Chapter 12: A Surprise in the Back Room
The silence after the confrontation in his apartment didn't last. Eli’s phone became a persistent, vibrating anchor to a reality he was trying to ignore. He’d finally switched it off, the act feeling more rebellious than any goal he’d ever scored. For two days, he existed in a bubble with Hadley—ordering in, talking over old films she streamed on his too-large television, his bandaged hand constantly seeking the solid warmth of hers.
But the world was still there. The semi-final loomed. And Hadley, stubbornly, had reopened her shop.
“It’s my livelihood, Eli. I won’t be chased out,” she’d said that morning, knotting her apron with defiant tugs. He saw the faint shadows under her eyes, the new wariness when a car slowed outside her building. She was holding her ground, but it was costing her.
Which is how he found himself parked a block away from Darlington Blooms, baseball cap pulled low, watching Marco—his most easy-going, famously charming teammate—loiter awkwardly outside the shop window.
“Just go in, buy the most complicated thing you can think of, and keep her talking for twenty minutes,” Eli had growled into the phone earlier. “Do not mention me.”
“What’s a complicated flower?” Marco had asked, genuinely perplexed.
“I don’t know! Something that needs explaining!”
Now, he watched Marco take a deep breath, square his shoulders like he was entering a penalty shootout, and push the door open. The bell jingled. Go time.
Eli slipped from his car, a large, soft duffel bag over his shoulder, and moved down the alley beside the shop. The back door was predictably locked, but the small, high window to the storage room, the one he’d noticed was warped, gave way with a quiet, persuasive shove. He hauled himself up and through, landing with a soft thud on the concrete floor.
The back room was exactly as he remembered: cramped, cool, and chaotically beautiful. Buckets of half-arranged blooms lined one wall. The air was a dense cocktail of pollen, damp earth, and the sweet, decaying perfume of cut stems. Shelves held jars of her preserves—peach, plum, a golden honey—catching the thin light from the alley window. There was a small, rickety table littered with wire, tape, and a laptop playing a silent black-and-white movie.
He got to work.
The old armchair was from a vintage shop three towns over, the upholstery a faded burgundy velvet. He wrestled it through the window, his muscles straining, careful not to snag it on the frame. He placed it in the corner, where a stack of empty buckets had been. Next came the floor lamp, its brass stem and white linen shade utterly out of place amidst the practicality. He plugged it in. A soft, warm pool of light bloomed against the brick wall.
The shelf was trickier—a small, simple oak bookcase. He assembled it quietly, the sound of his own breathing and the distant, muffled melody of Marco’s voice from the front counter his only companions. He stocked it not with books, but with DVDs. He’d spent hours online tracking down copies of the films she’d mentioned in passing: The Philadelphia Story, Brief Encounter, Roman Holiday. He lined them up, the plastic cases shiny and new against the worn wood.
Finally, from his bag, he pulled a thick, wool blanket in a deep, forest green and draped it over the arm of the chair. On the small table beside it, he placed a mug—plain white—and a tin of the expensive, peach-blossom tea she loved.
He stood back. The space was still a storeroom, still cluttered with the evidence of her work. But in this one corner, he’d carved out a haven. It wasn’t sleek or expensive. It was soft, and warm, and entirely for her.
He took a final look, then pulled a small, cream-colored card from his pocket. He’d stared at a blank page for an hour last night. In the end, he kept it simple. He wrote four words in his blocky handwriting, slanted from the rush.
He propped it on the seat of the armchair, where she would see it first.
The sound of the bell jingling out front—Marco leaving—spurred him into motion. He was out the window, dropping into the alley, and gone before the backroom door from the shop interior had even clicked open.
Hadley let out a long, slow breath as the ridiculously handsome and painfully nervous footballer finally left with a bewildering bouquet of orchids and eucalyptus. “For my mother,” he’d kept saying, his eyes darting to the door. “Very… complicated woman.”
She knew a distraction when she saw one. Eli’s handiwork.
Annoyance flared, hot and quick. She didn’t need to be managed. She was about to text him something sharply witty when she noticed the faint, unfamiliar scent on the air. Not a flower. Cedar. And his cologne.
He’d been here.
She pushed through the curtain into the back room and stopped dead.
The light. That was the first thing. A soft, golden glow where there should have been the harsh overhead fluorescent. It illuminated the armchair, the blanket, the shelf of films. Her heart did a slow, painful roll in her chest.
She walked forward, her steps silent on the concrete. Her fingers trailed over the velvet of the chair, coarse and soft at once. She picked up the tin of tea, her thumb stroking the lid. She saw the films, every title a secret she’d shared. He’d listened. He’d remembered.
Then she saw the card.
She picked it up. The paper was thick, expensive. His writing was all capital letters, firm and direct, but the message…
For when you need to escape.
The breath left her in a rush. The simple, devastating understanding of it undid her. He’d seen the tension in her shoulders, the way she glanced at the windows. He knew the world was pressing in, that even her sanctuary was under siege. And because he couldn’t stop the world, he’d built her a better hiding place inside it.
A laugh escaped her, watery and surprised. He’d broken in. The most famous athlete in the city had committed minor burglary to give her a reading nook.
She sank into the armchair. It fit her perfectly. She pulled the green blanket over her legs, the wool scratching comfortingly at her skin. In the quiet, under the warm light, the constant, buzzing anxiety of the last two days began to melt, pooling quietly at her feet.
She pulled out her phone. She didn’t text. She called.
He answered on the first ring, voice a low rumble. “Yes.”
“You broke into my shop.”
A pause. “Technically.”
“It’s perfect.”
She heard his exhale, a sound of profound relief. “Good.”
“Marco is a terrible liar. He spent seventeen minutes describing his mother’s ‘complex emotional landscape.’ I think he’s in therapy now.”
Eli’s quiet chuckle travelled down the line, vibrating in her ear. “I’ll buy him dinner.”
Hadley curled deeper into the chair, pulling the blanket up to her chin. She could still smell him, faintly, in the fabric. “Thank you,” she said, her voice small.
“Don’t thank me.” His tone shifted, turning grave. “The statement is out. My team’s. The ‘no comment on private matters, focus is on the game’ one.”
The outside world rushed back in. She closed her eyes. “And?”
“And there are more photographers outside your shop now than there were an hour ago. They followed Marco.”
Of course they did. She’d been naive to think otherwise. The bubble was popping.
“Hadley.” His voice was strained. “Tell me to come back. Tell me to get you. We can go to my place, wait it out—”
“No.” She opened her eyes, looking at the shelf of films, at the mug waiting for tea. This was her escape. He’d built it for her. She wouldn’t abandon it. “I’m staying right here.”
“You’re not safe.”
“I’m in a fortress of velvet and old movies. I’m safer than you are.” She tried to make it light, but it fell flat.
A longer silence. She could hear street noise on his end. He was in his car, probably watching the feed from the discreet camera he’d admitted to having pointed at her shop front.
“I have to go to training,” he said, the words sounding physically painful. “I can’t be the guy who misses training.”
“I know. Go.”
“I don’t want to.”
The raw admission, so unlike him, tightened her throat. “Score a goal for me,” she whispered.
“Hadley—”
“Go. I’m fine. I have peaches and poor decisions to keep me company.” She managed a smile he couldn’t see.
He hung up without another word, which was his way. She sat in the quiet, the phone warm in her hand. Then, methodically, she got up. She filled the kettle at the small sink, boiled water, and steeped the peach tea. The scent filled the little corner, mingling with the flowers and the cedar.
She sat back down, mug cradled, and stared at the blank screen of her laptop on the worktable. After a moment, she got up again, unplugged it, and brought it to the small table by her chair. She put on Roman Holiday. She muted the volume. She just wanted the images, the beautiful, silent escape.
Outside, she could hear the occasional shout, the sound of a car door. The world was right there, pressing against the glass. But inside, under the soft, stolen light, she took a sip of tea, pulled the blanket tighter, and for a little while, she escaped.