Micah stepped in without hesitation, her vigor shifting smoothly into something polished but still entirely her. “Hi, I’m Micah. I’ve heard a lot about you already.”
Ezra’s smile widened slightly, something amused flickering in his eyes. “Hopefully nothing too damaging.”
“Oh, I’m withholding judgment until after dinner,” she returned, completely unbothered.
Lo laughed, the sound easy and bright, and just like that, the tension in me loosened. Because this—this felt right.
Dinner unfolded like it had been designed to.
Conversation flowed without effort, moving between stories and questions and small moments that layered over each other until the space felt full but never crowded. Ezra had a way of including everyone without making it feel intentional, drawing Micah in just as easily as he did me, listening in a way that made you want to keep talking.
And Lo—I watched her more than I realized at first. The way she leaned toward him without thinking. The way her eyes softened when he spoke. The way she seemed… settled. Not different. Just… happier.
“Bea, Lo tells me you’re thinking about specializing in Sports PR. Are the rumors true?” The spark in Ezra’s eyes carried genuine curiosity.
Swallowing down a too-large bite of marinara-coated noodles, I nodded. “Lo is correct.”
“Good,” he bellowed, like that confirmed something for him. “What sport holds your attention?”
I smiled. “You call it soccer here. Football is my favorite.”
“Of course it is,” he murmured, almost to himself.
“Bea was an incredible goalkeeper for her school team back in Brazil,” Lo added smoothly.
Ezra’s gaze shifted back to me, interest sharpening. “Goalkeeper,” he repeated. “So you see the whole field.”
I blinked. “I—yes.”
He leaned back slightly, studying me in a way that made me sit up straighter without meaning to. “That’s a useful instinct. Anticipation. Positioning. Reading movement before it happens.”
My fingers tightened slightly around my fork.
“If you ever decide you prefer working inside the machine instead of reporting on it,” he added lightly, reaching for his glass, “people who think like that tend to do very well in my world.”
When the plates cleared and we stepped back out into the night, I expected the evening to wind down. Instead, Ezra glanced between us, something almost playful threading into his expression. “You both busy for the next few hours?”
Micah blinked. “Define busy.”
His mouth curved. “I thought we might head over to the game.”
Everything in Micah froze. Then exploded. “The game?” she repeated, her voice climbing before she caught it, her hands already moving like she needed somewhere to put the energy. “You mean—the game? Like the Riveters, Frosthawks?”
Ezra chuckled softly. “That would be the one.”
Micah turned to me, gripping my arm so hard it bordered on painful. “Bea. Bea. We are not saying no to this.”
“I wasn’t planning on it,” I managed, though my pulsehad already picked up, something unfamiliar threading through it. Excitement.
The city shifted as we moved.
Chicago at night didn’t soften—it sharpened. Steel and glass and movement, headlights streaking, sidewalks alive in a way that felt purposeful instead of chaotic. And as the car turned, as the buildings opened just enough—I saw it.
The Foundry.
It didn’t glow like other arenas I’d passed before. It loomed. Dark steel bones. Industrial lines. Light cutting through it in sharp, deliberate bands instead of welcoming warmth. It looked less like a place for entertainment and more like a place where something was built. Forged. Or broken.
Micah made a sound beside me—half laugh, half disbelief. “That building,” she whispered.