Page 97 of Hard to Lose

To make the memories and the pain of that night, of writing this letter, go away.

I can’t fucking process.

To make the sudden gut punch of seeing this—in my house—ease.

This was in Chase’s bag. Why would she have this? Why would . . . but when I look closer at the faded sports agency it’s addressed to, it’s like a lead weight drops through me.

KSM.

How did I ever forget what that stood for? How did I not make the goddamn connection?

Kincade Sports Management.

Chase Kincade.

My stomach churns as I stumble to the spare bed and sit, trying to comprehend what I’m seeing. What I’m assuming.

“Gunner? Gun?” I barely hear through my cell I set down.

I grab it. “I have to call you back,” I say, but don’t wait for her to respond before I lower my phone.

Chase knew who I was.

She knew all along.

My hands are shaking as the past—a past I’d long ago walked away from—collides with the future. A future I thought I was possibly walking into.

“Gunner? Are you here—” Chase’s words stop about the same time the padding of her feet on the floor do.

It’s going to kill me to look at her. It’s going to gut me to look at this woman who’s wearing my T-shirt and whose hair is messy from sleeping in my bed—a woman I love—and know she deceived me all along.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Chase

My stomach drops to my feet when I see Gunner sitting on the spare bed. My bag is on its side, the contents partially fallen out from his surprise return home last night, but it’s the letter he’s holding in his hands that devastates me.

My head shakes back and forth as panic ricochets through me.

No. No. No.

“It’s not what you think.” They’re my first words and an absolutely shitty first defense, but it’s all I’ve got.

Gunner stares at the envelope in his hand as if I’ve sliced him completely open, allowing every memory and every vulnerability to be laid bare. But it’s when his eyes finally lift to meet mine that I realize an iota of the devastation I might have caused with this charade.

The deep brown of his eyes beg and question and despise me all at the same time. I struggle with what else to say or what to even do. I want to look away. I want to hide from the hurt I’ve caused but know that I can’t do either.

I owe him that much at least.

“Where did you get this?” he finally whispers.

“It was delivered to my office a couple of months ago.” My voice is timid. I’m so afraid to do or say the wrong thing when I’ve already done so much wrong to begin with.

“To your office? Kincade Sports Management is your office?” His voice escalates in pitch with each word. “I thought you were a grad student working on her thesis. I thought you were learning about military life, deployment, and Jesus Christ,” he says and runs a hand through his hair. “Kincade Sports Management. I remember it now. The dad and the daughters working for him. You’re one of his daughters. YOU are part of it. You’re a sports agent.”

“Gunner.” His name is a plea to forgive me, to let me explain, to anything.

“Now it all makes perfect sense to me. Fucking perfect sense—don’t you take another step toward me,” he thunders, causing tears to spring to my eyes and stopping me in my tracks.