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"That's none of your goddamned business."
"I've always considered you a friend, so in a way, it is. But even if you say that we've never been more than client and manager, it's still my business. Quite literally."
I shake my head, frustrated with Tate's insistence on pushing my buttons. "I appreciate your concern, but my decision is final. I need a break from the fighting world, and that's what I'm going to do. That's what I'm going to announce today. So you can either get with the program or leave; it's up to you."
Tate lets out a heavy sigh. "Sure, sure. Go play house., Or go sit on your sofa and drink because that’s what you’ve been doing.”
“I’m telling you, back off. I’m fine. I can party and chill as often as I want—I’m a grown man.”
“But you haven’t been partying. You haven’t gone to a club or hooked up for months. And that would be great if it meant you’re settling down, growing up, but you’re not. You’re wallowing in a pity party no one’s invited to. So, yeah, if you want me to wash my hands of you, I’ll do it. Just remember, whether you realize it or not, Grayson, you still have fight left in you. The question is, are you man enough to face it? In or out of the cage."
I clench my jaw, unwilling to let Tate see how right he is, how I've been drowning in self-pity and heartache ever since Tyley left. But admitting it would mean facing the reality I've been avoiding.
"Duly noted."
I glance around the empty venue, feeling the weight of my decision settle on my shoulders. It's the right choice, I tell myself. I need a break and time to figure things out. As the press conference draws closer, the place fills with reporters and cameras. Today, they seem like vultures ready to tear me apart for a story.
Here goes nothing.
Tate is nowhere to be seen, and I suppose he took me up on my challenge to leave if he couldn't deal with my decision. Mike already told me he wasn’t going to be by my side when I messed up my future.
Great fucking friends I’ve got.
The sound of the back door opening prompts me to turn around just as I take my first step toward the conference table. Surely it’s just one of the crew members or a journalist who took a wrong turn and ended up backstage rather than alongside his colleagues.
I look again. It must be just wishful thinking, my eyes showing me what I want to see—but there she is—the one person I never expected to see again.
"Tyley," I manage to say, my voice strained. I can see the hesitation in her eyes, the flicker of uncertainty. Is she here to gloat? To apologize? To demand an apology? Or—and this is definitely wishful thinking—does she miss me too?
She looks as stunning as the day she ordered me to leave her car—more so if that's even possible. A whirlwind of emotions rushes through me all at once: anger, hurt, longing, regret. Love?
Her hair is the same shade of sun-kissed blonde I remember, cascading down her shoulders in loose waves. I have to remind myself it’s been only two months since I last saw her, not a lifetime like it feels now. Even in the stark, half-empty backstage, her presence brings a flicker of warmth that contrasts with the emptiness I’ve been carrying everywhere I go.
“Hey, Grayson.” She offers me a strained smile, one that doesn’t quite reach her blue eyes. She’s clad in simple jeans and an oversized sweater, and still, she manages to be breathtakingly striking. “I heard you were holding some sort of press conference today, and I figured I’d stop by and say hello.”
Those feelings grow further still, battling for victory. In the end, it’s pride, that ever-present thorn, that pushes its way to the front of the line.
"Hello, then," I acknowledge, my voice clipped and neutral, offering none of the warmth I want to offer her. “Anything else?”
Fuck, why am I being such a bastard?
“I was hoping we could talk.”
She’s nervous. What’s the real reason for her being here? Part of me wants to dissect every nuance of her words, her stance, the way her eyes flicker toward mine, but once again, pride takes the lead, and I clip that urge.
I motion toward the stage, trying to remain casual and aloof. "I’m sort of busy right now.”
But I don’t turn to leave, don’t walk away, and the silence stretches, thick with unspoken words. I feel her eyes on me, searching my face for something – a reaction, maybe. I offer nothing, and I hate myself for that.
“I really do need to talk to you. Maybe after the conference?”
“Nah, I’ll be busy then, too.”
That’s a bald-faced lie, and I know it, but I can’t seem to be capable of stopping myself once I go down this road.
“It’s important.”
“You had two months to tell me whatever it is that’s so important. Maybe I ‘need some space.’”
