31
Nash
I drained the rest of the beer and slammed the empty bottle down on the bar.
Everything I cared about was falling apart. It was like a black hole had opened up and was sucking me under.
“Easy, bud,” Bryce muttered behind me.
I just growled, jerking my hand at the bartender for another beer. Or ten.
I’d been so excited when the magazine came out, letting myself believe things were turning around. And the response had been great. I’d thought maybe—just maybe—my luck was turning around. But no.
Tonight’s game had been a fucking disaster. I’d played like shit. Again. To the point where the head coach had pulled me out during the last period and told me not to leave the fucking bench.
I’d gotten two penalties in the first period—two. That had never happened before. Not once in my entire career.
Never had I played this poorly or acted like such an ass. And I hated it. Hated myself for it. Hated knowing how far I’d fallen from the rising star I used to be. How pathetic I’d become.
And the worst part? I knew I was spinning out of control. I could feel it happening. I just didn’t know how stop it.
I was losing everything I’d worked my entire life for. And even worse, I was losing the person who meant the most to me, and I didn’t know how to fix it. I didn’t even know how to save myself.
Kennedy wouldn’t talk to me or respond to my text messages.
I’d called at least three times a day for the last week, left messages that went unanswered, and sent a ridiculous number of texts.
Hell, I’d even sent her a fucking email, thinking maybe she’d accidentally open it while she was working. But nothing. Just silence.
She’d pulled away from me when we went away to college, but at least she’d responded when I texted her.
Now there was nothing at all. The worst part was that I didn’t know why she’d cut me off.
One day we’d been fine—better than fine, we’d been fucking great—talking about her coming back to New York, about her moving in with me.
I’d already been planning to turn my unused office into an office space for her, so she could work from home if she wanted.
Home. Us sharing a home, that was all I wanted. But something had happened, and I had no idea what it was or how to fix it. I’d gone as far as to reach out to her parents and her brother, desperate for answers, but they didn’t know either. They said they’d barely heard from her.
The bartender slid a fresh beer in front of me, and I drained half of it in one go.
“Nash.” Mitchell’s voice came from the side, calm but definitely concerned. “You should slow down.”
“No.”
“Maybe we should just go,” Mitch tried again.
“Go where, Mitch?” I snapped. “Back to my empty fucking apartment so I can lie there and wonder what the hell happened to my life? Wonder why Kennedy suddenly decided she didn’t want me anymore?”
“Nash . . .” He didn’t finish. And he didn’t need to. He didn’t know any more than I did. And instead of feeding me the old “it’ll all work out” line like he used to—back before even he realized maybe it wouldn’t—he just stayed quiet.
I finished the rest of the beer while Mitch stepped closer, gesturing to the bartender.
“Do you think she met someone else, Mitch?” I asked, desperate to hear his answer and afraid to at the same time.
Because it was the only explanation that made sense. That she’d met some new guy, and he didn’t want her talking to me.
I didn’t think it was Trevor, because he’d been spotted at some beach resort with a girl on each arm, and I knew Kennedy would never put up with that.
“I really have no idea, man. Do you want me to ask her?”
I shrugged, but the thought made my stomach twist. It was possible that she’d talk to Mitch.
They got along well enough. But as much as I wanted to know what it was that had happened, I wasn’t sure if I was ready to hear that I’d been replaced by someone else.
To know that she was happy being wrapped up in someone else’s arms.
“Fuck!” I hissed, grabbing the fresh beer like it might burn away the image of Kennedy naked in someone else’s bed. I slammed it back and shoved off the barstool, storming toward the restroom, my emotions boiling so hot I could barely think.
On my way back, Amy slid into my path like she’d been waiting for me. For the perfect moment to strike.
“Nash, baby. Where are you rushing off to?” she purred, that sly smile tugging at her lips.
I didn’t even bother to hold back my groan. “Amy,” I muttered, already moving to step around her. But she stepped with me, blocking me, her smile turning sensual.
“Nash.” She cooed my name, curling her hand around my arm as she leaned closer. “Buy me a drink?”
Fucking hell.
Why? Just why?
“Come on, baby . . .”
“No,” I snapped, yanking my arm out of her grip. “We’ve been over this, Amy. I’m not interested.”
She laughed, a low, taunting sound that had nothing to do with humor. It was the kind of laugh people used when they thought they were in control. That had every alarm bell in my body going off.
And that was when I saw him. Josh. He stood a few feet away with his phone aimed right at us.
My vision went completely red as all the pieces suddenly came together.
Pictures.
Pictures of me and Amy that had been sent to Kennedy.
Rage tore through me so violently my hands shook.
That smug little grin on Amy’s face. Josh with his phone out like he’d been waiting to catch the perfect angle.
My life, my relationship, being played with like a goddamn pawn in whatever pathetic game they were running.
I shoved Amy’s hand off me and stormed straight toward him. His eyes flickered wide for a split second before his jaw locked tight, like he was bracing for whatever I was about to throw at him. Bet he didn’t expect it to be my fist.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I shouted, fury exploding as my knuckles cracked against his face.
He staggered back, cheek flushing red from where I’d hit him. Blood trickled from a cut in his lip, and there was something darkly satisfying about being the one who’d put it there.
“What did you do?” I demanded.
He didn’t answer, but the twitch at the corner of his mouth told me everything.
“You fucking asshole,” I bellowed, my whole body shaking with rage. “You . . . you’re the one . . .” I glared at him as he wiped blood from his busted lip with the back of his hand. “You set this whole goddamn thing up!”
“Fuck you, Reed,” he said, spitting blood onto the floor.
“Answer me.” I shoved him hard against the bar, gasps erupting around us, but I didn’t care.
“You’re fucking paranoid,” Josh sneered, but I wasn’t. Not anymore.
I’d just caught him snapping a picture of me with Amy’s hand on me. I’d bet any amount of money he’d been doing it all along and sending them straight to Kennedy.
My voice dropped to a deadly calm. “What the fuck have you been telling her?”
He didn’t answer, so I stepped closer, my voice low and lethal. “What’s the plan, Josh? Make yourself look like some kind of fucking savior? Ready to swoop in and catch her when she falls? Like some kind of hero?”
His smirk was all the confirmation I needed.
Rage roared through me. All the misunderstandings. Every frustrating conversation. Every crack of doubt between me and Kennedy. All of it was his fault. His and Amy’s.
I drew my arm back, ready to smash my fist into his smug, pretty face again, but a large hand clamped around my biceps, stopping me mid-swing.
“Nash,” Mitchell hissed in my ear. “I get it, but everyone’s got their fucking cameras on you. Put your hand down. Right now.”
I froze, chest heaving. Mitch was right. I knew he was right, and as much as it killed me, I lowered my arm, but not without clenching and unclenching my fist, my body vibrating with the need to hit Josh again.
Josh just stared at me, his busted lip curling into a goading grin. “You’re so fucked.”
Mitchell’s bulk pressed me back, forcing distance between us, but my focus stayed locked on Josh. His smile widened, his teeth streaked red with blood, but it no longer gave me any satisfaction. Now it only made me sick.
What the hell had he done?