But as I left his office and headed back to my apartment to pack, I knew I was walking into something I'd avoided for seven years at The Ranch. I'd kept boundaries with clients—clean lines between the work I did and anything personal.
Fucking them? Absolutely.
Relationship? Never.
With Cord, those lines were already blurred. Maybe it was the way he'd trusted me with something so raw, or maybe it was just good chemistry mixed with shitty timing.
Either way, this time with Cord in an isolated cabin was going to complicate things. The smart move would be to hand him off to someone else, let Dr. Hart handle it medically, keep myself out of it.
But I couldn't shake the image of Cord's face when he'd asked if I'd really do this for him. That desperate hope, like I was offering him something more than just a quiet place to detox.
I grabbed my duffel bag and started packing. Whatever happened at that cabin, I'd deal with it. Right now, Cord needed help, and I could give it to him.
The rest would sort itself out.
Chapter Six
Cord
“How are you really doing?” Vincent's voice carried a weight that hadn't been there in Dr. Hart's office, stripped of the professional polish he wore like armor around The Ranch. We were walking across the courtyard toward my suite, late afternoon shadows stretching long across the flagstones, and somehow the privacy made everything feel more real. More honest.
The question hit deeper than I expected. How was I really doing? The automatic response—fine, good, managing—died on my tongue because Vincent deserved better than that. He'd been nothing but straight with me since I'd arrived, and the way he'd handled the situation in the medical wing showed he actually gave a damn about what happened to me.
“I don't know,” I said finally, the admission feeling like stepping off a ledge. “That's the honest answer. I wake up and for about thirty seconds I forget everything that's happened. Then it all comes crashing back and I…” I paused, struggling to findwords for the suffocating weight that settled on my chest every morning. “I feel like I'm drowning in my own life.”
Vincent nodded, not with pity but with understanding. The distinction mattered more than I could explain. We passed the pool where I'd met Danny Cross two days ago—was it really only two days? Everything felt compressed and stretched at the same time, like time itself had become unreliable.
“The pills help with that feeling?”
“They make it quieter.” I kicked at a loose stone, watched it skitter across the courtyard. “When I take them, the voice in my head that keeps cataloging everything I've lost gets turned down to a whisper instead of a scream.”
“And without them?”
The question made my chest tighten with anticipatory panic. “Without them, I can't shut it off. It's like having a radio stuck between stations, just constant static telling me I'm fucked, that I threw away my entire life for nothing, that I'm never going to be anything more than the gay quarterback who couldn't hack it.”
We'd reached the entrance to my suite, but Vincent made no move toward the door. Instead, he leaned against the wall, studying me with those sharp eyes that missed nothing. The scrutiny should have made me uncomfortable, but there was something in his expression, concern mixed with the kind of tough love that didn't bullshit around the truth.
“Cord, I have to ask this, and I need you to be honest with me.” His voice was gentle but firm. “Do you think you need to go to rehab?”
The question hung between us like smoke. I wanted to say no immediately, to defend myself against the implication, but something in Vincent's tone stopped me. He wasn't asking to judge me. He was asking because he genuinely wanted to help, and that made me pause and actually consider it.
“I don't think so,” I said slowly, testing the words as I spoke them. “The pills… they're not why I'm falling apart. They're just what I use to deal with falling apart.” I ran my good hand through my hair, feeling the familiar ache in my shoulder as the movement pulled at damaged muscles. “Maybe that's just semantics, but it feels important.”
“It is important.” Vincent's response was immediate, certain. “There's a difference between addiction and self-medication. Both can be dangerous, but they require different approaches.”
“Yeah?” I felt something loosen in my chest, like he'd given me permission to be honest about something I'd been afraid to name. “Because I'm pretty sure what's really happening is that I'm having the mother of all anxiety attacks that's been going on since the divorce and I'm too embarrassed to admit that maybe I need help for more than just a fucked-up shoulder.”
The words came out in a rush, like I'd been holding my breath for weeks and finally let it go. Saying it out loud made it real in a way that thinking it hadn't, made it something I could actually deal with instead of just endure.
Vincent's expression softened around the edges. “Depression and anxiety aren't character flaws, Cord. They're medical conditions that can be treated.”
“Tell that to an NFL locker room.” The bitterness in my voice surprised me. “Tell that to the sports media who are already questioning whether I'm mentally tough enough to handle the pressure of being out in professional sports.”
“Fuck the sports media.” The vehemence in Vincent's voice caught me off guard. He was usually so controlled, so measured. “And fuck anyone who thinks asking for help makes you weak. You know what takes real strength? Admitting when you're drowning and asking someone to throw you a rope.”
Something in his tone made me look at him more carefully. There was a rawness there, like he was speaking from experiencerather than just offering platitudes. The late afternoon light caught the lines around his eyes, and for a moment I saw past the polished exterior to something that looked like old pain, carefully managed but never quite forgotten.
“You sound like you know something about dark places,” I said quietly.
