Page 25

Mikey was struggling, and my own shit couldn’t get in the way of that.

I swallowed, clearing my throat before looking back up.

“You can talk to me, you know,” I stammered. “About anything. If you need to.” My eyes slid past him to focus on a framed photo of a harbor full of fishing boats hung on the wall above his bed. “We’re friends. At least, I think we are. Well, you’re my friend.” My gaze moved back to him. “I’m here is all I’m saying.”

Mikey blew out a heavy breath, his hand dropping from his neck. For a second, he just stared at me, his chest rising and falling. “Yeah. We’re friends,” he said softly, turning to the table where he began pulling containers of food out of a brown paper bag.

“And besides, it’s not like you don’t already know shit’s tight with my family.” He looked up, worried eyes meeting mine. “I don’t know why this is embarrassing to admit, but the doctor changed my grandma’s medicine, and the new one isn’t covered. Or it is, but only partially. I don’t know. But it’s like twenty-five hundred dollars a month now, and my mom can’t swing it.”

He went back to divvying up our food, sliding a carton toward my side of the table.

How had I not known his grandma was sick? And her medicine cost how much? That seemed criminal for a little old lady on a fixed income.

But for me, it was a drop in the bucket.

The thought hit me with sudden, blinding clarity: I could loan him the money. He’d pay me back once he got a contract—and he would get one.

I refused to entertain any other option.

Adrenaline flooded my system as I crossed the room to sit across from him. We silently opened our containers, my hands trembling as I worked up the courage to offer him the cash.

“Hey, so. I could loan you the money⁠—”

Mikey’s head snapped up, and he dropped his fork. “No, Cal⁠—”

“Just until you sign your contract,” I rushed to say. “A couple of weeks, tops. Then you’ll pay me back.”

Mikey flattened his palms against the table, the pressure turning his fingertips white. “What if I don’t make the cut? What if I get sent back down?” His voice was more subdued than I’d ever heard it.

“Not happening,” I said instantly.

“You sound pretty fucking sure of that.”

I held his gaze, keeping my voice dead even. “Because I know this fucking game, and I’ve watched you play for weeks now. You’re making this team, Mikey.”

He stared at me for a long beat, his eyes flicking over my face. Then his shoulders dropped, and he let out a long, exhausted-sounding sigh of capitulation. “Just for a few weeks,” he relented. “Until I know what I’m dealing with. Either way, I’ll pay back every cent.”

“I know you will.” I picked up my fork and dove back into the papaya salad.

The food was good, but it was hard to enjoy it.

Mikey pushed his pad see ew around his plate, his eyes lowered. Every now and then, he’d glance up and flash me a grin, but it seemed forced, like he had to remember to put it on.

I got the sense he was embarrassed, and I hated being the reason for that. But I knew any attempt to smooth things over would only make things worse.

So I stayed quiet and finished eating. When my plate was empty, I gathered up my trash and pushed my chair back. “I think I’m gonna head out.”

He balled up his napkin and dropped it onto his empty plate. “Please don’t,” he said, lifting tired eyes to meet mine. “There’s a new show that my sister won’t shut up about. I told her I’d watch it if she promised to stop harassing me. We could … um … maybe watch it together?”

The “yes” was nearly out of my mouth before my brain caught up and told me to think this through. I wanted to stay even though it was bad for me. I always wanted to be in Mikey’s orbit.

But he’d been quiet and withdrawn all night—picking at his food and barely meeting my eyes—and I genuinely couldn’t tell if he wanted me here or if he was just being polite out of some misplaced sense of duty now that I’d offered him the loan. Like maybe he knew I was lonely, and even though he didn’t actually want me here, he felt like he had to extend the invite. I hated feeling like this might be transactional.

“Are you sure you want the company?”

“I do. I swear.” He pulled in a deep breath, then blew it out in one long, slow gust. “I just hate asking for handouts. And I hate that I had to ask you, specifically. I never want that shit between us.”

My eyebrows pulled together. “You didn’t ask, though. I offered. And besides, you’re gonna pay me back in a couple of weeks. It’s not a big deal. Promise.”