CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Cole
Dr. Hawley talked again.
I heard maybe half of it.
Explanations about anticipation. Control. Breaking patterns before they break me.
You’re not broken, Cole. You’re anticipating the failure before it happens.
You’re trying to control the outcome instead of trusting the process.
The hesitation isn’t physical. It’s fear.
Fear.
Right.
Because that’s exactly what I need in my head when I’m standing in a pocket with three-hundred-fifty-plus pounds of a defensive end trying to take my head off.
It started to sound the same after a while. Different words. Same problem. Still hasn’t gone away.
I step out into the hallway, frustrated, dragging my hand down my face.
I flex my hand instinctively. The tremble. There it is. That split-second hesitation that shouldn’t exist—but does. Way to show up after the therapy session instead of during it.
I exhale sharply.
Yeah. That helped.
Why don’t we talk about sports growing up?
That’s a hard no. Not going there.
I turn the corner—and stop. Dublin. She’s standing halfway down the hallway talking to our film coordinator. Professional and composed, her demeanor the same as every other time I’ve seen her here at the Rebels facility.
And just like most other times, I’ve wanted to strip her of that armor . . . like I did the other night.
She glances over and our eyes lock.
And I’m immediately back in my bedroom.
Her head tipped back, neck arched.
Her breath catching on a moan.
Her hands gripping my shoulders like she didn’t know how to let go.
The feel of her pussy wrapped tight around me.
“Hey, Valor.”
I blink. Hard. Reality snaps back into place and I look away immediately. If I don’t, if I let myself stand here even a second longer, I’m going to walk over there. Say something. Do something.
Hell, I almost called her this morning. I had my phone in my hand, her name right there. All I had to do was hit call.
I didn’t. She said this couldn’t happen. And for once, I listened. Sure it was against my better judgment and left me with a raging hard-on . . . but Christ, will the woman get out of my goddamn head already? This is pure torture.
“Earth to Valor?”
I shake my head and look the opposite way of Dublin to the hulk of a man calling my name.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“They need you on the field in ten. Coach is already out there,” our kicker Dionte says.
“Yeah. Heading there now. Gotta stop by my locker first.”
As I catch up to him, he looks over my shoulder.
“Damn,” he mutters. “That her? The investigator lady?”
“Mm-hmm.” I don’t trust myself to look.
“She’s . . .” He whistles low. “If I had someone like that digging into my life, I’d be giving her full access.” He chuckles, his intention more than understood.
My jaw tightens. “Shut up.”
He laughs, backing off like it’s nothing.
But it isn’t nothing. She’s not just some other woman. And that thought alone should be a problem. Women have never been that complicated for me. I want. I take. I walk away when it’s done or run its course. No overthinking.
Clean.
Easy.
Until her.
Dublin doesn’t look at me the way everyone else does. Not like a headline. Not like a quarterback. Not like someone she can get something from.
When’s the last time a woman pushed back on me or called me on my bullshit? Never.
It has to be the challenge that has me thinking about her nonstop.
Maybe.
But then I picture her standing in the rain on my doorstep telling me she was worried about me.
I remember the stiff set of her shoulders, unintimidated, as she faced me down that first day in the conference room.
I see her watching my dad tear me apart and not once looking at me like it’s my fault.
Those are the things I can’t shake.
Not the sex.
Okay, fine. Definitely the sex too.
But fuck. I run a hand through my hair. It’s more than that. It’s . . . her.
She sees me.
She has her life and her shit together and that’s so much more attractive than anyone I’ve dated before.
Something about her composure and dedication, about the way she looks at me even when having to pretend the other night didn’t happen, makes me feel . . . safe. Desired in a way so very different from the women wanting to bag an athlete with a large spending allowance.
Everything in my life feels so goddamn loud lately—my dad, the investigation, the fucking ability to throw the ball—and yes, I’m well aware Dublin’s responsible for one of them.
And yet for some reason, there’s a presence about her that quiets the noise and makes me feel like maybe I’m not losing my damn mind after all.
My phone buzzes. I welcome the distraction from the current mindfuck, but not the distractor.
Dad.
The name sits there on the screen longer than it should.
Then I do something I’ve never done before—I block his number.
Done—no hesitation, no second thought—just done.
Why though?
Because she saw what he does to you? Because the shame is still there?
Because I’m done pretending it doesn’t get to me?
Fuck if I know, but for now, it’s blocked.
No doubt he’ll show up sooner rather than later—again—just to let his presence be known, but for now, I’m making another choice to close him down. To choose to not listen to his shit.
I shove the phone back in my pocket and head down the tunnel, light from the field breaking ahead. This is something I understand.
Something I can control—or at least be able to.
My hand trembles again. Still off. Still not right.
But that’s not what’s running through my head.
A one-time thing. Something we got out of our systems. Something she can walk away from.
All those are her parameters. They’re sure as shit not mine. But I’ll let her believe that’s where we stand if that will help her keep that structure and control she clearly thrives on.
I smile at the thought. Five years is a long time to leave something unfinished. Funny how I never thought about it once—and now I can’t stop. She’s crazy if she thinks I’m staying away.
“You good?” someone calls out.
I lift my hand in acknowledgment, glancing once over my shoulder. Back toward the building where Dublin’s somewhere inside.
“This isn’t over,” I mutter.
Because I know. No doubt. Without hesitation.
It’s inevitable.