Chapter 8
EIGHT
zane
The silence in this hotel room is so thick with tension and pent-up rage, I can choke on it.
The words on my laptop screen blur and I rub my eyes.
I’ve been staring at the same email from Morrison for twenty minutes, unable to process anything.
My knee throbs where I press it against the edge of the bed, an old habit that kicks in when I’m stressed.
The dull ache reminds me why I’m here and what’s at stake if I fuck this up.
But right now, my attention is fixed on the sound of Tate moving around in the bathroom. Water running, cabinet doors opening and slamming shut. Everything he does radiates fury, like he’s punishing the room for the crime of being stuck here with me.
The lock clicks and the bathroom door opens.
He walks out, stiff and strained, wearing nothing but a pair of gray sweatpants slung low around his waist. My mouth goes dry when I catch a sight of the deep vee of his torso, the indentations that define every ridge and cut of muscle in his chest. There’s a scar on his left shoulder blade that wasn’t there before, probably from blocking a shot.
His hair is still damp from the shower. He sweeps a hand through it, his fiery gaze darkening as he moves into the room, looking everywhere but at me. He walks over to his bag and starts digging through it.
“You can use the bathroom,” he says without turning around. His voice is flat. Like we’re strangers in an elevator.
“Thanks.”
I grab my bag and head for the bathroom, my knee screaming with each step. The space still smells like his soap, something clean and masculine that makes my body tingle with memories I have no right to be thinking about.
I wipe the fog from the mirror, splash cold water on my face, and stare at my reflection. Dark purplish circles stain the skin under my eyes. I touch the stubble I forgot to shave this morning, noting that the crease between my eyebrows has deepened since I started this assignment.
I look like what I am…a man being crushed by the weight of too many lies.
When I come out of the bathroom, Tate’s sitting on his bed, scrolling through his phone. The lamp on his nightstand casts shadows across his face, highlighting the tension in his jaw.
“Everything okay?” I ask, nodding toward his phone.
He doesn’t look up. “Fine.”
One word. Nothing else.
I sit on my own bed and stack my notes on the nightstand. The ritual helps me think, gives my hands something to do. “Listen, I—”
“Stop.” He finally looks at me, and the coldness in his eyes makes me flinch. “There’s nothing you can say that I’d actually want to hear.”
I flex my hands behind my back. “I was just going to ask if you wanted to talk about tomorrow’s game.”
“No.”
“Parker’s nervous. It might help if you talk to him.”
“I said no.” He turns back to his phone, his knuckles white where he’s gripping it. “I’m not his fucking hype man.”
The hostility in his voice makes me cringe. This is what I did to him. Turned someone who was probably encouraging and supportive into this bitter, angry version of himself.
I sigh and turn my attention back to my notes, pretending to read them while watching him out of the corner of my eye.
He’s scrolling fast, probably through social media, his expression growing darker with each passing second.
I’d bet my left nut he’s seeing a hell of a lot of speculation about him being benched and commentary from reporters and fans picking apart his recent performances.
“You should stay off social media,” I say.
“You should mind your own fucking business.”
The words hang in the air. I deserve them, but they still sting.
“They don’t know what they’re talking about.”
“Oh yeah? What makes you so sure?” He tosses his phone onto the nightstand hard enough to make the lamp shake. “Because from where I’m sitting, they’ve got a pretty clear picture.”
“Tate... ”
“Stop saying my name like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you give a shit.” He swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands up, pacing to the window. “Like you’re not just here doing whatever job they’re paying you to do.”
I want to tell him he’s wrong. That I’m not here by choice, that every day I spend around him is torture because I can see how much I hurt him. That I’d give anything to take back that morning in Vegas when I had to choose between his safety and his heart.
But I can’t say any of that without making everything worse.
“Your game will come back,” I say instead. “I’ve seen it before. Guys get in their own heads over the pressure but they all rebound.”
He lets out a dry laugh. “Yeah, well, Coach Enver doesn’t seem to think so. Parker’s getting his shot tomorrow, and if he plays well... ”
“He’s not you.”
“No, he’s not.” Tate turns from the window, and for the first time since Vegas, he really looks at me. “He’s someone who actually wants to be here. Someone who’s not carrying around baggage that’s poisoning everything he touches.”
“You’re not poisoned.”
He takes a step toward me, and I can see the barely controlled rage simmering in his eyes. “All I know is that I was fine before you showed up. Not great, but functional. Now I can’t even stop a fucking beach ball without thinking about... ”
He snaps his lips closed, jaw clenching, his words swallowed before they can hit the air.
“Without thinking about what?” I ask, my voice rough.
“Nothing.” He turns away. “Forget it.”
But I can’t forget it. Can’t forget the way his voice broke on those last words. Can’t forget the flash of something raw that crossed his face before he buried it.
“For what it’s worth,” I say quietly, “I never wanted this to happen.”
“What? My career to fall apart?” He spins around to face me. “Or having to pretend you give a shit about fixing it?”
I sigh. “I’m sorry. I never wanted any of it to happen.”
“Right.” The smile he flashes could slice glass. “Because you sure as hell seemed sorry that morning when you couldn’t get out of that hotel room fast enough.”
Dammit. He thinks I left because I didn’t care, because it was just another hookup for me. If only he knew the truth.
“That’s not why I left.”
“No? Then I’d love to hear the real reason.” He folds his arms over his chest. “I’ve asked before and you’ve given me nothing. So tell me, what the hell was so important that you had to disappear before I woke up?”
I stare at him, this man who trusted me completely for one night and has been paying for it ever since.
The truth sits on my tongue like poison.
I could tell him about the phone call, about the syndicate, about how leaving him was the hardest thing I’d ever done because I knew what we shared was real.
And I knew that staying would have put him in jeopardy.
But that would mean admitting what I am. What I’d been involved in. And I can’t risk his safety by dragging him into my world any deeper than he already is.
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Of course you can’t.” He shakes his head and lets out a snort, disgust clear in his expression. “Because that would require you to be honest about something.”
I open my mouth but then close it when I realize I have no defense.
“You can’t even be man enough to admit any of it.
What the fuck ever. I don’t want your explanations or your apologies or whatever bullshit you thought you could feed me.
I just want to get through tomorrow night without completely humiliating myself, and then I want to go home and pretend none of this ever happened. ”
He stalks back to his bed and yanks the covers down with enough force to tear the sheets. The message is clear. This conversation…or whatever you call it, is over.
I watch him drop onto the mattress with his back to me, every line of his body radiating tension. He lies still, but I can tell from his breathing that he’s not even close to sleep.
That makes two of us.
I turn off my lamp and lie down in the darkness, listening to the city sounds filtering through the windows. Phoenix at night sounds different from Oakland. More isolated, somehow. Which is fitting, considering I’ve never felt more alone.
Staring at the ceiling, I try to focus on anything except the sound of Tate’s breathing across the room. But it’s impossible. Everything about him draws my attention, even when he’s pissed as hell.
Especially when he’s pissed as hell.
Because underneath all that anger, I can still see flashes of the man I held in Vegas. The one who trusted me enough to be vulnerable with, to let me see parts of himself he’d never shown anyone else.
“Zane.” His voice slices through my thoughts.
“Yeah?”
“Tomorrow night, when we get back to Oakland... ” He pauses, probably debating his words. “This doesn’t change anything. We’re still coach and player. Nothing more.”
“I know.”
“Good.” The mattress creaks as he shifts position. “Because I can’t do this again. Whatever this is. It’ll br…”
He stops before the word is out, and the honesty in his voice nearly breaks me. He’s telling me he’s hanging on by a thread, and my presence is the thing threatening to snap it.
“You won’t have to,” I say.
It’s a promise I’m not sure I can keep. But it’s the only thing I can give him right now.
The silence is heavy with everything we’re not saying.
I force my eyes closed and try to sleep, but all I can think about is how close he is. Close enough to touch, if I wanted to destroy what’s left of his trust.
Close enough to hear every small sound he makes as he tries and fails to find peace.
Tomorrow night after the game, we’ll go back to Oakland and pretend this night never happened. We’ll maintain our professional distance and I’ll keep lying to everyone about why I’m really here.
But right now, in this hotel room, there’s nowhere to hide from what we both know…
That whatever this thing is between us, it’s far from over.
Even if it’s killing us both.