Page 88 of Hard Pass

“This isn’t a game. This is my life.”

“And you don’t think I know that?” he asks, words biting. “You don’t think my life isn’t tied up, isn’t in your hands too?”

His words startle me and give me pause. I never considered it that way. I never . . .

“I don’t sleep with athletes I’m investigating. I don’t risk my career like that. I don’t jump into bed with someone when it means nothing to them. I don’t—just don’t do this.” Tears burn in my eyes, but I shove them away.

“That’s what you think?”

“Yes. No.” I throw my hands out. “You’re the one acting like this is just some inevitable hookup you can pencil in between practices.”

The muscles in his neck grow taut. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Pretend this meant less just so you can walk away cleaner.”

Oof. Hammer meet nail. Because that’s exactly what I’m trying to do.

“That’s what you want though,” I say, even if I’m not sure I believe it.

He steps closer, voice dropping. “To know what I want, you’d have to ask me, but I think you’re too afraid of the answer to do that.”

I hate that he sees what I’m doing when I don’t. Hate that he’s calling me out. And I loathe that my pride wants him to be wrong.

“I’m not pretending anything.” My voice breaks. It’s barely noticeable, but it’s there.

“You are,” he says quietly.

Silence settles between us.

“If you could take it back,” he says, watching me carefully, “would you?”

My chest tightens. My mind scrambles for answers I should give. The one that protects me and makes sense, but the truth is sitting front and center. In the fact that I’m still standing here.

“I—” I sigh and don’t finish.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “Didn’t think so.” His gaze doesn’t waver. “Because I wouldn’t.”

His words hang between us and surprise me. “You wouldn’t?”

“No.” His smile is shy, but that lone syllable is resolute. “Was it the last thing I expected after the night I had? Definitely. But . . .” He drags a hand over the back of his neck and his smile morphs into a grin that lights up his entire face. “Christ. You know how to make a man forget the bad by making him feel incredible.”

I blink. The argument on my tongue dies. The woman in me nearly whimpers at his words.

He’s not promising forevers and tomorrows—and how creepy would that be if he were after one night together—but he’s also not saying this was nothing to him.

I can live with that. Besides, if the man had regrets, he could have let me sneak out without saying a word—much like Cabo.

But he didn’t.

“You can run, Trouble,” he says. That name. “You’ve got a lot of reasons to.” His eyes dart over my shoulder and then back to mine. “But you haven’t run yet, and I’m not complaining about that.”

Jesus.

He’s right.

I haven’t moved.