Because for the first time, I can see the fracture in him. The fear. The wanting. The part of Clay Barlowe that doesn’t belong to the coach or the game, but to me.
And that realization is its own kind of ruin.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Clay
She’d started to yawn before we even finished talking. It was late, and I know we were both exhausted. She needed sleep before another round of apologies, so I gave her one of my shirts and a pair of athletic shorts.
She took both of them but only had on the shirt when she climbed into bed beside me. I didn’t say a word, and neither did she. Instead, she just curled into my side like it was the most natural thing in the world. Within minutes, she was asleep. Her breath was soft and even against my chest.
I should’ve felt guilty for keeping her up this late after a long shift that probably ran her into the ground. And I did. But I wasn’t going to feel bad about this—the weight of her tucked against me, the sound of her breathing filling the quiet. For the first time in a long time, the world didn’t feel like it was coming apart.
Morning light cuts through the blinds in uneven lines. The place still looks half-lived-in with boxes stacked by the wall, a couch that hasn’t seen much use, blank walls staring back.
But this morning, it all feels different.
The air smells like burnt coffee, which is my fault because I still can’t figure out the damn machine, but it mixes with the scent of her perfume. I can still smell traces of her on my skin and on the pillow where she slept.
Tessa’s here.
She’s curled into the far corner of the couch, legs tucked under her, one of my Kolmont travel mugs cupped in her hands. Her hair’s a little wild, her face still soft from sleep, and she hasn’t bothered to fix it. Somehow, that’s what gets me. The raw and unfiltered version of her.
I stand there for a second, hands shoved into my sweats, just watching. The slow rise and fall of her shoulders. The way her lips press to the rim of the mug. Having her here, in my space, comforts me in a way that should scare the hell out of me. Because it’s exactly what I keep telling myself I can’t have.
Still, I give in. I always do with her.
I drop down beside her slowly, afraid that if I move too fast, she’ll vanish. My knee brushes hers, and unlike yesterday, when I would touch her, she doesn’t pull away. She leans into me, and I move my arm to rest along the back of the couch beside her, my thumb slowly brushing along her shoulder through the soft cotton of my shirt.
She looks over at me then, and that look nearly undoes me. Like she’s trying to figure out which version of me she woke up to. The one who walked away. Or the one who stayed.
I force my mouth into a crooked grin. “Sorry, the coffee tastes like shit,” I rasp.
Her lips twitch, fighting a smile. “I’ve had worse,” she says, and it’s enough to ease something tight in my chest.
I want to tell her everything. That last night wasn’t a mistake. That every second I spent away from her felt like skating through overtime on a torn ACL. It was a pain I couldn’t bear, and nothing I did would make it stop. I wanted to tell her how I’d trade every shot at redemption if it meant keeping her right here.
But I don’t. Not yet. So I just slide my hand around her, pull her closer to my side, and breathe her in. She rests her head against my shoulder, and I take a deep breath, releasing a weight on my chest I hadn’t realized was there.
“I get why you want to wait,” she says, her voice soft but sure. “Until you know about the job.”
My heart stutters. She’s turned toward me now, leaning forward to set her mug on the coffee table, tucking her knee beneath her.
“You don’t want anything to risk it,” she continues. “And I don’t want to be the reason someone questions whether you’re deserving of the opportunity or not. Not when you’ve worked this hard to get here.”
I open my mouth, but she cuts me off gently. “It’s okay, Clay. Really.” She lets out a breath that trembles at the edges. “This way, we get to figure things out without everyone else in the way. No cameras. No family. No one to tell us how wrong or complicated this is.”
I study her. She’s relaxed, her voice calm, but I can see the flicker of nerves underneath. It’s the same fear I’ve been carrying.
“I hate that I’m asking you to wait for me,” I admit quietly. “That I’m asking you to keep this quiet like it’s something to hide.”
She shakes her head. “You’re not asking me to hide. You’re asking for time.” Her lips curve. “And maybe we both need that.”
The words settle between us.
I nod, throat tight. “I’m sorry, Tess. For last night and for everything before it, too. I lost control, again. I seem to do that when it comes to you. I didn’t bring you here to hook up. I don’t want you to think that’s all this has ever been to me.”
“I know,” she says softly.
