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Someone else had said something similar recently.

Two someones, actually.

And one of them was Freddie.

Nolan washed his hands quickly, then picked up the stack of Freddie’s letters he kept on the kitchen table. There, in the second letter.

I was great at pasting on a grin and pretending the team culture was totally my jam, even though I would’ve preferred to go away and think thinky thoughts before voicing them.

DeShawn James was not Freddie. Nolan would stake his career on it. DeShawn wouldn’t have been speaking in full sentences yet when Freddie was writing these letters.

But there’d been someone else. Who had Nolan spoken with recently? Several of the players and admin staff in formal interviews, plus there’d been other staff he’d spoken with informally—equipment staff, coaches, the medical staff. One of those people had said that they’d rather sit with their thoughts for a while before speaking.

That person could be Freddie. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. Were there other employees who were former Trailblazers players, other than Coach Friedle? He made a mental note to ask Roman.

He unlocked the front door and texted Eli to let himself in when he arrived, then went back to his omelet. As soon as Eli walked in a few minutes later, Nolan blurted, “I think I know who Freddie is.”

“Seriously?” Eli said, closing the door behind himself. “Who is he?”

“I . . . don’t know.”

Eli blinked. “That’s not confusing.”

“I think he’s maybe an equipment manager?”

Except, did his theory actually make sense? If DeShawn and Freddie had said something similar but DeShawn was not Freddie, then it stood to reason that this other unknown person Nolan had spoken with was also not Freddie.

“Never mind.” He poured his chopped vegetables into the pan he had heating on the stove. “I think I got ahead of myself.” He’d still ask Roman for that list of former players who were now employees though.

When Eli rounded the counter, Nolan leaned over for a kiss. “Hi. You look beat.”

“Understatement.” Eli leaned back on the counter next to him.

Letting his vegetables sauté for a minute, Nolan pulled him into a hug.

Eli smelled like stale airplane air, but Nolan didn’t much care about that, especially not when Eli slumped into him and tucked his face into Nolan’s neck.

A restless something in Nolan’s chest settled, and he tightened his arms around Eli. “How was the shoot?”

“Good. Long, but good. I was surprisingly well-fed while on set, so that was a bonus. What are you making me?”

“An omelet,” Nolan said, stepping back. He poured the whisked eggs into the pan. “And I’ve got some carrot sticks there if you want them.”

“Vegetables! Thank Christ.”

“And there are a couple slices of bread. Pop them in the toaster, will you?”

Eli eyed them suspiciously. “Not whole wheat?”

“Give me some credit.”

They chatted quietly as Eli sat on a barstool at the counter and ate his meal, and Nolan kept reaching out to touch him. His hair, his arm, the base of his neck, his lower back. Eli smiled at him so softly whenever he did, and every time, a piece of Nolan’s heart gently pried itself away and landed at Eli’s feet.

When Eli yawned hugely as Nolan cleaned up, Nolan jerked his chin toward the stairs. “Go on up. Get to bed.”

“M’kay,” Eli slurred. He walked his dirty dishes over to the sink and kissed Nolan’s cheek. “Don’t take too long.”

“I’ll be right up.”