Chapter 14 #2
“You didn't have to. It's written all over your face every time you look at me.” My hands clenched.
“You know what? Maybe you're right. Maybe this was just a fantasy.
Because the guy I thought I met wouldn't be this bitter.
Wouldn't push away everyone who gives a shit about him just to prove he can suffer alone.”
Dusty's face went pale, then flushed with anger. “At least I'm honest about what this was. You're the one who's been lying to yourself, pretending a week of good sex means something more.”
The words landed like he meant them to. Direct hit.
“Is that really what you think this was?”
“What else could it be?” But his voice was quieter now, some of the heat draining away. “You've got a whole life waiting for you. Career decisions. Surgery. Pittsburgh or Alabama or ESPN. And I've got seven more years of saving ahead of me. If I'm lucky.”
“So we just pretend this week didn't happen?”
“No.” He shook his head, and for a second the anger was gone, replaced by something that looked like pain.
“I'll remember it. The cabin, the breathing exercises, the way you looked at me like I wasn't just...” He trailed off.
“But remembering isn't the same as building a future. You have to see that.”
“What I see is you running because things got hard.”
“And what I see is you trying to fix me like I'm broken.” His hand was on the doorknob now. “Maybe we're both right.”
“Dusty—”
“Take care of yourself, Cord. I mean it. I hope the surgery goes well. I hope you figure out what you want.”
“I want—”
But he was already gone. The door clicked shut with a sound that echoed through the suite.
I stood there staring at the closed door. My breakfast was getting cold on the table. The suite felt too quiet. Like all the air had left with him.
My shoulder throbbed, reminding me why I was leaving. Surgery on Tuesday. Recovery. Decisions about my future that suddenly meaningless compared to the man who'd just walked out of my life.
One week. That's not enough to build a life on.
Except it had been more than that. Until it wasn't.
Fuck.
I finished packing on autopilot. Threw my clothes in my bag, grabbed my shoulder brace, made sure I had my pills for the flight. The routine helped, gave my hands something to do while my mind spun in circles.
You're being a coward.
I'd said that. Actually said that to him while he was dealing with losing everything. While his brother had stolen seven years of his life. Real mature, Morales.
At least I'm honest about what this was.
But so had he. Called it good sex like it didn't matter. Like I didn't matter. Like the week we'd spent together was just a transaction.
Maybe we'd both fucked this up. Said things we couldn't take back because it was easier to hurt each other than admit how much it hurt to walk away.
I'd called him a coward. He'd called me a liar.
And maybe we were both right.
The lobby hummed with its usual morning activity. Two guys in leather harnesses were making out by the fountain, a group playing strip poker near the fireplace, someone getting spanked over the concierge desk while checking out. Standard Ranch morning.
I wheeled my bag past it all, realizing with sudden clarity that I'd spent two weeks at one of the most exclusive sex resorts in the country to throw myself into orgies and anonymous sex.
Then I met Dusty, and everything else became noise.
One yoga class, one conversation, and I'd stopped looking for distractions. Stopped wanting anyone else. Two weeks at one of the most exclusive sex resorts in the country, and I'd spent nearly all of it with one person.
The irony wasn't lost on me. I'd come here to forget, to experiment, to figure out my life through a parade of anonymous bodies. Instead, I'd found someone who made me want to remember everything, who made everything else fade into background noise.
“Checking out?”
I turned to find Vincent approaching, his crisp white linen outfit looking flawless as always. His smile was warm but his eyes held concern.
“Yeah. Flight's this afternoon.”
“How was it? Really?”
“Complicated.” I adjusted my shoulder brace. “But the cabin was perfect. You nailed it with that recommendation.”
“Of course I did.” He gave me a knowing look. “So... you coming back to see us when that shoulder's fixed? Got a bottle of the good stuff I've been saving.”
The question landed with unexpected weight. Would I return? Could I even afford this place without my NFL salary? And could I handle being here knowing Dusty was working with other clients, living his life without me?
“I honestly don't know, Vince. Surgery first, then... we'll see what life looks like after.”
“Well.” Vincent clasped my good shoulder. “Whatever happens, my friend, you always have a place here. And I mean that, not just as the manager. Call me when you land, yeah?”
I shook his hand, feeling the finality of it. “Thanks. For everything. The cabin especially.”
“Sometimes people need space to figure things out.” His smile was knowing. “Safe travels, Cord. I hope you find what you're looking for.”
The rental car was waiting. I threw my bag in the back and sat behind the wheel for a minute, hands gripping the steering wheel, not quite ready to start the engine.
This was it. Drive away, fly back to Denver, get cut open Tuesday. Figure out the rest of my life while trying not to think about blue eyes and strong hands and the way Dusty had looked at me this morning before everything went to shit.
A week. That's all we'd had. Eight days from that first yoga class to this moment, and somehow it had changed everything about how I saw my future.
I started the engine and pulled out of The Ranch's grounds, watching it disappear in my rearview mirror. The Texas hill country stretched ahead, scrub oak and limestone outcroppings, the kind of rugged beauty that would always remind me of him now.
Eventually I hit the paved road leading to the highway, empty this time of day.
I drove on autopilot, mind replaying our fight on an endless loop.
The way his voice had gone cold when I'd said “just money.” The defensive set of his shoulders when he'd refused my help.
The pain in his eyes when he'd said goodbye.
I'd handled it all wrong. Led with money instead of understanding, tried to fix instead of listening. Classic Cord Morales. See a problem, throw resources at it, call it solved.
Except Dusty wasn't a problem. He was a man who'd built his entire life on not needing anyone, on proving he could stand on his own. And I'd told him that didn't matter, that my money could shortcut all that work and sacrifice.
No wonder he'd walked out.
About thirty miles outside of Austin, my phone buzzed in the cupholder. I glanced at the navigation screen and saw Ruben's name.
The car read the text aloud: How was the retreat? Ready to talk strategy for the comeback?
I stared at the message for a long time. The comeback. Like that's what this week had been about—me getting my head right so I could return to football. Ruben didn't know about Dusty, about the cabin, about any of it.
To him, I'd just spent a week at an expensive resort getting fucked.
“Would you like to respond?” the car's automated voice asked.
I could tell him the truth, that I wasn't sure I wanted a comeback anymore. That the week had shown me what life could look like if I stopped chasing what everyone expected and started figuring out what I actually wanted.
But that was too big for a text message. Too complicated to explain while sitting in a rental car with my chest still aching from watching Dusty walk away.
“Yeah,” I said to the car. “Let's talk when I get home.”
Home. Should have been comforting, heading back. Instead, I had decisions looming: Surgery. Recovery. Pittsburgh or Alabama or ESPN. The future stretching ahead like an empty field with no clear path forward.
But all I could think about was a man teaching yoga to strangers while his dreams crumbled around him, too proud to accept help and too angry to ask for it.
My phone buzzed again. Ruben: Good. Come by the office tomorrow. Got updates from Pittsburgh and some other opportunities that came up. This could work out better than we thought.
Better than we thought. Right.
The mesquite and cedar blurred past my windows, all of it beautiful in its harsh, unforgiving way. Like Dusty—strong and stubborn and refusing to bend.
One week. That's not enough to build a life on.
Maybe he was right. Maybe I was kidding myself thinking seven days could matter enough to change everything. Maybe this was just what it looked like when you tried to build something real with someone whose life didn't line up with yours.
Or maybe I'd just fucked it up by treating his crisis like a transaction instead of understanding what it actually meant to him.
My shoulder throbbed, a reminder that I had my own shit to deal with. Surgery Tuesday. Twenty percent chance of permanent nerve damage if I went with Istanbul, eighty percent chance of partial recovery with the standard procedure. Russian roulette with my future either way.
A week ago, that thought would have sent me spiraling into panic. Now it just felt like one more thing on a list of problems I had to solve.
Take care of yourself, Cord.
His last words to me, spoken without looking back. Distant and final, like he'd already moved on to whatever came next.
I wondered if he'd remember to take care of himself. If he'd let himself feel the weight of losing everything, or if he'd just push through like he pushed through everything else, strong and stubborn and alone.
I tried to sleep on the flight home. But my mind stayed in Texas, in a yoga studio with floor-to-ceiling windows, watching a man with paint-stained fingers teach people how to breathe through their pain.
I wondered if he'd remember to breathe through his own.