“Don’t hurt him.” His gaze locks with mine, and the intensity there coupled with his words strangles the breath in my throat.
My lips part, and my throat works, but no words emerge. I can only stare at him, stunned, frozen. And when Zora and Levi approach us, my chance to ask him for an explanation slips away. But even as my sister leads her man toward the dance floor and the rest of the evening passes by, his murmured request haunts me.
Don’t hurt him.
Hurt him? That would mean Jordan’s heart was at risk. That he opened himself to the pain of rejection, of betrayal, and is terrified of facing that pain again.
Not Denver’s irresistible charmer. Not basketball’s affable playboy.
No, in this scenario, I’m the one in danger.
CHAPTER SEVEN
JORDAN
“Yes, I’m immortal. Which means I have forever to hate you or love you.”
—North the Woodsman, Ravaged Lands
“Hey, man. What’s going on?”
A hand slaps me on the back, and I look up from pulling on a pair of socks in my locker room chair. Daniel smiles down at me. In spite of the ugly, dirty knot tightening my stomach and twisting it until my gut hardens to the consistency of concrete, I return my friend’s smile.
After all, heismy friend.
And it’s not his fault he can have what—who—I can’t.
“Nothing much,” I say, bending my head to drag on the other sock and grab my tennis shoe. “You look ready for tomorrow’s game.”
“The Heat.” Daniel nods, sliding his hands in the front pockets of his team sweats. “It’s going to be a tough one, but I’m confident we’ll pull it out.”
“At least the next three games are at home, and I get to be there for you guys.” I finish with my other tennis shoe and shake my head. “I hate watching from home. It’s the worst fucking feeling.”
“You mean the helplessness?” Daniel’s mouth twists into a wry smile as he sinks into the chair next to me.
I stare at the picture behind the seat. Just last year, another stand with another image stood behind that chair. It’s a sharp and all-too-real reminder that anyone can be traded. Anyone can be gone. Even me. I resist glancing over my shoulder at my own picture. Reason scoffs at my inane fear that it won’t be there as it’d been minutes ago when I’d returned from the showers. Still ... I don’t turn around.
“I remember that well,” he continues. “Watching from the bench isn’t that much better, but at least you’re with the team. Can offer advice or encouragement. Sitting on that couch, unable to do anything? The powerlessness ... yeah, I get it.” He dips his chin, shooting a look down at my leg. “You had physical therapy today, right?”
“Yeah.” Without my permission, my hand goes to my thigh, and I absently rub the sore muscle. A good sore, though. One that means I’m that much closer to fully being healed and getting back on the court. “Three more weeks. I’m trying to get it down to two.”
Daniel laughs. “I would be wasting my breath telling you to listen to the professionals since they’re the ones with the degrees.”
“And you’d be a bit of a hypocrite too,” I drawl.
“That too.” He smirks. Glancing around the empty locker room, he drums his fingers on his thighs and heaves a sigh. “I wanted to hit you up about something. You got a few minutes before you head out?”
That knot in my gut returns, unease crawling through my veins. Because I don’t need closed captions to clue me in on what this is about or where it’s headed. And coward that I am, I’m itching to leap from this chair and run out of this locker room—hell, Ball Arena—like flames are licking at my balls.
But instead, I remain in my seat and say, “Of course.”
Relief flickers across Daniel’s face, and the shame over my first inclination to bolt and avoid this conversation damn near eats me alive.
“I don’t know if you’ve talked to Miriam ...”
When he doesn’t finish his sentence, I battle back the urge to curl my fingers on my thighs in a futile and stupid attempt to fight off this topic. “No,” I reply, voice low. And hopefully containing some semblance of normality. “I haven’t spoken with her in a couple of days.”
My fault. Ever since she dropped by my house over a week ago, we haven’t seen each other, and the days since we’ve spoken have stretched longer and longer. I’ve texted with excuses—busy with practice, physical therapy, watching tape. All true but bullshit. And she’s too smart not to eventually guess it, if she hasn’t already.
