I caught Kincaid in the corridor outside the locker room after the game. He was talking to one of the assistant coaches, but he looked up when I approached and something flickered across his face before he smoothed it away into professional neutrality.
“Russo,” he said. “Good game to watch?”
“Yeah. Cole’s goal was incredible.” I kept my voice level, casual, like I hadn’t tried to kiss him five days ago and gotten rejected. Like I hadn’t spent the last week alternating between humiliation and telling myself to get over it. “Wanted to confirm as I’m cleared—training tomorrow morning? Seven AM?”
“That’s right.” His eyes met mine briefly, then moved away. “Just you and me to start. We’ll see where you are, build from there.”
“Sounds good. I’ll be there.”
“Get some rest tonight. The ribs still bothering you?”
“Not at all.”
He nodded, already turning back to his conversation with the assistant coach, and I took the dismissal for what it was. Professional. Appropriate. Exactly what it should be between a coach and a player.
I made my way out of the arena and caught a rideshare back to my apartment, wondering if it was time I got my own car. The last one I’d bought had been a minivan for Lucia and she’d cried when I’d given her the keys, and I’d quietly reminded Marco of all the years he’d watched out for me and done without so Mom and Dad had been able to buy me gear.
The driver didn’t try to make conversation, which I appreciated. I leaned my head against the window and watched Denver slide past, downtown giving way to Capitol Hill, the streets quieter now that it was past eleven.
The building looked the same as it always did when I got there. Brick facade, industrial aesthetic, the keycard reader by the door that took two tries before it finally beeped and let me in. I headed for the elevator, already thinking about a shower and my bed and maybe not thinking about Kincaid’s face when he’d said “mistake” for the thousandth time today.
The elevator doors opened on the third floor, and I stepped out into the hallway.
And stopped.
Odin Clark was standing outside the apartment across from mine—the one that had been empty when I moved in, the one that had boxes outside it on Sunday when Kincaid had walked me upstairs. He had a key in his hand and was in the process of unlocking the door, dressed casually in jeans and a sweater that probably cost more than my monthly rent.
He looked up when he heard the elevator, and his face split into a stunned, but then an easy, friendly, smile I remembered from the game.
“Dante!” he said, like running into me was the best thing that had happened to him all day. “You live here? Small world, huh?”
I blinked at him, my brain taking a moment to catch up. “Mr. Clark. What are you—you’re moving in here?”
“Odin, please. And yes, actually.” He gestured at the door. “I mentioned I was opening a Denver branch, remember? Bought three apartments in this building for my managers. Figured it would be easier to have everyone in one place while we’re setting up operations. This one’s mine.”
Three apartments. Which meant two more of his employees would be moving into my building, into my floor possibly, into my space.
“That’s—wow. That’s a coincidence,” I managed.
“Isn’t it?” He pushed the door open, revealing an apartment that was the mirror image of mine—same layout, same industrial aesthetic, but somehow already looked more lived-in despite the moving boxes stacked everywhere. “I’ve been going back and forth between here and Chicago for the last week getting everything set up. Should be permanent by the end of the month.”
“That’s great. Congratulations on the expansion.”
“Thank you.” He leaned against the doorframe, and I became aware that he was looking at me in a way that felt differentfrom the weekend. More focused. More interested. “How are you feeling? That was quite a bruise on your face at the game.”
I touched my cheekbone reflexively. The swelling had gone down, but the bruise was still spectacular. “Better. Healing up.”
“Good. That’s good.” He was quiet for a moment, and I had the distinct impression he was deciding whether to say something. Then: “Listen, I’m going to be in Denver for the foreseeable future, and I don’t really know anyone here outside of work. If you ever want to grab dinner or drinks, show me around the city, I’d enjoy the company.”
Oh.
Oh.
He was interested. Like,interestedinterested. The kind of interested that involved dinner and drinks and probably expectations that came after.
I should have felt something about that. Flattered, maybe. Intrigued. He was good-looking in that understated way, clearly successful, easy to talk to. A month ago, before everything with Kincaid, I might have said yes. Might have convinced myself that going out with an older, stable guy who actually wanted to spend time with me was exactly what I needed.
But all I felt was tired.
