“Stop.” He finally looks at me, and the coldness in his eyes makes me flinch. “There’s nothing you can say that I’d actually want to hear.”
I flex my hands behind my back. “I was just going to ask if you wanted to talk about tomorrow’s game.”
“No.”
“Parker’s nervous. It might help if you talk to him.”
“I said no.” He turns back to his phone, his knuckles white where he’s gripping it. “I’m not his fucking hype man.”
The hostility in his voice makes me cringe. This is what I did to him. Turned someone who was probably encouraging and supportive into this bitter, angry version of himself.
I sigh and turn my attention back to my notes, pretending to read them while watching him out of the corner of my eye. He’s scrolling fast, probably through social media, his expression growing darker with each passing second. I’d bet my left nut he’s seeing a hell of a lot of speculation about him being benched and commentary from reporters and fans picking apart his recent performances.
“You should stay off social media,” I say.
“You should mind your own fucking business.”
The words hang in the air. I deserve them, but they still sting.
“They don’t know what they’re talking about.”
“Oh yeah? What makes you so sure?” He tosses his phone onto the nightstand hard enough to make the lamp shake. “Because from where I’m sitting, they’ve got a pretty clear picture.”
“Tate... ”
“Stop saying my name like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you give a shit.” He swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands up, pacing to the window. “Like you’re not just here doing whatever job they’re paying you to do.”
I want to tell him he’s wrong. That I’m not here by choice, that every day I spend around him is torture because I can see how much I hurt him. That I’d give anything to take back that morning in Vegas when I had to choose between his safety and his heart.
But I can’t say any of that without making everything worse.
“Your game will come back,” I say instead. “I’ve seen it before. Guys get in their own heads over the pressure but they all rebound.”
He lets out a dry laugh. “Yeah, well, Coach Enver doesn’t seem to think so. Parker’s getting his shot tomorrow, and if he plays well... ”
“He’s not you.”
“No, he’s not.” Tate turns from the window, and for the first time since Vegas, he really looks at me. “He’s someone who actually wants to be here. Someone who’s not carrying around baggage that’s poisoning everything he touches.”
“You’re not poisoned.”
He takes a step toward me, and I can see the barely controlled rage simmering in his eyes. “All I know is that I was fine before you showed up. Not great, but functional. Now I can’t even stop a fucking beach ball without thinking about... ”
He snaps his lips closed, jaw clenching, his words swallowed before they can hit the air.
“Without thinking about what?” I ask, my voice rough.
“Nothing.” He turns away. “Forget it.”
But I can’t forget it. Can’t forget the way his voice broke on those last words. Can’t forget the flash of something raw that crossed his face before he buried it.
“For what it’s worth,” I say quietly, “I never wanted this to happen.”
“What? My career to fall apart?” He spins around to face me. “Or having to pretend you give a shit about fixing it?”
