[Selene’s POV]
Two weeks of unemployment and obsessive apartment cleaning later, and I’ve discovered I own forty-seven coffee mugs. Six years of “I deserve this one” retail therapy will do that to a girl.
It’s midnight when I stumble through my apartment door, arms full of takeout bags and the kind of wine that screams self-care. My feet hurt from pacing. My pride hurts worse.
My soul’s been on life support since the Birthday Disaster, but hey, at least the couch still loves me.
I reach for the light switch and the lights explode on before I touch it.
"SURPRISE!"
A dozen voices scream in unison, and I drop every box. Gold balloons—those fucking gold balloons again—fill my ceiling. Fairy lights are strung everywhere. Pizza boxes stack every surface.
A hand-painted banner hangs over my couch: THANK YOU, DOC.
Half the Philadelphia Ravens roster is packed into my apartment.
No Cassian. Obviously. But everyone else—the guys I've spent six years keeping mentally stable. The players I've talked off metaphorical ledges and through panic attacks and past the kind of performance anxiety that makes grown men cry.
They're all here. In my living room. At midnight.
Looking at me like I'm dying instead of just resigning.
"What…" My voice comes out strangled. "What is this?"
"Farewell party," Marcus, the rookie power forward, announces. He's wearing a party hat. "You didn't think we'd let you leave without saying goodbye, right?"
"We brought tequila," someone else adds.
"There's also expensive wine," Mateo's voice cuts through the chaos, and I spot him near the back, leaning against my bookshelf with his trademark smirk. "I handled the wine. They handled the emotional support. Division of labor."
Next to him, Axel looms like a Norse god who accidentally wandered into a sitcom. His ice-blue eyes find mine across the room, and something in my chest cracks open.
They organized this. Both of them.
I can tell by the way they're standing—slightly apart from the group, watching me like they're afraid I might bolt.
And I just might.
"Speech!" someone yells, and suddenly there's a bottle of something amber being shoved into my hand.
"I don't— I'm not good at—"
"You talked me through my divorce," Terry, the shooting guard, says. His eyes are wet. Grown man. Crying. At midnight. In my apartment. "When I thought I'd lose my kids, you helped me figure out how to be a better dad. How to show up even when it hurt."
"You saved my career," Marcus adds. "When I was ready to quit, you made me believe I could do this."
They keep going. One after another.
Stories about late-night calls and emergency sessions and the time I drove three hours to sit with someone's grandmother because he couldn't leave practice but needed family there.
I'm going to cry in front of a dozen professional athletes, and there's nothing I can do to stop it.
"To Doc!" Someone raises a bottle. "The only person who could make Cassian Drummond look like even more of an asshole by comparison!"
The room erupts. Glasses clink. Tequila flows. Someone starts a playlist, and suddenly my apartment is full of terrible dancing and even worse singing.
I drink. I drink to blur the edges, to soften the goodbye, to make this feel less like an ending and more like a really chaotic intermission.
Hours pass. The crowd thins. By three AM, only three people remain.
Me. Axel. Mateo.
We're on my living room floor, backs against the couch, legs tangled. The tequila bottle between us is nearly empty. My head is pleasantly fuzzy.
"I'm sorry," I say. The words feel important. Necessary. "For ignoring your texts. After... everything. You tried to stop me, and I just…"
"You don't apologize for that," Axel cuts me off. His voice is quiet. Final. "We should've tried harder."
"You couldn't have stopped me." I take another shot. "I would've found out eventually. Better to rip the band-aid off than slowly peel it back."
"That's a horrifying metaphor," Mateo says, but he's smiling. "You really are a therapist."
"Was a therapist. Am a therapist? Grammar is hard when you're drunk and unemployed."
"You resigned. That's not the same as unemployed." Mateo shifts closer. His shoulder presses against mine. "That's choosing yourself over a toxic situation. That's… healthy."
"Is it? Because I'm a psychologist who's supposed to see people, and I didn't see Cassian at all." The admission tastes bitter. "Six years… How did I miss it?"
"Maybe you saw him," Mateo says slowly, "and loved him anyway. That's not a weakness. That's just... human."
Axel's hand finds mine in the dark. Squeezes once. "You deserved better."
The tequila is making everything feel significant. Important. Like this moment right here—three people on a floor covered in pizza grease and deflated balloons—is exactly where I'm supposed to be.
"Gestalt theory," I announce, because apparently drunk Selene enjoys lecturing. "Unfinished business festers. The loop stays open, and you can't move forward until you close it. I need..."
I gesture vaguely with my free hand. "I need Cassian to hurt like I did. Then maybe I could actually close the loop."
"What would make him hurt?" Mateo asks. He sounds genuinely curious.
"I don't know. Public humiliation? Having everyone know what he did? Finding out I hooked up with his teammates?" I laugh and it comes out slightly manic. "That would destroy him. His ego couldn't handle it."
The room goes still. Nobody laughs. Nobody moves.
I realize what I just said. The tequila suddenly feels like a terrible idea.
Mateo's voice is careful. Measured. "Would you actually want that?"
"Want what? Revenge sex with my ex-fiancé's teammates? That's—" I stop.
Look at them. Really look at them.
Axel is watching me with those ice-blue eyes that see everything. Mateo's close enough that I can see the gold flecks in his hazel irises.
"I noticed you," I say quietly. "Both of you. How Axel watched me during team meetings like memorizing something. And how you Mateo found excuses to visit my office even when you didn't have appointments."
"I just liked you," Mateo admits. His voice is rough. Real. "Wanted a reason to be near you."
Axel doesn't say anything. He's inches away now, close enough that I can feel the heat coming off him, and his eyes are asking a question his mouth won't form.
"Do you really want that?" Axel finally asks.
I don't answer with words. Just close the distance and kiss him.
It's slow at first—testing, questioning. Then his hand comes up to cup the back of my neck, the kiss deepens and suddenly there's nothing slow about it. His mouth tastes like tequila and something darker, and I'm gladly drowning in it.
Then Mateo's lips find mine, and it's different—softer, more playful, his tongue tracing my lower lip before I open for him. Heat everywhere. Urgency building.
Then Axel again, filthier this time, as if competing with his friend. His teeth catching my lip hard enough to sting. Mateo's mouth on my neck, sucking a mark that will definitely show tomorrow.
"Bedroom?" someone suggests.
I don't know who. Don't care. "Yes…"
The word comes out breathless. Desperate. Certain.
Somewhere in my tequila-soaked brain, I know this is a terrible idea. I know there will be consequences. I know tomorrow I'll wake up and have to face what this means.
But tonight I'm just Selene. Not Dr. Marlowe. Not Cassian's ex-fiancée. Just a woman who wants to feel good after weeks of feeling like garbage.
Tonight I choose myself.