He didn’t deny it.
That alone stole some of the fight from me.
His hands rested at his sides. He looked too composed. I wanted to mess him up. I wanted to know what it took.
“Because you’re capable of more,” he said.
I swallowed.
He continued, voice even. “Because when you’re locked in, you see things other players don’t. You change pace better than anyone on this roster. You make reads most guys only make after watching tape. And because you keep settling for less than that.”
The words went through me in layers.
Praise first, sharp enough to hook.
Then the rest.
Less.
My throat felt tight, but not in a sad way. In an exposed way. Like he had found the exact bruise and pressed one thumb into it.
“I don’t settle.”
“You do when you rely on talent to excuse discipline.”
“I produce.”
“You could lead.”
“I do lead.”
“Sometimes.” He took one step closer. “When it suits you. When the room is already following. When there’s enough noisearound you that no one notices you’re avoiding the boring parts.”
My chest rose too fast.
“Fuck you.”
The second it came out, I knew it was too much.
Declan didn’t flinch. “Try again.”
Two words.
Not loud.
Not angry.
My mouth went dry.
I should have told him to go to hell. I should have walked out. I should have done any of the things I normally did when someone put a hand on the back of my neck without touching me.
Instead, I stood there with my heart hammering and said, “That was out of line.”
“Yes.”
“I’m pissed.”
“I can see that.”
