The Game

𝟏𝟒

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑭𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒕𝒆𝒆𝒏 - 𝑳𝒂 𝑮𝒂𝒍𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒂

By the time the sun burned through the soft morning haze, I was already deep into the park loop — breath steady, shoes tapping rhythm, music low enough that the real world could still find me. I'd left the house early on purpose, no dogs tugging at leashes, no siblings calling my name, just the long oval of asphalt threading between lawns and live oaks. The pond flashed bright every time I passed it, a silver coin someone kept tossing back into the day.

I wore the pink set I'd been saving — fitted zip-front hoodie and sculpted leggings, both the exact shade of bubble gum that refuses to quit. The jacket sat unzipped a few inches for air. Sweat drew dark seams down my spine, and I didn't mind. It felt like proof.

At the end of my second lap I slid off the path to stretch — right quad, left, calves, then a long fold until my fingertips brushed warm pavement. AirPods in, eyes closed, I let the song blur into the background and listened to the park instead — sprinklers ticking in some hidden yard, a stroller wheel squeaking, geese heckling each other like a messy family.

Something thumped the crown of my head — not hard enough to drop me, square enough to make my brain stutter.

"Ah — damn, I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I'm sorry," a voice shouted, running toward me.

I straightened, one palm on the spot, and blinked away the surprise. A green tennis ball spun to a stop beside my sneaker. Six leashes skittered past my shins like jump ropes with opinions, and then Chris was in front of me, breath warm, hands already up like he needed permission to touch.

"Really, Chris?" I said, trying to look stern when my pulse was doing extra. "I thought you had better aim than that."

He dropped all six leashes without hesitation — the dogs sat like soldiers, practiced and patient — and stepped in close. His fingers slid into my curls, gentle, searching. "Hold still," he murmured, thumb finding the sore spot. He rubbed small circles with the heel of his hand, exactly the pressure you use on a fresh bruise. "Did I hurt you bad?"

"No," I said, doing my best not to shiver under how careful he was. "I'll be fine."

"I'll be the judge of that." He tipped my chin up with two fingers, eyes scanning my face like he was memorizing it for a test. When his gaze caught mine, the corner of his mouth kicked up. I felt heat climb my neck and stepped back, rescuing both of us.

"I'm okay, Chris. Really."

"You out here on your own?" he asked, glancing down the path like I might be hiding a cousin behind a tree.

I nodded. "No entourage today."

"Dangerous," he said, smirk deepening. "Lucky for you, my throwing arm is the biggest threat within a mile."

"Tragic." I bent, scooped up the tennis ball, and handed it over. He took it, flicked his wrist, and sent it arcing. Six dogs exploded into motion — a tan shepherd, a chocolate lab, two spotted mutts with matching ears, a barrel-chested bully, and a sly little rust-eared mix who looked like she paid the bills around here.

We watched them race after the ball like joy had a physical form. When they barreled back, each trying to be the dog who returned it, Chris tugged idly at the laces of his hoodie and looked me over with a grin he didn't bother hiding.

"Now how did I know you were coming here today?" he said, tone all lazy challenge.

"Maybe you just can't get enough of me," I said, straight-faced.

He licked his bottom lip like he'd been waiting for me to say that. "Oh, so you noticed."

"Chill," I laughed. "I was joking."