"She's more than good," I replied, staring back at her. From the way she moved with such grace and power. From the way her voice filled the entire stadium.
"She cares about you a lot," Bax said, his eyes never leaving the stage.
"I love her," I said.
Bax scratched at the bridge of his nose. "Love can lift a person up to the top or pull them to the bottom. It's fickle like that." Bax shrugged, clapping me on the back. "Falling in love changes shit, ya know?"
I did. I knew.
Elliott showed up as a living reminder of the ticking clock, telling me my time was up, and I wouldn't get that goodbye. Between songs, Maya looked at me, caught my eye, and winked.
She still had hope.
"We gotta go," Elliott said.
I'd already bought an extra five minutes by promising him double on his annual bonus, but that time was done.
Maya caught my gaze again. I pointed to my watch, then gave a half-hearted wave.
Her expression fell only the slightest before she composed herself. She didn't miss a step as I walked away.
This was how it would be for us, with the lives we chose. We would just have to make it work because I wouldn't pull her down.
CHAPTERTWENTY-FIVE
MAYA
It took a decent amount of finagling, but Elliott and Hans had worked out the schedule for Sloan and me. We were officially on a thirty-day fast until our calendars aligned again.
I hated it. Sloan hated it.
But we couldn't exactly reschedule a pro football game or leave Dimefront without an opening act for their concerts.
So, we played phone tag and texted all the time. After a particularly hard day, my phone finally rang. His name popped up on the screen, and I answered immediately.
"Sloan." I stood from the couch on my tour bus to escape to the back, where it was private. The soft hum of the engine beneath me provided a steady backdrop to the distant sounds of the traffic outside.
My sleeping space in the back was dimly lit, with a petite leather couch along one side and a small bed along the other. Not Four Seasons fancy but definitely functional.
"Baby, I miss you." His words were gruff, and he sounded exhausted.
The bus gently swayed as it navigated a sharp turn, and the streetlights from outside slashed fleeting stripes across the space.
"Sorry about the game." It hadn't gone well. They lost by a lot, and he took several hits.
"It happens. You can't win 'em all." He groaned, and it wasn't a good groan.
"We don't have to talk about that," I assured.
"Talk about anything. I just need to hear your voice," he said.
"Are you hurt?" I asked, sitting cross-legged on the bed. "You sound like you're in pain."
"Took a hard hit to the ribs. Just sore," he admitted. "It's part of the game."
A pang of concern fluttered in my chest, along with an image of the worst hit he took today. "You need to get that checked out."
"Promise, it's not a big deal," he said, his voice husky. "I wish I could be there with you."
