The sarcasm cuts, but I can’t blame him for it. The gambling story sounds weak even to me, but it’s all I can give him.
“It’s more complicated than that.”
“Everything’s complicated with you.” He’s fully dressed now, looking anywhere but at me. “Maybe that’s the problem.”
“Tate, wait.”
But he’s already heading for the door, and I’m still naked on the couch, still trying to figure out how something that felt so right went so wrong so fast.
“For what it’s worth,” he says, hand on the doorknob, “it was good. Really good.”
“But?”
“But I can’t keep doing this. The hot and cold, the mixed signals.” He finally meets my eyes. “I won’t survive it again.”
The door closes behind him with a quiet click, and I’m left alone with my regrets.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table. A text from Morrison:Hope you’re making progress with those names. Time’s running out. And you know the stakes.
I stare at the message until the screen goes dark.
Outside, I hear Tate’s car start up and drive away, and I wonder if I’ve just made the biggest mistake of my life.
TWENTY
tate
I sitin a corner booth by myself, nursing a bottle of Stella Artois. I pick at the corners of the label, gritting my teeth as I watch Parker with the team.
Tonight we’re at The Penalty Box celebrating his first shutout. The kid’s been riding high since taking over my spot and watching the team toast his success while I drown my sorrows alone is about as fun as a root canal.
The place is a go-to for the team. We usually head here after local games to unwind. And right now the dark wood paneling and dim lighting keep me somewhat anonymous, which suits me just fucking fine. I don’t need any more press vultures breathing down my throat looking for reasons why Parker has taken over as Oakland’s starting goalie after I lost my shot in Seattle.
“You look thrilled to be here,” Masterson says, sliding into the booth across from me.
“Just tired.” I take another sip of my beer, watching Zane across the room. He’s leaning against the bar, talking to Carter. He looks relaxed, casual, like he didn’t have me coming apart on his couch less than twenty-four hours ago.
“Tired from what? You’ve been riding the bench for two weeks.”
“Thanks for the reminder, dick.”
Masterson shrugs. “Just saying. Maybe if you stopped brooding in corners and actually participated in team activities, Coach would remember you exist.”
He’s not wrong, but participating in team activities is complicated when the guy you can’t stop fantasizing about is standing fifteen feet away, looking good enough to eat in dark jeans and a button-down that shows off his broad shoulders.
“I’m participating,” I say. “I’m here, right?”
“You’re sitting alone in a booth, glaring at people.”
“I’m not glaring.”
“You’re definitely glaring. The question is, at who?” Masterson follows my gaze toward the bar, and I force myself to look away before he connects the dots.
Too late.
“Ah,” he says. “Coach Christensen.”
I start picking at the label again. “What about him?”
