He’s quiet for a long moment.
Long enough that I’m dying a slow death inside, inch by painful inch.
“Fuck,” he mutters, shoving a hand through his hair. “Fuck. I’m sorry,” he rasps. “I shouldn’t have—” He clamps his mouth together. “Forget I said anything, I?—”
He turns away, chin dropping to his chest, not speaking for long enough that my skin starts aching and I’m desperate to get the hell out of here.
But he’s between me and the door and…
He needs time to process this isn’t what he hoped it was in his head and heart.
That it can’teverbe.
So, I wait in silence, give him that quiet, that time…since I can’t give him what he wants.
Eventually, he turns and looks up at me, his expression drawn, his eyes sad. “Just forget I said anything, okay?”
I nod, reply softly, “Okay.”
A jerk of his chin before he starts for the door.
Then he stops again, turns back, his eyes connecting with mine over his shoulder, and drops a bomb on me.
“It’s because of Damon, isn’t it?”
I sighas I sink onto the bed, completely exhausted.
And yet, I’m wired, ready to take on the world—or at least ready to create my plan for the game the following night.
The plane ride was a short one, the mood quiet with most of the guys getting a quick nap in before touchdown—the single members of the team needing their energy to go out and tie one on, taking advantage of the free day tomorrow by staying up late and partying hard. Those in relationships usually hang closer to the hotel. They might go out for a drink or a late dinner before heading up to their rooms and calling home.
But they’ll be tucked into bed snoozing well before the others make it home.
Me?
I spent the flight getting ahead of tomorrow’s work.
Now I’m in my room.
Alone.
And it’s hard not to think of Storm’s face when he said, “It’s because of Damon, isn’t it?”
Harder still to not think of how his expression changed when he read whatever answer was in mine.
Hurt.
No, anguish.
And, fuck, but I spent several years in that same agony.
I hate that I’ve made him feel the same way.
So, yeah, maybe my restlessness is less to do with being ready to make my plans for tomorrow and more about…
Guilt.
Yup. I feel like an asshole.
