My Ex's Rival Has My Heart

the life I fogot

Three months after Mason left me, I still woke up expecting to hear his alarm.

Which was ridiculous.

He hadn't lived with me for three months.

Still, every morning, I reached across the bed before remembering.

Nobody was there.

The sheets on his side stayed cold. The pillow still held the faint shape of his head from the last night he slept here, even though I had washed everything twice. I hated that. I hated even more that I missed someone who had made me feel so small. Missed the weight of him climbing back into bed after a late practice. Missed the way his hand used to find my hip under the covers and pull me against him without asking.

I sat up and pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes until the images stopped. Then I got dressed like it was any other day.

My photography studio was the only thing I'd managed to keep.

It wasn't much.

A rented room above a florist. Two softboxes. One old editing computer. A battered sofa my friend Olivia had found on the side of the road and insisted was “full of character.”

That morning, I was photographing a six-month-old baby who seemed personally offended by my existence.

“Come on, little man,” I whispered. “Just one smile.”

The baby stared at me like I had insulted his entire bloodline.

Then screamed.

His mother winced and bounced him on her knee.

“I’m sorry. He’s usually better with strangers.”

I laughed, the sound a little too bright.

“It’s okay. He’s allowed to hate me. Most of my subjects do at first.”

She smiled nervously. I changed the lens, adjusted the softbox, and tried again. This time the baby grabbed his mother’s necklace, yanked, and giggled like he had just won a prize. I took the shot. Perfect light on his cheek. Tiny fist clenched around the gold chain. The kind of image that made parents cry in the good way.

I looked at the screen.

For the first time in months, I felt something other than sadness.

I felt proud.

The feeling didn’t last.

My phone buzzed on the desk. I glanced at it the way you glance at a wound you know is still open.

Mason.

My heart still jumped before my brain caught up. Three months and the sight of his name still did that. The message was short. Paperwork for the house. He had already moved everything of his into Clara’s place.

I deleted the message without answering.

Then another notification appeared. A hockey news alert I had never managed to turn off.

Mason Reed named preseason captain of the Chicago Wolves.

I stared at the headline until the letters blurred.

He had wanted that title for years. Used to talk about it in the dark after s*x, voice rough, one arm under my head, the other tracing slow circles on my stomach. How it would mean he had finally arrived.

My first instinct was to text congratulations.

My thumb hovered over his name in the deleted messages. The muscle memory was still there. Six years of checking in after every win, every loss, every injury. Then I remembered the keys on the restaurant table. Clara’s name said out loud like it was already decided.

I locked my phone and set it face down.

“Everything okay?” the baby’s mother asked.

“Yeah.”

It was a lie.

But it was becoming a smaller lie every day. Or at least that was what I told myself while I finished the session, packed the softboxes, and walked the mother and her still-suspicious son to the door.

Around noon, Olivia burst through the studio door carrying two coffees and the kind of energy that always made the room feel less empty.

“You look terrible.”

“Thank you.”

“I mean emotionally. The dark circles are doing their job.”

“That makes it better.”

She dropped one coffee on my desk, black with one sugar the way I liked it, and then her eyes landed on my phone.

“Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

She sighed and dropped onto the battered sofa.

“Fine. I was going to ask if Mason contacted you.”

“He did.”

“And?”

“I ignored him.”

She smiled, small and sharp.

“Good.”

I took a sip. The coffee was still too hot.

“You’re very invested in my breakup.”

“Because you dated him for six years and somehow came out of it believing you were the problem. Like the fact that he left you for a sponsor’s daughter was somehow your failure for not being interesting enough.”

I looked away. She wasn’t wrong. Before Mason, I had wanted to be a photographer. A real one. Magazine covers. Weddings that felt like stories. Sports photography that put me on the ice instead of in the stands. Anything that kept a camera in my hand and my name on the credit. Then his career took off and my dreams became the thing that didn’t fit the schedule. Travel when he needed me home. Quiet when he needed rest. Smiling in the background of every team event so no one asked why the girlfriend looked tired.

“You know what I hate?” I said.

“What?”

“I don’t even know what I want anymore. I open the laptop and stare at old portfolios and nothing feels like mine. It’s all just… leftover.”

Olivia’s expression softened. She set her coffee down and leaned forward.

“Maybe that’s because you’ve spent six years wanting what he wanted. His games. His cities. His idea of what a good life looked like. You got so good at making yourself smaller that you forgot the shape of the rest of you.”

Before I could answer, her phone rang. She checked the screen, grimaced, and stood.

“That’s my sister. Give me two minutes.”

She walked outside. I turned back to the computer and opened the folder of baby photos, cropping, adjusting, trying to lose myself in the work.

A few minutes later Olivia returned with a strange expression. Not the usual post-sister-call frustration. Something tighter.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Olivia.”

She sat down again, slower this time.

“I need to tell you something.”

I frowned.

“That sounds ominous.”

“It is.”

She took a breath like she was about to dive into cold water.

“The city hockey club is looking for a photographer.”

My heart gave a small jump. Dangerous. Hope always felt dangerous now.

“For what?”

“The entire season. Practices. Games. Behind-the-scenes. Full media package. They’re paying real money and they want someone who already knows how to move around a rink without getting in the way.”

I stared at her.

“You’re kidding.”

“No. My sister’s friend works in their media department. They’re desperate. The last guy quit two weeks into preseason and they’re scrambling.”

My first thought was Mason. The way it always was. Then I remembered he played for another team, another city.

“Which club?”

Olivia smiled, the kind that tried to look casual and failed.

“The New York Falcons.”

I blinked. The Falcons. Not Chicago. Not his team. A different conference. Still hockey. Still the same cold air and the same sound of blades on ice that used to make my chest tighten with something that wasn’t always pride.

Then my phone rang. It was a number I didn’t recognize. I answered before I could talk myself out of it.

“Hello?”

A man’s voice came through, steady and professional.

“Is this Avery Bennett?”

“Yes.”

“This is the Falcons’ media department. We’d like to talk to you about a position.”

I sat up straight. The coffee went cold in my hand. For the first time in months, my heart wasn’t breaking.

It was racing.