vic’s eyebrows shot up. "He was arrested? Because they went to get your clothes?"

"He's been volatile lately, between the psych evals and his marriage problems. They went at the wrong time," I explained, running a hand through my hair. "I told Barb I would bail him out in the morning, but only after he signs a contract guaranteeing he pays me back 100% of the bail plus 50% interest. He'll also be suspended without pay."

Vic frowned, his expression grim. "That's a nasty situation, especially for the team." He looked directly into my eyes, his tone softening. "Are you okay, though? Are you safe?"

"Yes, I'm safe," I reassured him, nodding. "He’s off the streets for the night, and that's all that matters. Please, Vic, I do not want this to ruin the night we were having."

He gave a slow, knowing nod, resting his hand on the table, not reaching for mine. "Yeah. I get it."

The energy was gone. The conversation died, replaced by a tense silence punctuated only by the soft, distant chatter of other diners and the clinking of our cutlery. We finished our incredible meals in quiet contemplation.

Soon, the servers returned, clearing our plates and placing a final masterpiece before us: Deconstructed Mango and Pomelo Sago in small, chilled bowls. It was a sweet, creamy, pale-yellow pudding, dotted with bright orange pomelo segments and served alongside delicate, crisp sesame tuiles dusted with powdered sugar.

"This is almost too beautiful to eat," Vic commented, finally breaking the heavy silence. He picked up the slender spoon. "What is this, exactly?"

"It's Sago, a classic Chinese dessert," I explained, feeling a fragment of my old self return. "A creamy, slightly tangy pudding with mango and pomelo pulp. It's traditional, but this presentation is elevated." I took a careful bite. The cold, sweet flavor was a welcome shock after the rich beef and spicy alcohol. "It’s heaven."

Vic took a bite and sighed in relief. "It is perfect. A little bit of sweetness to cut through the… well, the drama."

"Exactly," I agreed. "A necessary distraction."

We managed a few more polite exchanges about the dessert's texture and flavor before finally scraping the bottoms of our bowls clean. We were completely stuffed, and every muscle in my body felt the weight of the day, both the sun and the mental strain.

The main server approached the booth, offering a final bow. "Coach, sir. Your bill has been taken care of by Mr. Charlie. It was a pleasure having you tonight."

I stood, gathering my clutch and putting the strap across my body. I walked over to the host stand, catching the attention of the head chef who was talking to the owner near the kitchen entrance.

"Xièxie nǐmen gěi wǒmen dàilái de měiwèi wǎncān hé wánměi de yèwǎn," I said to all three of them—thanking them for the delicious dinner and perfect night.

They all bowed deeply. "Bú kèqi, Coach."

Vic joined me, and we walked out into the crisp Auckland night. The air was cool, but the streets were still busy with Saturday nightlife. I didn't want to think about contracts, bail, or Scott's unpredictable rage. I didn't want to feel the weight of responsibility. I wanted noise and oblivion.

I pulled out my phone as we walked.

Me: Hey, Charlie paid for dinner. We don’t need you yet. Meet us in a few hours. I'll text you the address then.

Cathal: Got it, Coach. Be safe.

Me: Always, boss.

I grabbed Vic's hand and started pulling him down the street toward the louder, more electric sounds. "No more thinking," I told him. "We're going dancing."

"A club? Are you sure?" Vic asked, slightly out of breath trying to keep up with my pace.

"Positive. It's two blocks down."

The club was everything I wanted: loud, throbbing with bass, and had a line snaking out the door. As we walked toward the front entrance, I adjusted the strap of my small clutch, pulling it securely across my body. A few people near the velvet rope stopped talking and stared. Then, a few others.

"And that, my dear Vic," I murmured, leaning close to his ear as I adjusted the strap, "is why I'm not a spy."

He laughed, a genuine, startled sound that was swallowed by the bass. "Point taken."

We reached the front. Two enormous bouncers stood guard. I met the first one's eyes, and he held my gaze for a moment, an unspoken acknowledgment passing between us. He looked at Vic, then back at me. I gave a quick, affirmative nod. The bouncers parted the rope, and I reached into my clutch, pulling out two crisp $100 NZD bills and pressing one into each of their massive hands.

The second we stepped inside, the atmosphere shifted. The DJ cut the pulsating EDM, and the massive, crowded dance floor instantly went silent. Every head in the room turned toward me. Then, a heartbeat later, the entire club erupted in cheers and whoops.

I quickly spotted the DJ, a massive, muscular man with a gentle face—Cheech, an old, close friend of my brother Bob. He was already nodding and gesturing for me to come to the booth—alone.

"Give me just one minute," I shouted to Vic over the noise, squeezing his arm.

As I approached the booth, Cheech dropped the needle on the track, and the music roared back to life, the beat instantly making the air thick with energy. He caught my eye, and using a series of quick hand gestures—a secret language he, Bob and I had devised years ago—I asked him if he had any THC oils.

He gave a slight, quick nod. Then, using our signs, he asked if my 'friend' wanted any as well. I shook my head, making a tight circle with my thumb and forefinger. No. He had a flight, and he didn't need the hassle of a random drug test. Cheech nodded in understanding. He held up his five fingers and nodded his head three times, the signal: Wait five minutes, then head to the bathroom on the far left. I raised a single eyebrow in the agreed-upon signal for pure and safe. He nodded once, definitively. We exchanged a quick, hard fist-bump.

I went back to Vic, who was already at the bar waiting for me. The sound was too loud for anything but shouted platitudes. We sat down on two stools. I kept my eyes scanning the crowd, watching for Cheech's signals. I saw his girlfriend, Bunny, a small, blonde woman in a stunning red dress, slip out of the door of the women's bathroom. Cheech immediately caught my eye and nodded in my direction.

I leaned toward Vic, placing my hand on his back to get his attention. I pointed quickly to the bartender with the vibrant purple hair. Then, I measured about eighteen centimeters between my two hands, holding the space for a second, and then handed him my NZ passport. He looked at the bartender, looked at the passport, looked at the measured space, and nodded, confirming the visual cue.

"Be right back," I mouthed.

I slipped off the stool and headed straight for the bathroom. Inside, the noise was dampened but still intense. I quickly scanned the room, finding the chunky, industrial-looking air freshener bolted to the wall. I gave it a hard tug, and the poorly secured plastic housing came apart in my hand. Inside, nestled on a small ledge, were three small plastic vials. I grabbed them, quickly stuffing them between my tits, the cold plastic a small shock against my skin. I snapped the air freshener back together and quickly walked out, giving Cheech a nod as I passed his booth.

I returned to Vic, who was still leaning against the bar, nursing his beer. I took a loud, fake sneeze, covering my face with my free hand. As I did, I quickly slid the topmost vial from my bra. The lid was loose and popped off easily with my fingernail. Vic handed me my passport back and then turned back to the bar to order a round of shots for us. I took the opportunity, tapping him on the shoulder and pointing to a figure across the room, far off in the darkness.

"Isn't that guy from the arena?" I shouted, pointing to a nondescript figure.

Vic craned his neck, trying to see through the pulsating lights. "I don't think so, babe, the angle's all wrong..."

In that split second, the club's lights plunged into darkness for a quick transition. I seized the moment, knowing my beer was the one in the 18cm glass that I'd identified with the bartender. I inverted the vial and poured the few drops of golden THC oil into my beer, then quickly popped the lid back on the vial and returned it to my bra. The lights flashed back on.

The purple-haired bartender and I made eye contact over the bar, both of us giving a quick, almost imperceptible nod before turning away.

Vic turned back. "Nope, not him. You good?"

"Perfect," I smiled, clinking my glass against his.

We both took long sips of our beer. As the oil began to take effect, the sharp edges of the night—the fear, the contracts, the sunburnt skin—began to dull. A wash of warm, heavy relaxation spread through my limbs, pulling me into the rhythm of the music. We set our glasses down, and I winked at the purple-haired bartender, who instantly snatched them up and tossed them into a bin behind the bar.

I grabbed Vic's hand, pulling him through the crowd toward the center of the dance floor. He was a man of slow dances and classic rock, not the relentless beat of EDM. He looked bewildered for a few seconds, but then, he just let go. He started to move, swaying, grinning, and letting the heavy bass shake the tension from his body. We danced for a long time, sweat mixing with the lingering traces of aloe and sunscreen.

My internal clock, honed by years of international work, kept ticking. At 3:30 AM, I knew we were running out of time. I grabbed Vic’s hand hard, weaving us through the crowd until we hit the sanctuary of the men's bathroom—the quietest place in the entire club.

"Wallet, ID, burner phone," I asked, my voice hushed, breathless from the dancing. "Do you have everything you came in with?"

Vic checked his pockets, his eyes wide. "Got it all. Why? What's happening?"

I quickly checked my clutch. NZ passport, check. Wallet, check. Two phones, check. "Listen to me, there is a back entrance we are taking. You have to follow me without asking any questions."

He started to open his mouth, a protest forming.

"I can't help you or get us out of here safely if you have questions. Ask me later."

He snapped his mouth shut, his eyes narrowing, but he nodded.

I turned to the wall and gave an old, unused paper towel dispenser a hard jerk. The front panel, which Cheech had obviously rigged, popped open. Inside, neatly folded, was a of new, cheap, wool women's slippers. I quickly slipped my feet out of my heels and into the slippers, the soft soles a blessing on my tired feet. I strapped my expensive emerald heels to the outside of my clutch bag.

The back door opened, and Cheech stood there, breathing heavily, his girlfriend Bunny beside him. "My break's started, guys. Time to go."

I grabbed Vic's hand, and we followed them through the door into a narrow, dimly lit alley.

"I mirrored your phone, Coach," Cheech said, his voice urgent. "Texted Cathal an address three minutes away—a five-minute walk. You have to be there in three minutes."

Vic and I quickly embraced Cheech, then Bunny. "Cheech, Bunny. I love you both. Call Kay if anything happens; she knows what to do. I love you both."

"Two minutes!" Bunny warned, her voice strained. "Go, now!"

I nodded, grabbing Vic's hand, and we bolted. We ran like mad, slippers slapping on the concrete, cutting through side streets and back alleys as adrenaline surged through my system. We reached the corner and saw Cathal’s car rolling slowly. He was about to leave, but he spotted us, slammed on the brakes, and quickly backed up.

We dove into the backseat. "Go! Now!" I gasped.

Cathal didn't hesitate; the car roared away from the curb. As we sped through the empty early morning streets, he reached back and tossed something over the seat.

"Catch!"

It was a rescue asthma inhaler. My breathing was already ragged from the run and the cumulative stress of the night. I caught it, immediately lifted it to my mouth, and took a slow, deep breath, feeling the relief instantly.

"Thank you," I wheezed, passing it back.

"Charlie and Bob figured it was best if you and Vic went to another hotel for the rest of his trip," Cathal said, his eyes focused on the road. "Your active stalker is loose. This place is secure, all your stuff is there, and the staff is expecting you both."

"The underground knew he was coming to the club, didn't they?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

"Yes,” he confirmed grimly. "We’re here."

He pulled up to a discreet, heavily secured hotel entrance, one I didn't recognize. He got out, came to my side, and pulled me into a quick, strong hug.

"I left a special present for you in the safe in your room, Coach," he whispered against my ear.

I pulled back, my mind racing. "A license?"

"Yes. Both of them. It's done. Now go."

"Thank you, Cathal." I grabbed Vic’s hand, and we hurried to the entrance. “Cathal? I owe you my life.”

He nodded and then he was gone.

We were immediately escorted to a luxury suite on a high floor. A discreet agent in a hotel uniform was already waiting. He professionally swept the entire room with a handheld device, giving me a thumbs up when he was done. All my luggage and Vic’s suit bags were neatly placed on a luggage rack. The agent stopped at the door.

"The room is clean. Half of the staff here are agents, Coach," he stated matter-of-factly. "We'll be here until the stalker is secured." He gave a curt nod and left.

I breathed a sigh of exhausted relief and immediately began to strip, desperate to get out of the clothes. I pulled off the emerald dress, and as it pooled on the floor, three small glass vials of THC oil—two of them still full—clattered onto the carpet.

"Shit," I muttered, staring at the bottles. The team had a mandatory staff-wide drug test on Tuesday. The THC content in these oils was high. I was going to be busted. "Double-shit."

Vic looked at the vials, then at me. I could only manage a tired smile.

"Stip and meet me in the shower," I told him. "Hot and long.”

He nodded, stripping off his suit and started the water. I quickly scooped up the three vials and opened one of the desk drawers. It immediately dropped a few inches, catching on its slide—a common trick for hiding things in hotel rooms. I tucked the vials deep into the crevice, closed the drawer, and rushed to join Vic in the shower.

I stood under the scalding hot water, letting it try to wash away the fear and the THC already in my system. As I began to lather my hair, I knew I couldn't keep lying anymore.

"Vic," I started, my voice strained. "What I told you at the restaurant—about my job—it was only the surface."

He turned off the shower spray so he could hear me, the only sound the running water. "I figured. Start talking."

"I am a wealth management executive and a mental health advocate for professional sports teams, yes," I confirmed. "But I also dabble in working for the intelligence sectors of the countries I stay in. Cathal, Cheech, Bunny—they’re contacts. So are many of the people we've come across. The teams bring me in to find the loners, the coaches or players who are too solitary, who refuse to integrate with the team. For the most part, they’re just introverts or have social anxiety. But in my entire career, only three people have proven not to be who they claimed to be. One of them is my stalker."

Vic stared at me, his face a mix of awe and betrayal. "You're telling me you're essentially a corporate spy who moonlights as a human lie detector for professional sports?"

"In a sense, yes," I admitted, turning the water back on to rinse the shampoo.

I lathered the conditioner in my hair, continuing the confession over the rush of the water. "The stalker—his name is Patrick—somehow walked right out of the psychiatric facility where he was housed. No one saw a thing, even though the staff had worked there for years and knew him by sight and name. He's that good. That’s why Cathal rushed to get us here. Patrick was the reason I was going to stay with Scott in the first place."

Vic's face was a mask of disbelief. "So the whole reason you're here, the whole conflict with Scott, was a cover? And you've been leading me around Auckland, exposing me to this man, while you're operating like... a field agent?" He began to fire questions, his voice echoing in the small space. "Why does he stalk you? How long has this been going on? What does he want?"

"I can't answer all of that right now, Vic, I need to think," I said, running my hands through my hair to rinse the conditioner. “What I can tell you is that I am here to help the current players, coaches and owners of the All Blacks. After finding out about Patrick the last time I was here spooked the owners, rightfully so. The conflict with Scott is real as he still feels guilty for not protecting me last time. It took so long to catch the asshole and put him in a facility.”

"Why?" he demanded, his voice thick with hurt and exhaustion. "Why did you lie to me?"

I reached out and put my hands on his wet chest, looking directly into his eyes. "Because it was necessary to protect you! The less you knew, the safer you and I both were. Patrick heard I was at the club Cheech was DJing at, which is why we had to bolt like that. He was there minutes after we got there. . I didn’t know he was loose until after we got to the club. The person that I thought I saw at the arena, I did see at the arena earlier all week….that was Patrick,” I paused, letting that sink in. "I should find out in a few hours if he's been caught."

Vic took a step back, folding his arms. "And the safe? Cathal said he left a 'special present' for you. What did you mean by a license?"

"As a private citizen, I can’t carry weapons here," I explained. "Cathal had to apply for an emergency license for me to carry a taser—they’re illegal for citizens in New Zealand—and a handgun for protection."

Vic went completely still, his jaw slack. He said nothing, simply staring at me for a long moment before turning off the water, pulling his towel off the rack, and stepping out of the shower.

I followed him out a moment later. We toweled off in silence. I didn't put on any clothes, letting the towel fall to the floor. I walked over to the desk, grabbed the three phones, and plugged them all into chargers. Then, I opened the safe. I retrieved the two laminated licenses, the small, flat taser, and the sleek handgun. I slid the licenses into my wallet, placing the gun and taser on the nightstand next to where I planned to sleep.

It was 4:00 AM. I had to be at the jail no later than 7:00 AM.

On the desk, Barb had placed the legal contract that Kay and a lawyer friend from New Zealand created. It was laying on a blank envelope. I quickly signed and dated it, placing the contract into my tote bag. When I walked over to the bed, Vic wasn't there. He was curled up on the couch, already fast asleep, his back to me.

I sighed, collapsing onto the huge bed. The stress was too much, even with the THC. I slept for a total of 35 minutes before my internal alarm clock woke me up.

I took a quick shower, brushed my teeth, and got dressed in a pair of dark jeans and a comfortable long-sleeve tee, swapping my slippers for flip-flops. I scribbled a quick note to Vic: "Scott situation. Be back soon. Use burner phone if needed. See you soon." I took my two main phones, leaving the burner phone by the couch, and put the taser and gun into my purse. I put on my glasses.

I walked the four blocks to the jail, the early morning air crisp and cool. I stopped at a coffee shop, ordered a large black coffee, and then headed into the public restroom. I retrieved one of the vials I’d stashed, shaking just a little bit of the THC oil into Scott's coffee before stirring it and tossing the empty vial into the bin.

At the jail, I approached the reception desk and handed over both of my passports. "I need to post bail for Scott Robertson, please. I've been in contact with the overnight judge. Can an officer to bring me back to his cell, please?"

A few minutes later, an officer escorted me back. Scott was sitting on a hard cot, looking utterly defeated and miserable. He was still wearing his clothes from yesterday. I slid the cup of coffee through the bars.

"Deppgrl, thank you," he croaked, taking the coffee in both hands. "I knew you wouldn't leave me here."

"I didn't leave you here, Scott. You put yourself here," I replied, my voice devoid of emotion. "Now, before I post your very expensive bond, you need to review and sign this contract." I held up the envelope. "It was pre-signed by the judge and myself this morning."

I slid the contract through the bars. "The terms are simple: you must pay me back 100% of the full bail plus 50% interest within the next 15 days. You are suspended without pay until further notice. You will still attend all coaches' meetings, follow through with mandatory drug tests, and therapy. Since you are suspended, your therapy sessions will now be daily, lasting anywhere from three to eight hours a day."

Scott scanned the pages, his eyes wide at the repayment terms. "What happens if I don't sign this ridiculous thing?"

"You have two options," I said, leaning closer to the bars. "You can stay here, wait for a trial, and hope you get a sympathetic judge, or you can stay here, wait for a trial, get fired from the All Blacks, and be permanently banned from all professional and semi-professional rugby arenas. Your choice."

He hesitated for a moment, then took a deep, shaky breath, the THC oil already starting to take the edge off his nerves. "I need a pen."

I handed him a pen through the bars, and he quickly scrawled his signature.

"Thank you, Scott," I said, retrieving the signed contract. "Someone will be back within thirty minutes to process your release."

I walked away and headed to the adjoining courthouse via a set of subterranean tunnels. I went to the cashier's office and paid the $42,000 NZD bail. I asked for a receipt and all necessary documentation for reimbursement. They also handed me Scott's full arrest file as well as the receipt. I thanked the clerk and walked out of the courthouse, leaving Scott to be picked up by Charlie.

When I stepped outside onto the street, I called for a taxi to take me to the arena to meet with the team's lawyers—a calculated risk I was willing to take to get this documentation in their hands immediately. The first two taxis that pulled up had drivers who seemed shifty, and I waved them off. The third one that stopped was a driver who had driven me a few years back, but he looked different. I decided to take the risk.

"The rugby arena, please," I instructed, climbing in.

He nodded, and we were off. I kept my head down, staring at my phone. Within minutes, we arrived. I grabbed my tote bag, making sure I had everything, and thanked the driver.

As the taxi drove away, I quickly took a screenshot of the license plate and sent it to Cathal.

Me: I’m at the arena and the driver I just had? My stalker. Poor disguise. Here’s a photo of the license plate.

Cathal: Got it. I'll take care of it. Stay put.

I went through the arena's heavy security, showing my ID. I headed straight to the boardroom to meet with the team lawyers.

"Gentlemen, thank you for meeting so early," I said, placing the contract and Scott's arrest file on the large table. "Scott's out, and the contract is signed. Here is the documentation." I then showed them my phone. "I was just driven here by my stalker, in a disguise as a taxi driver I've used before. This is the license plate. He is actively moving in the city."

The lawyers, two sharp-suited men, quickly thanked me and assured me they would start the paperwork immediately.

Feeling the need for movement, I decided to walk the four miles back to the new hotel. I walked in the wide open, not caring that my stalker was loose and had just been in a confined space with me. I was past caring.

When I entered the hotel lobby, I was immediately surrounded by four agents who silently escorted me up to the room. Inside, the first agent I'd met was waiting.

"Coach, you need to stay put," he said, his voice grave. "Vic left hours ago. He hasn't come back and didn't take the burner phone with him."

I felt a surge of cold terror. I stripped off my street clothes—the jeans, tank top and flip-flops—and quickly changed into a pair of tight black leggings, t-shirt and running sneakers. I pulled on my utility belt, which had a holster for the gun, a taser, a secure pouch for my IDs and licenses, and a pocket for my rescue inhaler and a pouch for my phones.

"I'm going to help you find him," I told the agents, strapping the gun into its holster.

"Absolutely not. It's too dangerous," the agent argued.

"He knows me, and I know him," I countered, looking him dead in the eye. "You don't. I care too much about Vic to leave his safety entirely in your hands. I'm coming."

They argued for another minute, but my resolve won. They caved. While the agents started laying out maps, I searched the room. Everything was neat, except for a crumpled piece of paper on the nightstand Vic had used. I smoothed it out. In Vic's handwriting: "STEX".

Sky Tower Experience.

I bolted out of the room and out of the hotel, running the five miles toward the Sky Tower. I ran until I couldn't breathe, slowing to a walk only in the last hundred yards so I could catch my breath. I approached the pre-paid sales window.

"Hi. I was here yesterday," I gasped. "I'm looking for my friend. Is he here?"

The same woman from yesterday was working the window. "Oh, Coach! Yes, he's up there. Waiting for you."

"Thank you." I didn't wait, rushing to the elevator.

The ride up was agonizingly slow. I pulled the gun from its holster from the utility belt, kept it firmly in my dominant hand, but left the safety on. I stepped out, moving silently through the observation deck until I saw him. His broad back was facing me, silhouetted against the morning sky.

"Vic. Are you alone?" I asked, my voice low and steady.

He didn't jump. He just nodded. "I am."

I put the gun back in the utility belt and walked up to him. He turned around, and what I saw stopped my heart. He had an ugly black eye—already swelling and deep purple—and his nose was clearly broken, crooked, and bloody.

Before I could speak, he came over to me, cupped my cheek, and gently kissed me. "Hi," he murmured against my lips.

"What happened?" I whispered, tracing the damage with my thumb.

"An agent at the hotel—disguised as hotel staff—showed me Patrick's picture this morning, right before I went for a walk," he explained, wincing. "I saw him, recognized him from the photo, and he saw me. He started attacking me because he saw us together yesterday. I did my best to defend myself. I hit him back, hard and knocked him out. I’m afraid I killed him."

"What time was this?"

"Around nine this morning," he replied, touching his nose gingerly.

"He’s alive," I assured him, the relief making me weak. "I saw him around nine-thirty. He was my taxi driver to the arena. We are getting out of here. I'm taking you to Bobby’s house to get that nose and eye taken care of until we know Patrick is secured."

I grabbed his hand, and we took the back service elevator down and out through a discreet rear entrance. We walked the two blocks to Bobby's home.

Bobby, the team doctor, mostly asleep when I knocked on his door. He was shocked but immediately went to work after inviting us in. As he was examining Vic’s face, my phone rang. It was Charlie.

"Charlie, what's wrong?"

"The news is going crazy, sweetie. Conflicting reports everywhere on the news about Patrick. Is Vic okay? Are you okay?"

"We are fine, for the most part," I reported quickly. "Vic has a broken nose and a black eye, but no other serious injuries. Bobby is taking him care of him here at his house. Once Patrick is secured, I'll move Vic to the hospital for official care. Give me a few hours."

"Be safe," Charlie said, and we hung up.

The second the call ended, Cathal called. "Coach, it's done. Patrick was caught a few minutes ago. He's being placed in a high-security prison an hour away until he can be seen by several experienced mental health providers."

"Thank you, Cathal. Thank you."

I hung up, walking back into the living room where Bobby was applying a cold compress to Vic's face. "It's safe now. Patrick's secured. We can go to the hospital."

They both nodded, and we took Bobby’s sedan the two and a half blocks to the hospital. Vic was immediately taken for imaging to check for any facial fractures. Thankfully, there were no broken facial bones, just broken cartilage in his nose. Vic was brought back to the private exam room, and Bobby carefully inserted an internal nose splints to help the cartilage heal in a way no one know that Vic’s nose was busted.

When Bobby took off his exam gloves, he turned to me. "Your turn, Coach. Let's get imaging on your nose."

I went in, and the X-ray confirmed I was healing nicely. Back in the room, Bobby took out my internal nose splints through my nostrils. The removal was a weird, intense pressure, but the immediate ability to breathe freely through my nose again was a relief I hadn't realized I was missing.

As the three of us prepared to leave for Bobby's car, Cathal called me again. "Coach, I know you've had a rough morning, but I'm getting reports from the arena. There's an emergency team meeting. I need you to bring Vic and Bobby with you, immediately."

"Is Scott there?"

"He is. He doesn't look great."

I hung up and looked at Bobby. "Emergency meeting at the arena. Scott's there. Can you drive us?"

Bobby, already nodding, grabbed his keys. "Let's go."

We were at the arena in minutes. I flashed my ID to security, and they waved me through. They recognized Bobby and let him slide, and one look at Vic’s battered face was enough for them to bypass his sign-in entirely. We headed up to the boardroom.

Scott was there, and he looked high as fuck, and absolutely furious. Charlie, Barb, and the other owners stood at the head of the long table while the players, Bobby, Vic and I squeezed in. Charlie didn't even wait for us to sit.

"Everyone, we need to address a few serious issues," Charlie began. He explained everything: Patrick the former teammate now turned stalker, Scott's arrest, the signed contract with me, and, most damningly, Scott's positive drug test for THC—it was twice the acceptable limit. The room was silent, stunned.

Scott finally spoke, his voice strained but surprisingly measured. "I understand the severity of the situation. I will take this time for private therapy until my suspension is over and my next drug test is negative. I will uphold the contract with Deppgrl."

Charlie looked directly at me, and I gave him a quick, tired nod of acceptance. He turned back to the room, his voice taking on a heavy, final tone.

"Finally," Charlie said, his voice quiet. "I have just received word that Patrick...your former teammate and Deppgrl’s talker... ended his life while in the high-security prison about fifteen minutes ago, in between staff shift changes. Four medical doctors have confirmed his death."

I let out a single, shaky sigh, the accumulated stress of years and the chaos of the last twelve hours finally hitting me. Everything went black.