“Save it. I’m not doing this with you in a hotel hallway where anyone could hear us.”
I wave my key card over the lock and push open my door. But I don’t go inside. I just stand there, looking at him, wishing like hell things could be different.
“Feeling something and being able to do something about it are two different things,” I say. “And I don’t trust that you ever will.”
I close the door before he can respond, leaving him standing in the hallway alone.
The team dinner is torture.
We’re at a steakhouse downtown, the whole team plus coaching staff crowded around a long table. I end up sitting between Cam and Jaren, which normally would be fine. Normal.
Except Zane’s sitting directly across from me.
And nothing feels fucking normal at all.
For two hours, I have to pretend to care about the bullshit conversation while trying not to stare at his mouth.
“Earth to Tate,” Cam says, nudging my shoulder. “You’re a million miles away.”
“Sorry. Just thinking about tomorrow’s game.”
“You nervous? Because you shouldn’t be. Seattle’s been shaky lately.”
“Not nervous. Just focused.”
It’s a lie, but it’s easier than explaining that I’m one hundred percent distracted by the man sitting across from me who’s been avoiding eye contact all night. I deserve it but fuck, it stings.
“Coach Christensen, how do you feel about the game tomorrow?” Masterson asks Zane. “You think Tate is ready to face off with Seattle?”
Zane steeples his fingers before slowly shifting his gaze toward me. My pulse jumps.
“I think Tate will have Seattle questioning their strategy,” he says. “He knows how to play the game with the kindof tendencies that will have them running circles around themselves, wondering how they can’t break through.”
Masterson claps me on the shoulder. “See? You’re golden, brah.”
I manage a tight smile, clenching and unclenching my hand underneath the table cloth. Heat rises in my chest, snaking through my insides.
When dessert comes and I can’t take it anymore, I push back my chair. “I’ll be back,” I mutter to Masterson.
I head to the bathroom. I need to get away from the table, away from Zane.
The bathroom is empty, thank fuck. I splash cold water on my face and stare at my reflection in the mirror. I look like hell. Tired, stressed, like someone who’s been thinking too hard about things he can’t have.
The door opens behind me, and I don’t need to look to know who it is. I can smell his cologne, feel the shift in the air that occurs whenever he’s around.
“We can’t keep doing this,” I say without turning around, my hands clutching the sides of the sink.
“Doing what?”
“This. Pretending we don’t want each other. Pretending last night didn’t happen.”
“I’m not pretending anything.”
I turn to face him. “You’re full of shit. Sitting across from me all night, not looking at me, acting like we’re just coach and player. Don’t lie to me.”
“We are coach and player.”
My gut clenches. “Coach and player don’t do what we did last night.”
