That’s not right.
I think about my foster mom. The good one. Celine. The one who actually cared, even if I was too messed up by then to let her in. She used to say that the measure of a man wasn’t what he did whenpeople were watching; it was what he did when no one was.
No one’s watching now.
No one would know if I just got in my truck and drove away, and let this be someone else’s problem.
I get in the truck. Start the engine. Sit there with my hands on the wheel, not moving.
Not my problem.
The words feel hollow this time.
I think about the locker room. The way they talked about her. The way no one pushed back except Logan, and even that was half-hearted. I think about practice. The sloppy passes, the missed cues, the distraction bleeding into everything we do. I think about her standing in the yoga studio yesterday, trying to put herself back together before anyone could see she’d fallen apart. I think about Grayson calling her sweetheart like he had any right to.
My grip tightens on the steering wheel. Yeah, someone should do something. And maybe—maybe that someone is me.
I don’t know what I’d do. I don’t know what Icoulddo. It’s not like I can just tell twenty guys to stop being idiots. It’s not like I can follow her around all day, glaring at anyone who looks at her wrong.
But there has to be something.
I pull out of the parking lot, heading toward my apartment, the thought turning over and over in my head.
By the time I get home, I still don’t have ananswer. I eat leftover pasta standing at the kitchen counter, then a protein bar, then half a sleeve of crackers because I’m still hungry. I think about texting Zayden, asking if he’s noticed how bad things have gotten.
But I don’t—not yet, anyway. Instead, I sit on my couch, stare at the wall, and try to figure out why I care so much about a woman I barely know.
She’s pretty. That’s obvious. But I’ve seen pretty before. Pretty doesn’t usually make me want to punch my own teammates.
It’s something else. The way she holds herself. The way she tries so hard to be professional even when they’re making it impossible. The way she asked me if I enjoyed the show, like she expected me to be just as bad as the rest of them.
She expected me to be like them.
And I wasn’t.
I’m not.
I don’t know what I am, but I’m not that.
The thought circles back again, stubborn and insistent. Someone should do something.
I reach for another protein bar, tearing it open.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll figure out what.
Chapter Six
Damn It
Banks
The following day, Zayden corners me after practice with that familiar look on his face. The one that means he’s about to say something I don’t want to hear.
“Got a minute?”
“No.”
“Great.” He falls into step beside me anyway, because Zayden Bishop has never taken a hint in his life. “We need to talk.”
