“And we both want the same thing,” he says. “You know that.”
A title.
Minutes.
Impact.
Respect.
Her?
I nod.
There’s a beat.
“And Cortez?” he adds, casual.
My jaw tightens before I can stop it. “What about her?”
He smirks slightly. “You weren’t subtle in the gym.”
I huff a breath.
“Neither were you.”
Friendly.
Competitive.
Until it’s not.
I hold his gaze.
He nods once.
“I’m not letting anything personal fuck up our chances this season. How about you?”
“Hell, no, Haverhill. I came here to compete. To win. But I have to fly back to Boston and tie up loose ends.”
He claps my shoulder.
“I’ll make sure they’ve got your room ready with fresh minted chocolates on your pillow, country club.”
“I’m going to wipe the floor with that mouth of yours real soon, Haverhill.”
It’s not a threat.
It’s a promise.
He just laughs and claps me on the back. “We’ll see about that Vale.”
The plane cuts through a bank of clouds over the country, and somewhere below me California disappears.
I should sleep.
I don’t.
The cabin lights are low, everyone around me half-zoned out in first-class silence, but my brain won’t shut up. Not after today. Not after Stanford. Not after the gym.
