Back in the locker room, I shower and change like nothing happened. I joke with my teammates and listen to their plans for the night.
My phone buzzes as I’m heading toward my car. Another text from the unknown number.
Same time Thursday. Same place. Delete this.
I delete it immediately, but I can’t delete the way my pulse spikes at the thought of seeing him again. Can’t delete the way my body already misses his touch.
It gives me some time to figure out what the hell I’m doing with a man who keeps telling me he’s going to hurt me and why I keep going back, even though his warnings should have me running in the opposite direction.
Because we both know he’s not my forever.
EIGHTEEN
zane
The equipment roomsmells like sweat and rubber, but it’s become our rendezvous spot. We’re still pretending this is just physical. Still lying to ourselves that these stolen moments between practice sessions don’t mean anything.
Tate’s fingers tear open the buttons of my shirt. I let myself get lost in the way he touches me like I’m something precious instead of something that’s going to destroy his life.
“You’re tense,” he murmurs, his lips against my throat, and he’s right. I’ve been checking my phone every five minutes, waiting for Morrison’s next threat. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. Because it’s fucking coming. Hard and fast.
“I’m fine.”
“Bullshit.” He pulls back to look at me. “You’ve been jumpy all week. What’s going on?”
“Nothing I can’t handle,” I say.
“Zane.” His voice is patient, but there’s an edge to it. “We’ve been doing this dance for weeks. The mysterious phone calls, the meetings you won’t explain, the way you look over your shoulder like someone’s following you. I’m not an idiot.”
No, he’s not. He’s observant and smart, too good at reading people for his own good. And I’m running out of excuses.
He’s still touching me, fingers tracing the line of my collarbone, but there’s tension in his body now. The intimacy we’d found is slipping away, replaced by everything I’m not saying.
“Look,” he continues when I don’t respond, “I get that we haven’t defined what this is. I get that you’re not ready for relationship talks or whatever. But if we’re going to keep doing this, I need to know you trust me enough to be honest.”
Trust. Dammit, I do trust him. More than I should. But trusting him and telling him the truth are two different things.
“Some things are better left alone,” I say.
“Says who?” Frustration laces his voice now. He narrows his eyes, pulling away even though his hands are still on me. “You think I can’t handle whatever this is? You think I’m too fragile to deal with your problems? I’m not a fucking child.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you meant.” His hands drop and he steps back. “You want to fuck me, but you don’t want to trust me. You want me around when you need a distraction, but you don’t want me to find out anything about you.”
The accusation stings because there’s truth in it.
“It’s not like that.”
“Then what is it like, Zane? Because from where I’m standing, it looks a lot like you’re using me.” He rakes a hand through his hair. “And I’m the idiot who’s letting it happen.”
Using him. Christ. If he only knew how backwards that is. If he only knew that every moment I spend with him makes it harder to do what Morrison wants and so much harder to keep him safe.
“I promise I’m not using you.”
“Prove it. Tell me what’s going on.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I reach for it. A text from Morrison flashes across my screen.
