Chapter 42 NEXT STEPS 🌶️

Chapter 42 NEXT STEPS 🌶️
RYAN

"Okay, but hear me out," Rae says, holding up her phone like she's CNN about to drop breaking news. "If you really want to get back at your dad, just post a thirst trap in Sean's jersey. That'll shut him up."
Emma groans, stirring her latte. "Or, you know, you could heal emotionally like a normal person."
I snort into my coffee. "Normal has never been an option for me."
We're crammed into a corner booth at Starbucks, the three of us, drinks sweating on the table and laptops pushed to the side. But this isn't about studying. This is about waiting.
Waiting for Julie.
My stomach twists. It feels like we're staging an ambush, even though Emma swears this isn't what it is. "A peace talk," she called it. Same thing, different spin.
When Julie finally walks in, iced matcha in hand, she spots us immediately—and freezes. Her shoulders tense, her lips part in something between a smirk and a grimace. "Oh," she says. "So this is an ambush."
Rae shrugs unapologetically. "We prefer 'smooth intervention.'"
Emma gestures to the empty seat with her best diplomat smile. "Sit. Please. Nobody's here to fight."
Julie hesitates, then slides into the booth across from me. It's tense for a beat, all of us pretending to sip our drinks like that'll make it less awkward. Finally, she exhales. "Look. I don't hate you, Ryan. I was pissed. Things got messy. But I don't have the energy to hold onto it forever."
Relief loosens something tight in my chest. "Same. No bad blood."
"Good." She takes a sip of her drink, eyes darting between us. "Because caffeine ambushes aren't my thing."
Rae grins, leaning forward. "Speaking of ambushes—what's this I hear about you pledging a sorority?"
Julie rolls her eyes, but there's a flicker of a smile there. "I met a couple girls from Alpha Delta Pi. They were... nice. So, I thought, why not? I'm pledging. We'll see how it goes."
"Ouch," I say, clutching my chest in mock offense. She practically whispered the word nice, like it was a dirty secret.
Emma perks up. "That actually makes sense. You'd probably like it—the companionship, the structure, the endless brunches." She tilts her head. "And you can still come by the dorm whenever. It's not one or the other."
Julie studies her for a moment, then nods slowly. "Yeah. Maybe you're right."
I find myself chiming in, surprising even me. "It suits you, honestly. You like people, you like organizing things, and you like being in charge. Feels... on brand."
Julie actually laughs at that, shaking her head. "Fair enough."
The tension eases after that, the four of us falling into something that almost feels like normal again. Until Rae pulls up Instagram, scrolling through my feed with a dramatic flourish. "Speaking of being on brand... our girl here has fifty thousand followers now."
I groan, sinking lower in my chair. "Don't remind me."
Julie raises her brows. "Fifty?"
"Overnight," Emma says, shooting me a look.
Julie taps her straw against her cup, thoughtful. "Okay. From a PR perspective, this isn't the worst thing in the world. It's not ideal, sure—half those posts were brutal—but you can use it. Control the narrative. People already care enough to talk about you. Give them something worth seeing."
I blink. "You're saying... lean into it?"
She shrugs. "Not thirst traps, exactly—although Rae's onto something there—but curated posts. Training updates. Finance-girl grind. A picture of you in the jersey here and there. People love an underdog comeback story. And you? You have one."
I shake my head, heat prickling at my neck. "Yeah, but I don't have a comeback story. Like—I'm not getting another chance to be a pro track athlete again. That door's closed. And that's... alright, I guess."
Julie leans forward, eyes sharper now, more serious. "Ryan, I'm sure there are a lot of people out there who'd resonate with you. Who've had dreams end because of things they couldn't control. You think you're alone in that? You're not. And if you give them your voice, they'll give you theirs. That's connection."
For a second, I just stare at her. It might be the nicest thing Julie's ever said to me.
"Yeah, Ry—" Emma chimes in quickly, smiling. "And imagine what you could do with a platform that overlaps with Callahan's. People already love him, and now they love you with him. That's not just noise."
"They don't really love me..." I grimace, twisting the sleeve of my sweatshirt between my fingers. "And the finance grind thing might not even happen... I'm not sure I'll go through with the Goldman offer this summer."
That makes all three of them blink.
Rae sets her drink down with a loud clack. "Wait. Hold up. Did the words 'not sure about Goldman' just come out of your mouth? Who are you and what have you done with my best friend?"
Emma's hand flies to her chest, mock-dramatic. "She's evolving."
Julie tilts her head, surprisingly calm. "Honestly? If you're not sure, that's fine. Better to admit it now than drag yourself through it just to impress your dad. You don't owe him—or anyone—that performance."
Something cracks open in my chest at that, sharp but light. Because she's right.
And for the first time, I let myself think about what it would mean to choose something different.
Rae leans in, eyes bright. "Okay, so if not Goldman, then what? You've got options, McKenna. You're hot, you're smart, you've got legs for days. The world is your oyster."
Emma groans. "She's not auditioning for Love Island, Rae."
"I'm just saying," Rae fires back, grinning. "Ryan could do literally anything. She could coach. She could write. Hell, she could become one of those motivational speakers with a headset mic and a fan club."
I choke on my coffee. "Please no. I'd rather die than give a TED Talk."
Julie hums thoughtfully, tapping her straw against her cup. "Not a TED Talk, but... a voice. Think broader. People already see you as a symbol of resilience somehow. You could use that—start a blog, a channel, whatever—to talk about more than track. Finance. Wellness. Recovery. Reinvention."
Emma nods. "And you'd be good at it, Ry. You're blunt but not mean. People need that. Realness."
I rub my temple, half-laughing, half-panicking. "So what, I pivot into becoming some kind of public figure? Because that sounds terrifying."
Rae smirks. "Not terrifying. Badass. Imagine it: 'Ryan McKenna—Track Queen turned Finance Babe turned Inspiration Machine.'"
Julie actually laughs, shaking her head. "You're impossible."
"Impossible but not wrong," Emma says softly. "Whatever you do, Ry, it doesn't have to be what your dad wants. It just has to be yours. That's what matters, right?"
Their words settle over me, warm and heavy, filling spaces I didn't realize were empty. For once, the idea of not having it all figured out doesn't feel like failure. It feels like possibility.
Julie clears her throat, adjusting her cup like she's calling a meeting to order. "Alright. If we're serious about this, you need a plan. Otherwise, you're just flailing."
Rae raises a brow. "And God forbid Ryan flails."
Julie ignores her. "Step one: consistency. You need a rhythm for posting—doesn't matter if it's three times a week or daily, just stick to it. Step two: content buckets. People love categories."
"Buckets?" I ask, skeptical.
"Buckets," she repeats firmly. "Like... training updates. Finance-girl hustle. Cute couple moments with Sean."
Rae claps her hands. "Thirst traps!"
Julie doesn't miss a beat. "Tasteful couple content. Big difference."
Emma giggles into her latte. "This is the most Julie sentence I've ever heard."
Julie rolls her eyes but continues. "Step three: engagement. You reply to comments. You repost stories. You make people feel like they're part of your journey. And step four: be intentional. If you don't want something out there, don't post it. Period. Boundaries matter."
I blink at her, wide-eyed. "You just... rattled all of that off like you've been waiting your whole life for this moment."
Julie shrugs, smug. "I told you—I'm good at this."
Rae grins, leaning across the table. "Okay but hear me out—content bucket number five: Ryan rating Sean's protein shakes. I'd watch the hell out of that."
Emma nudges her. "Content bucket number six: Ryan teaching Rae how to budget."
Rae gasps dramatically. "Betrayal."
I laugh, shaking my head, but for the first time in days, it doesn't feel forced. "You guys are insane."
Julie sips her matcha, eyes glinting. "Insane or not, I'm right. You can either let people define you, or you define yourself. Up to you, McKenna."
And maybe for the first time, I think I'm ready to try the second option.

〰️〰️〰️

By the time Rae and I make it back to the hockey house, I'm still buzzing with caffeine and the faint, surreal possibility that maybe Julie and I don't hate each other anymore. Rae's chattering beside me, already plotting out "content buckets" like she's Julie's new assistant.
Then we step through the door—and walk straight into madness.
The living room looks like a popcorn bomb went off. Bowls tipped sideways, kernels crunching underfoot, throw pillows scattered like casualties. The boys are screaming at the TV, locked into a cutthroat NHL match on Xbox.
"YES!" Mason roars, leaping halfway off the couch. "Snipe city, baby!"
"Bullshit," Zach fires back, white-knuckling his controller. "That was a lucky bounce!"
Ty's sprawled across the floor like a king surveying his kingdom, shovelling popcorn into his mouth. "I don't care who wins," he mumbles, "as long as someone vacuums after this."
Rae laughs, sliding past me to flop on the arm of the couch. "Wow. You guys look like real pros."
Sean spots me in the doorway, controller in his hand, eyes lighting up. "There she is," he says, grinning, and before I can protest, he tugs me onto his lap.
I squeak, half-laughing, half-mortified, but he just loops an arm around my waist and goes right back to the game, like this is the most natural thing in the world. His heartbeat thuds steady against my back, grounding me.
Across the couch, Zach glances at Rae and, without even looking away from the screen, tucks her against his side. She blinks, caught off guard, then melts into it with a smirk like she knew it was coming.
"Unfair advantage!" Mason yells, pointing at Zach with his controller. "You can't cuddle and play defence at the same time."
Zach smirks. "Watch me."
The room erupts again—shouts, laughter, popcorn flying through the air like confetti—and Rae leans close, whispering just loud enough for me to hear: "You know, for chaos gremlins, they clean up nice."
I grin, settling against Sean, feeling—for the first time all day—like everything might actually be okay.
Sean tightens his grip on the controller, eyes locked on the screen. "Heads up—pass coming through!"
"Not in my house," Zach mutters, jamming at his buttons like his life depends on it.
Mason cackles, leaning so far forward his controller cord nearly yanks out. "Watch me bury this!"
On-screen, his player winds up, and sure enough—goal horn.
"YESSSSS!" Mason jumps to his feet, fists pumping like he just won the Cup. "Call me King of the Rink!"
"King of the idiots," Rae deadpans, tossing a handful of popcorn at him. It bounces off his hoodie and scatters across the rug.
Zach growls, leaning harder into Rae's side like he can use her as extra leverage. "Don't encourage him."
"Too late," Rae sing-songs, snatching a piece of popcorn from his bowl. "I'm team Mason now."
Zach narrows his eyes. "Traitor."
I laugh into Sean's shoulder. "This is what you boys call serious training?"
Sean shoots me a mock-offended look, then smirks. "Careful, McKenna. You're talking smack while sitting on the reigning champ's lap."
"Reigning champ?" Ty pipes up from the floor, licking butter off his fingers. "Dude, Zach crushed you last night."
Sean glares down at him. "Why do you keep receipts on my losses?"
"Because it's fun," Ty says, grinning.
Rae nudges me, whispering like it's a conspiracy. "We should team up, hijack the controllers, and show them how it's done."
I grin. "Bold of you to assume they would let me destroy them, and you don't know how to play."
"Doesn't matter," she whispers back. "It's just buttons and chaos. Which is basically our specialty."
Before I can answer, Mason yells, "No way! No way!" as Zach sneaks in a game-tying goal. He drops his controller like he just dunked it. "THAT'S HOW YOU DO IT."
Rae claps dramatically. "Wow. Riveting. Truly, sports at their finest."
I can't stop laughing. The chaos, the teasing, Sean's arms locked around me—it's messy, loud, ridiculous.
The game finally ends in pure disaster—Mason flopping on the couch like he's been personally robbed, Zach looking smug as hell, and Ty declaring himself "referee of the year" for no reason. Rae's still heckling from the sidelines, throwing sarcastic commentary like popcorn kernels.
But eventually, the volume dies down. Mason and Zach start bickering over a rematch, Rae gets distracted scrolling on her phone, and Ty disappears to scavenge more snacks.
It ends up just me and Sean tucked into our corner of the couch, his arm slung loosely around my waist, controller abandoned on his thigh. He tilts his head, a sly grin playing at his mouth. "So, how was your day? I don't see any crutches so I'm guessing it was a good one?"
He noticed.
I don't lean on the crutches as much anymore. On the good days, I can move through the world on my own—careful with stairs, mindful of uneven sidewalks—but still, it feels like a quiet kind of freedom. A victory I keep tucked close, too fragile to parade around.
Sean always notices, though. The subtle shifts, the small steps forward. He sees me—the me I don't announce to anyone else.
And that's why I love him.
Yeah. I love him.
"Interesting, actually..." I smile, brushing a strand of hair back. "The girls and I met Julie to talk about what to do with my Instagram now that there are... way too many people following me. And you're right, no crutches today."
His grin widens. "You? An influencer? Yeah, I can see that."
I let out a sharp laugh. "Absolutely not. I'm not about to start selling protein powder with discount codes in my bio."
"Please," he says, smirking, "you'd crush it. #TrackQueen. #FinanceBabe. #McKennaMondays."
I groan, swatting at his chest. "Stop. You're insufferable."
"Admit it," he teases, tightening his arm around me. "Half the work's already done. People are following you. You've got a story. All that's left is you posting a mirror selfie in my jersey with some inspirational caption like—'still standing.'"
I roll my eyes so hard it hurts. "You're delusional."
"And you're halfway there," he fires back, smug.
I can't help but laugh, shaking my head. "I hate how confident you sound when you say that."
"You love it," he murmurs, leaning closer until his lips brush my temple.
And maybe he's right.
After a while, I feel Sean's hand squeeze my waist, gentle but insistent. When I glance up, his eyes are on me, soft in a way that cuts through all the noise. He leans in, his breath brushing my ear. "Come on. Before they rope us into refereeing."
I don't protest. I let him tug me up and away, past Rae's exaggerated "oooooh" and Ty yelling, "Get a room!" Sean just flips them off over his shoulder, grinning, and pulls me upstairs to his room.
The door clicks shut, and the quiet hits like a wave. No shouting, no controllers clacking, no popcorn underfoot. Just us.
Sean sinks onto the edge of his bed, tugging me down between his knees. His hands trail up my arms, steady and warm. "You okay?" he asks, searching my face like he's memorizing every detail.
I nod, though my chest tightens anyway. "Yeah. It's just... nice. Not having to be 'on' all the time."
He hums, pulling me closer until I'm standing between his knees, his chin tipped up to look at me. "You don't have to be anything with me, Ry. Not on, not perfect. Just you."
The words land deep, threading through all the cracks my dad's voice left behind. I sink down beside him, curling into his side, and he immediately wraps an arm around me like it's instinct.
For a long moment, we just sit there in the dim light, listening to the muffled chaos from the living room like it belongs to another world. His hand traces slow, absent circles on my thigh, grounding me.
"You know," he says quietly, "if you ever get tired of all this—your dad, the pressure, the noise—you can always come here. To me."
I tilt my head, my throat tight. "You mean that?"
His gaze is steady, unwavering. "Always."
And maybe it's the way he says it, maybe it's the way his forehead rests against mine, or maybe it's just the safety of being tucked into him after everything—but I believe him. One hundred percent.
His forehead rests against mine, steady, certain, and I can feel the words still hanging in the air between us.
Always.
Something inside me cracks open. The tight knot of doubt and pressure, the constant voice of my dad in the back of my head, it all quiets. All I can hear is Sean—his voice, his breathing, his heart beating steady against me.
I lean in first, closing the space, pressing my mouth to his. It starts soft, tentative, but the moment his lips part under mine, it shifts. The kiss deepens, urgent now, like neither of us can get close enough.
His hands slide up my sides, strong and warm, tugging me tighter against him until I'm straddling his lap. My fingers find his hair, tugging him closer still, and he groans into my mouth—a low, desperate sound that sends a shiver straight through me.
"Ry—," he whispers against my lips, like my name is the only prayer he knows.
I kiss him harder, pouring every ache, every want, every unanswered question into it. His hands are everywhere—my waist, my back, sliding beneath my shirt, leaving heat in their wake. When his lips trail down to my jaw, then lower to that spot just behind my ear, I can't stop the sharp inhale, the tremor that runs through me.
He feels it, and smiles against my skin.
"Mmm," I breathe, not even ashamed of how desperate it sounds.
His mouth finds it again, slower this time, teasing, and my whole body arches into him. I want him—God, I want him. Not as a shield against my dad's words, not as an escape from the chaos outside, but because he is my anchor. My Sean. Mine.
I tug at the hem of his shirt, impatient, and he lifts it over his head in one smooth motion. My palms skim across his chest, every line of muscle familiar now, but still making my pulse stutter. He pulls me closer until there's no space left, until it feels like he's under my skin.
When he kisses me again, it's slower, more deliberate, but just as consuming. His hands steady me, grounding me even as he sets me on fire.
And for the first time in so long, I'm not thinking about who I'm supposed to be, or who I've failed to become. I'm just here, in this room, with him.
Completely his.
In a heartbeat, I pull back and lift my arms. He understands immediately, gripping the hem of my hoodie and shirt and peeling them off in one fluid motion. Then his lips claim mine again, deeper this time, like he's trying to tell me everything he doesn't have words for. Every brush of his mouth is steady, certain, grounding. My hands slip into his hair, tugging him closer, and he groans softly against me.
His palms skim my sides, fingers splayed wide as if he wants to memorize every curve. He pulls me tighter. The heat of him seeps through me, dizzying, electric.
"I love you, Ryan," he murmurs against my jaw, my throat, reverent and urgent all at once. The way he says my name—it's not just want, it's need.
I tilt my head, giving him more, because God, I want to give him everything. His mouth trails down my neck, finding that spot behind my ear that unravels me. My breath catches, sharp, and he smiles against my skin. "Knew it," he whispers, kissing there again, slower, teasing.
"I love you, too..." It comes out half a plea, half a prayer.
He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, his thumb brushing my cheek. "Tell me what you want, Ry."
My chest tightens, but I don't hesitate. "You. Just you."
Something shifts in him then—his gaze darkens, his body tenses beneath mine—but his hands are gentle sliding up my spine an unclasping y bra. Every touch leaves a trail of fire, a map only he knows how to draw.
I hook my fingers into his waistband, a spark of impatience in the movement, and he lets out a low laugh before sliding it off in one easy motion and tossing it aside. My hands find his chest, palms splayed over warm skin, tracing the steady rise and fall of his breath and the strength coiled beneath it. He's all solid lines and quiet power—but it's the way he's looking at me, steady and reverent, that completely unravels me.
When he leans forward, his mouth finds my collarbone, slow and deliberate. He kisses down the line of it, pausing to murmur, "You're so damn beautiful," before trailing lower. I shiver, clutching at his shoulders, torn between pulling him closer and losing myself completely.
I push his hair back from his forehead, needing to see him, really see him. "You don't know what you do to me," I whisper.
His lips curve into the faintest smile against my skin. "I have a pretty good idea," he murmurs, before claiming my mouth again.
The kiss turns hungrier, messier, all heat and want. His hands slide lower, gripping my hips as if he can't stand the idea of me anywhere but here, with him.
And in this moment—wrapped around him, breathless and aching—I realize I don't want to be anywhere else. Not now. Not ever.