36
Kennedy
When I woke up in the morning, I felt . . . good.
Talking to Isaac had been upsetting, but I’d needed it. I’d needed someone who really knew me, someone I trusted, to push past the walls I’d built.
I needed to talk to Nash too, obviously, but just the thought of that had my stomach in knots.
It would be a defining moment. Whatever happened in that conversation would determine everything.
Our entire future. It could go either way, I understood that.
But I also knew I owed it to myself to find out if there was still a chance for us. A real one.
Isaac had said that, as far as he knew, Nash hadn’t been with anyone. He’d never even heard of Amy.
I realized that nobody truly knows what goes on in somebody else’s bedroom, but Isaac would’ve known if there was someone new that was important in Nash’s life.
That eased something in my chest.
Still, knowing what I had to do and actually doing it were very different things.
So I did what I always did when I was overwhelmed:
I procrastinated.
I walked circles around the hotel room, nervously moving things around. I wiped an already spotless counter, reorganized the few items in the fridge, and folded laundry that didn’t need folding.
When there was absolutely nothing left to do, I finally grabbed my phone. My pulse raced, and my palms were sweaty. But it was time.
Time to put my big-girl panties on.
Time to stop hiding.
I sank onto the couch, took a few steadying breaths, and, with my heart slamming against my ribs, pressed Nash’s number.
And waited.
After several rings, his voicemail finally picked up, and I felt a sharp, deflating disappointment as I listened to his short recording.
I hung up without leaving a message because I had absolutely no idea what to say.
My phone showed it was 11:00 a.m., which meant it was afternoon in New York. Nash could still be at practice.
Or not.
He could be in someone else’s bed.
I closed my eyes and took a couple of slow breaths, forcing the negative thoughts away. I’d managed this long without talking to him. What were another few hours . . . or days?
I pulled my hair into a loose ponytail and changed into a pair of capri leggings and an oversized T-shirt.
My sneakers were worn down after months of constant use, but they were broken in perfectly and slid on effortlessly.
I tucked my credit card and my room key into the little hidden pocket in my leggings, popped my earbuds in, grabbed my phone, and took off for my normal route.
After walking around the park, I stopped at a nearby café and ordered a decaf coffee. The doctor had told me to cut down on caffeine. He hadn’t said I had to give up coffee entirely.
While I waited, I opened my phone, but there were no messages. At least none that weren’t work-related.
Nash should’ve seen that I’d called. I’d expected at least a text. I was debating whether to send one when a cup thudded onto the counter.
“Thank you,” I said, handing over my card.
On my way back to the hotel, I went over my imaginary conversation with Nash, going over every way it could go until I had myself all wrapped up again. But it was time. I knew that.
As soon as the elevator doors slid open on my floor, I pulled the phone from my pocket and pressed Nash’s number again. This time, the call actually went through. His phone rang.
What I didn’t expect was hearing another phone ringing somewhere close by.
Another ring echoed down the hallway, getting louder the closer I got to my room.
It wasn’t until the third ring that I realized someone was sitting on the floor beside my door.
The phone slipped right out of my hand, thudding against the carpet. Nash’s head jerked up, eyes locking on to mine, his still-ringing phone in his hand.
“Kennedy!” He scrambled to his feet while I just stood there, mouth open, completely dumbfounded as I stared at this perfect human being who used to be my everything.
He looked a little tired, a little rough around the edges, but still so good.
So, so good. My heart kicked into overdrive as my eyes moved over him, drinking him in.
I couldn’t believe he was standing here.
“Nash?” I questioned, like I wasn’t sure if he was real or just some cruel illusion playing a trick on me.
“Ken, baby . . .”
Then he moved, and suddenly I was wrapped in his arms, pressed tight against his solid chest. The familiar feel of him, the scent that was his alone, it was too much.
It crashed over me, overwhelming and short-circuiting my thoughts.
Nothing about this made sense. His phone was still ringing.
Mine was somewhere on the floor. And Nash Reed—my Nash—was holding me like he’d been drowning and I was his first breath of air.
“What are you doing here?” I finally managed.
“God, I missed you,” Nash said, his voice breaking. He hadn’t answered the question, but the way he held me tighter, burying his face in my hair, made it seem irrelevant. What mattered was that he’d missed me.
Then I felt the tremor in his body, the way his breath hitched, and I realized he was crying.
My chest split open at the sound, at the feel of him breaking apart in my arms. I wanted to hold him forever, tell him everything would be okay, never let go.
But the hallway was not the place for this.
Anyone could round the corner at any moment, and the last thing Nash needed was another headline.
“Nash,” I whispered gently, brushing my hand along his back. “Let’s go inside.”
When he finally pulled back, his eyes were wet, and he swiped at them quickly. We picked up our phones, and, without a word, he followed me inside. We sat down side by side on the small couch, so close our thighs touched.
“I missed you so much, Kennedy,” he began, his voice thick. His eyes were rimmed red, tears clinging stubbornly to his lashes.
“I missed you too, Nash,” I admitted, the words catching on my tongue. It felt strange to say them out loud.
His lips curved into the smallest smile, and I felt his fingers tighten around mine, as though he wasn’t ready to let me go again.
“I’m so sorry. Please forgive me for being a complete idiot.”
“It was as much my fault as it was yours,” I said quietly. “I never gave you a chance to explain.”
The weight of that truth settled between us.
I hesitated, but if we were ever going to have another chance, we needed to clear things up. After taking a deep breath, I met his gaze head-on, finally asking the question that had been tearing me apart inside.
“Nash, why did Amy answer your phone?”
His eyes didn’t waver. There was no hesitation, no flicker of guilt, and that steadiness made my chest ease just slightly. He was going to tell me the truth.
“I honestly had no idea she did at the time,” he said. “Isaac was the one who told me she’d answered your call.”
“Oh.” My mind churned through every version of that moment I’d been torturing myself with for weeks.
“I can see your brain working, Ken,” Nash said gently. “Let me try to explain, okay?”
He angled himself toward me, his hand still warm and solid around mine, like he was afraid I’d bolt if he let go.
“Okay.”
“It was the day before the Men’s Advantage thing was going to be released, right?”
“Yes,” I agreed, bracing myself.
He nodded slowly. “It was late,” he began. “I was still at the arena with Mitchell and Bryce. We had some new gear to try on, and Amy was handling the merchandise.”
I gave a small nod for him to keep going, and he did.
“I was exhausted. It had been a long day. A long week. Mitch and I were about to leave when I couldn’t find my pants.
Mitch pointed to a chair where they were hanging over the back and made fun of me for forgetting where I’d left them.
When I finally got dressed, I realized my phone wasn’t in my pocket either.
I thought I’d left it there, but it was by Amy. ”
I nodded again, my mind turning over the pieces. So far, it sounded like it could fit.
“Looking back,” Nash continued, “I’m pretty sure I didn’t put my pants on that chair.
I remember laying them on the table. The only thing I can think of is she moved them, took my phone out, and answered when you called.
There was no record of the call—or whatever else she did—so I assume she erased it from the history. ”
“Huh.” My brow furrowed. “And nobody noticed her doing that?”
“No,” he said with a humorless chuckle, “because Mitch was in one of his stupid moods. He kept cracking lame jokes and telling old stories. He had Bryce going too, so we were all laughing, plus we were tired and trying to get out of there. There was no reason to think Amy would be going through my stuff.”
I saw a faint flush creep into his cheeks, like even admitting to me that she’d pursued him embarrassed him.
“And then what?” I asked.
“I grabbed my phone, and Mitch and I walked out. That was it.” He paused, searching my face. “What did she say to you?”
I exhaled, sliding my hand out of Nash’s grip to shift on the couch, needing a little space to think.
“It wasn’t so much what she said. She sounded out of breath and told me you were busy, and it .
. . it was a little strange. But then I heard your voice in the background asking her for your pants. ”
He groaned. “And you assumed I slept with her?”
I nodded, too embarrassed to say anything.
“Ken.” He sighed, and I could hear the disappointment in his voice. “I’d never do that to you. And if you doubted me, why didn’t you ask me about it? I could’ve explained.”
“I realize that, and looking back that would’ve been the smart thing to do, but I wasn’t thinking very clearly at the time.
And it wasn’t just that call, Nash. I got photos of you and her, of her touching you .
. . of her acting like you were hers. Like—” My voice cracked. “Like she belonged there and I didn’t.”
Nash’s expression shifted instantly, his jaw tightening. “Josh?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I admitted, my cheeks warming with guilt.