“What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know. Maybe that you’re happy for me? That you think I’m ready? Something that tells me you actually give a shit about my career?”
I glance around the empty tunnel. We’re alone for the moment, so I lead him around a column.
I place a hand on the wall next to his head. “Of course I give a shit. You think I’ve been putting in all this work because it’s fun for me?”
“I honestly don’t know what to think anymore. You’ve been acting like I don’t exist for the past week.”
“My father’s dying.” The words tumble out before I can swallow them back. I didn’t know what I was going to tell him, but I can’t feed him little breadcrumbs anymore. He’s too smart for that shit, and he deserves to at least have some version of the truth. “Dementia. The care facility he’s at costs ten grand a month. I’ve been scrambling to keep up with payments, dealing with debt collectors, trying to figure out how to keep him alive. After my injury stole any hopes for a pro career, I started taking on these freelance coaching jobs that barely keep his payments current. It’s been stressful.”
Tate’s expression immediately softens. “Shit. I’m sorry.”
“The gambling thing I told you about? It was all for his medical bills. I made some bad choices, and now I owe some really bad people money.” I shrug. “It’s been weighing on me and I didn’t want to drag you into that mess.”
“So you just shut me out.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s not okay, Zane. You think I can’t handle your problems?”
“I think you’ve got enough of your own.”
“Maybe I do. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to help with yours.” He steps closer. “Come over tonight. We can talk.”
I should say no. I need to stay away from him, now more than ever.
But I can’t. I never could.
“My place. Nine o’clock,” he says.
Maybe I can find a way to warn him. Maybe if we’re alone, away from the arena and the team and all the people who might be watching, I can figure out how to tell him enough to keep him safe.
“Okay,” I finally say. “But not at your place. Too risky.”
“My place is fine. No one’s going to?—”
“My hotel room. Nine o’clock.” I lean in close, my lips brushing against his ear. “And Tate? Don’t tell anyone where you’re going. And make sure nobody follows you.”
I spend the rest of the day trying to figure out what I’m going to say to him.
By nine o’clock, I’m no closer to an answer. So I think that’s my answer.
No answer at all.
He shows up exactly on time, looking nervous and hopeful and so fucking gorgeous in a black t-shirt and jeans that hang low around his hips. He makes my mouth water and my chest ache.
His lips quirk upward when I don’t speak.
“Are you gonna invite me in?” he murmurs. “Or just stare at me all night?”
“I could stare at you all night,” I say, pulling him inside. “But that wouldn’t be much fun.”
Fuck, I could stare at him forever and never get my fill.
“I came here to talk,” he says.
“Is that all?” I reach for his hand, intertwine our fingers. “Because I had other things in mind.”
