“What the hell are you doing in my room?” I say, gripping the strap of my duffel bag.
“This is my room,” he says in that even voice that makes me want to throttle him.
The calm that had settled over me after talking to Cam dissipates like a fart in the wind.
“No.” I shake my head. “No fucking way. There’s been a mistake.”
He shrugs. “Maybe they’re short on space.”
My heart pounds against my ribs. This can’t be happening. Not after what happened today…getting benched, humiliated in front of the team, watching Parker take my spot. Now I have to spend the night in the same room as the man who started my downward spiral?
“I’ll just sleep in the lobby.” I turn back toward the door.
“Tate, wait.” He gets up from the bed and steps toward me. “We’re adults. We can handle one night in the same room.”
My blood burns, anger and exhaustion clawing at my chest. “I just got benched for the first time in my career, which is hanging by a thread. And now I’m stuck in a hotel room with the one person on earth I can’t stand the thought of being alone with. I’m not as confident.”
“We’ll make it work. We’re professional colleagues,” he says, but his voice sounds as shaky as I feel. “Nothing more.”
“Right.” I snort. “Professional colleagues.”
One night. In a room with two beds and enough unresolved tension to light up Phoenix.
This is going to be a fucking disaster.
EIGHT
zane
The silencein this hotel room is so thick with tension and pent-up rage, I can choke on it.
The words on my laptop screen blur and I rub my eyes. I’ve been staring at the same email from Morrison for twenty minutes, unable to process anything. My knee throbs where I press it against the edge of the bed, an old habit that kicks in when I’m stressed. The dull ache reminds me why I’m here and what’s at stake if I fuck this up.
But right now, my attention is fixed on the sound of Tate moving around in the bathroom. Water running, cabinet doors opening and slamming shut. Everything he does radiates fury, like he’s punishing the room for the crime of being stuck here with me.
The lock clicks and the bathroom door opens. He walks out, stiff and strained, wearing nothing but a pair of gray sweatpants slung low around his waist. My mouth goes dry when I catch a sight of the deep vee of his torso, the indentations that define every ridge and cut of muscle in his chest. There’s a scar on his left shoulder blade that wasn’t there before, probably from blocking a shot.
His hair is still damp from the shower. He sweeps a hand through it, his fiery gaze darkening as he moves into the room, looking everywhere but at me. He walks over to his bag and starts digging through it.
“You can use the bathroom,” he says without turning around. His voice is flat. Like we’re strangers in an elevator.
“Thanks.”
I grab my bag and head for the bathroom, my knee screaming with each step. The space still smells like his soap, something clean and masculine that makes my body tingle with memories I have no right to be thinking about.
I wipe the fog from the mirror, splash cold water on my face, and stare at my reflection. Dark purplish circles stain the skin under my eyes. I touch the stubble I forgot to shave this morning, noting that the crease between my eyebrows has deepened since I started this assignment.
I look like what I am…a man being crushed by the weight of too many lies.
When I come out of the bathroom, Tate’s sitting on his bed, scrolling through his phone. The lamp on his nightstand casts shadows across his face, highlighting the tension in his jaw.
“Everything okay?” I ask, nodding toward his phone.
He doesn’t look up. “Fine.”
One word. Nothing else.
I sit on my own bed and stack my notes on the nightstand. The ritual helps me think, gives my hands something to do. “Listen, I?—”
