Something dark eclipses the hope in his expression, and his walls go back up. “You know what? Fuck this. Fuck you and your secrets and your protection that I never asked for. I’m done wanting someone who won’t let himself want me back. I’m done pretending that what just happened was enough.”
He heads for the door, but I catch his arm before he can leave.
“It’s not that I don’t want you,” I say. “It’s that being with me puts you at risk. I made choices, Tate. Choices I can’t take back. And they have consequences for everyone I care about. Don’t get sucked into the black hole of my bad judgment.” I let go of his arm and step backward. “Go home. Forget about me. Find someone who can give you what you deserve.”
The rejection in his expression stings. “What if I don’t want to?”
“Then you’re going to get hurt. And I won’t be able to live with that.”
A long minute stretches, and I can see him trying to process everything I’m not telling him.
“I can help you figure out whatever trouble you’re in. We can do it together.”
“Are you serious? You have a future. A career. A family who loves you. There is no ‘together’ for us. There’s just you, going back to your life and pretending this never happened.”
“I can’t do that.”
“You have to.”
“Why?”
“Because the alternative is worse than you can imagine.”
He pauses, taking in my warning, then shakes his head. “You’re wrong. The worst thing I can imagine is not being with you. But I’ll go if it’s what you want.”
“Not what I want,” I murmur. “What I need. What you need.”
He gives a stiff nod and stalks out the door, leaving me alone in the conference room with the taste of him still on my lips and the knowledge that I’ve just compromised everything about this mission, including my freedom, because I’m falling for him.
And that will be deadly for everyone.
SEVENTEEN
tate
It’s beenthree days since our conference room sexcapade.
Three days of pretending nothing happened while my body remembers everything.
I lace up my skates for practice when my phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number.
Equipment room. After practice. - Z
My breath hitches. He’s never texted me before. Never contacted me outside of official team business. The fact that he’s doing it now, using a number I don’t recognize, makes something tight and hot coil in my chest.
I delete the message and finish getting ready, trying to act normal while my teammates joke around me. Trying to pretend I’m not counting down the minutes until I can see him again.
“You good?” Masterson asks, bumping my shoulder. “You seem distracted.”
“Just thinking about today’s drills.”
“Since when do you think about drills?”
“Since Coach Enver started breathing down my neck about consistency.”
It’s not a total lie. Enver has been watching me closer since Seattle, making comments about my focus and my preparation.
Practice goes by in a blur. I make the saves I’m supposed to make, follow the drills, act like a professional. But the whole time I’m aware of Zane behind the bench.
