“I'm not trying to save you. I'm trying to help.” I followed him. “Two hundred thousand isn't that much—”
He spun around, and the look in his eyes stopped me cold.
Not hurt. Anger. Pure, defensive anger.
“Not that much? Maybe not to you. But it's everything to me.”
“That's not what I meant—”
“It's seven years of my life. Every time I said no to something because the gallery mattered more.” His voice was rising now, control slipping. “It was supposed to be mine. Something I built myself, not something handed to me—”
“It's not charity. It's just money.”
“Just money.” He laughed, harsh and sharp. “Of course it is to you. You probably spend two hundred thousand on cars and whatever the fuck NFL guys buy without thinking about it.”
Heat flared in my chest. “You don't know what the fuck I spend my money on.”
“Don't I?” He crossed his arms. “You've never had to scrape for anything. Everything you have, you earned playing a game.My whole life has been fighting for enough to maybe, possibly, someday have something that's actually mine.”
“A game.” The word came out flat, dangerous. “That's what you think this is? A game?”
“Isn't it? You throw a ball around and people pay you millions. Meanwhile, I work two jobs and save every dollar for seven years and still end up with nothing.”
“You think it's easy?” My voice was rising now too. “You think I didn't sacrifice? Didn't work? I've spent my entire life training, pushing my body past what it should do, dealing with pain that would put most people on their ass. And now my shoulder's fucked and my career might be over and you're acting like none of that matters because you decided what I do isn't real work.”
“That's not what I—”
“Yes it is.” I stepped closer. “You're pissed at your brother, pissed at yourself, and you're taking it out on me because I'm offering help and that threatens whatever story you tell yourself about being the guy who does everything alone.”
His jaw clenched. “You don't get to psychoanalyze me.”
“Why not? You just psychoanalyzed my entire career.”
“I'm just saying we live in different worlds, Cord. You're the guy who solves problems with money. I'm the guy who—”
“Who what? Who's too proud to accept help even when you need it? Who'd rather lose everything than let someone give a shit about what happens to you?”
“Better than being the guy who thinks throwing money at something makes it yours.” His eyes blazed. “Is that what this week was? You trying to buy something? Pay for the novelty of fucking the help?”
The words hit like a punch to the gut. “That's not fair.”
“None of this is fair.” He grabbed his jacket from the chair. “You're leaving in a few hours. Going back to your real life, your surgery, your million-dollar decisions. And I'm staying here,working at a sex resort, living in the same position I was in seven years ago. That's reality. Not whatever fantasy you built in your head this week.”
“So that's what I am to you? A fantasy?”
“What else could you be?” His voice cracked slightly. “We had a week, Cord. One week where you played at being a different person and I played at believing this could be something. But we both knew it was temporary.”
“I didn't—”
“Yes, you did.” He moved toward the door. “This was always going to end. This just makes it cleaner.”
“Cleaner.” The word tasted bitter. “You mean easier for you to walk away.”
“Easier than what? Pretending we could make this work? You really want to do long distance with the guy who works at a sex resort? You want to sit in Denver wondering if I'm teaching yoga or if I'm on my back in one of those cabins?”
The bluntness of it stung. “That's a low blow.”
“It's the truth. I work here, Cord. That's my job. And without the gallery, it's going to be my job for a long time.” His jaw was tight. “You think you can handle that? Knowing what I do? Who I do it with?”
