Page 180 of Hard Pass

“It is,” he states. “Every game. Every throw. Every time something goes wrong, it’s going to be in the back of people’s minds.”

“I’ll find a way to fix this,” I say but there is more conviction in my voice than I feel.

He turns and looks at me for a second before shaking his head. “Quit killing yourself over this.”

The worst part is I think he means it. And I don’t know how to stop.

“I’m not—”

“You are. And the more you push, the less chance you probably have of getting your job back.”

I bow my head for a second and nod. “I can’t just let it go.”

“I know, but you can’t lose yourself trying to fix something that might not be yours to fix.”

I don’t have an answer for that, so I don’t try. Instead, I change the subject.

“How are the guys?” I ask, referring to where he just was—over at Jaxon’s to hang out and watch an NHL game.

“Good. The usual. Talking shit. Eating BBQ.” He shrugs. “They said next time you should come.”

I laugh. “Yeah. No. You guys keep your tradition, and Willa and I will keep ours.” I hold my fingers out and wiggle my freshly painted fingernails. “Mani-pedis and wine. Not a bad way to go.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” He holds his hand out to me. “Let’s go.”

I blink. “What?” I glance at the clock that reads eleven p.m.

“Shoes. Now.” He jingles his keys.

“Cole, what are you doing?”

“Kidnapping you. Leave your phone here.”

“Bossy.”

“Effective,” he says. “And less distraction.” He takes my phone and tosses it next to his on the couch.

Within minutes, the warm air rushes through the open windows of his SUV. My hair whips around as we drive without a clear destination.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

He glances over, one hand loose on the wheel, the other on my thigh. He grins. “No idea.”

I chuckle. “That’s reassuring.”

“It’s a big game this weekend,” he says. “We leave for L.A. tomorrow and so I figured I’d steal a little time with you before everything gets loud again.”

“Oh.” What girl’s going to complain about something like that?

We drive for a while, out past the edge of the city with the music playing and tension dissipating with each mile marker we pass. We drive until the lights thin out and the sky opens up to a world of stars.

He pulls off near a small field not far from the private airstrip on the outskirts—one of those quiet, out-of-the-way places you only find if you know it exists.

“Come on,” he says.

We climb out and I follow him a few steps before he drops a blanket on the ground, sits down on it, and then stretches out on his back with his hands behind his head.

I hesitate for half a second and then mimic his posture. But as I do, he stretches one arm out so his biceps is my headrest, and then pulls me up against him.