Page 82 of Right Up His Alley

And yet…

I reach out. Or maybe the balloons part by themselves. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is the man behind the balloons. Eyes that have seen deep into my soul and never shied away. Lips that have kissed me like I’m the only man worth kissing.

Truett.

Truett’s here… with balloons?

I don’t care what he has with him, only that he’s fucking here.

There’s so much I want to say to him, so much I need to apologize for. Except when I open my mouth, nothing comes out. Not a sound. It’s pathetic.

But Truett doesn’t seem to be struggling the way I am. He stands before me, a small, hesitant smile tugging at his lips—shy and unsure, like he’s not convinced he belongs here. His gaze flickers around the room before settling on me.

“If you want me to leave, I will,” he says quietly, voice gentle. “But I couldn’t stay away without saying this.” He steps forward and holds out the large bouquet of balloons, their strings trembling slightly in his hand. They have a weight tied to them, so when he lets them go, they stay in place. “I’m so happy for you, Ezra. You worked so hard for this, despite it not being your dream. You earned it. Congratulations.” His words are sincere, warm—but there’s something fragile beneath them, like he’s bracing for me to shut the door in his face.

I hate how he’s looking at me, but once again, that’s my doing.

Taking my silence as rejection, Truett loses his smile, stuffing his hands into his pocket. “Anyway, I’ll go. I just wanted to congratulate you for winning the bid for the tournament. I’m so happy⁠—”

“What?” The word scrapes out of me, rough and disbelieving. My body goes still, every muscle wound tight like it’s bracing for a blow. “We… we won it?”

This wasn’t my dream—it was my last shot. A desperate hope that hosting the tournament might bring in enough money to keep the alley alive. To keep me from watching those I love fall apart. For a second, I wonder if this is a joke. Some twisted payback for the way I ended things. It would make sense; I’ve been dodging my emails and everyone’s calls for the past couple of days, shutting myself away and hoping the rejection wouldn’t affect me as much. But the moment I look at Truett—really look—I know better. His eyes are steady, sincere.

Truett would never dangle something like this in front of me unless it was real, even with the pain I’ve caused him.

Which means…

It worked.

I did it. We did it. And he came here to tell me.

“You didn’t know?” Truett’s eyes widen, but I don’t answer him. I can’t. I don’t think Truett would lie to me, but I need to see the proof for myself.

“I haven’t checked my email yet.” I race back to my ancient computer, hearing rushed footfalls behind me, but I don’t turn and see if Truett is trailing after me. I know he is.

I wiggle the mouse, waking up the computer and clicking on the email icon at the bottom of the screen. The computer makes a loud noise, sounding like it’s about to take flight, and takes its sweet time opening up the email. Each second drags by painfully slowly. Too slowly.

Just when I think the computer has given up, the inbox opens, and there’s a ton of new messages I quickly scan through. Some are spam, while others are birthday and party requests. I don’t have time to take it all in because my eyes land on the email I’ve been looking for.

There it is, in bold letters, a message from USBC. I think my heart stops. I click open the email, bracing myself for… something. The words are all there, laid out in great detail, but my brain refuses to comprehend. I read it once. Twice. And a third time before the words make sense.

It’s true.

Spare Time won the bid. Even with a lack of customers this past year and the recent debt settlement clearly shown on the financial report I sent.

Emotions I can’t—and don’t want—to control rush over me. My vision goes hazy with unshed tears, and I turn toward the only person I want to celebrate with. The only person I ever wanted to celebrate with.

I grab him.

I shouldn’t—god, I know I shouldn’t—but screw the rules, screw logic. I need him. Right now.

My arms wrap around him like they’ve been waiting to come home. My hands find his face, warm and familiar, and I pull him to me like I’m starving for air and he’s the only way I can breathe.

Then I kiss him. Hard. Desperate. Like I’ve been holding it in for far too long, and it finally breaks free. I brace myself for the rejection—for the shove, the anger, the sting of consequences I’ve earned. But it doesn’t come.

Instead, he kisses me back.

Like he never stopped wanting me. Like he’s been just as wrecked, just as lost. His hands slide into my hair, and he melts into me, like he belongs there. And I kiss him like it’s the only way I know how to say thank you.