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Crim listened while I destroyed myself with words until I ran out of them.

Then his voice went hard. “Are you done feeling sorry for yourself?”

“I’m not.”

“You are, and I get it. You fucked up. Massively.”

“Thanks for the reminder.”

“But you’re sitting here acting like it’s over.”

“It is over. She’s in Denver.”

“For an interview, not a funeral.”

“What’s the difference?”

“The difference is you can still fight for her, you idiot.”

My brain started working again. Slowly. Like rusty gears grinding back to life. “Fight for her?”

“Grovel. Beg. Whatever it takes.”

“She won’t even talk to me.”

“Then make her listen.”

“How?”

“I don’t know.” He leaned back in the seat. “But you’ve got until she gets back to figure that out.”

My competitive instinct kicked in. Game six tonight was a home game. If we won, we’d advance to the next round. Lose, and we’d face game seven on Monday.

I just needed to play the game of my life, win, track her down, and show her the biggest grovel in history.

“What if she takes the job?” The question hurt to ask.

“Then you didn’t grovel hard enough.”

“That’s not helpful.”

“Want helpful? Stop being scared of wanting her.”

“I’m not.”

Crim lifted one eyebrow.

“Alright,” I said. “I’m terrified.”

“Use it.” He shifted in the seat, his voice going quieter. “You know why I gave you that nod in the parking lot?”

“Because you felt sorry for me.”

“Because I watched you spend a year asking about her. Casual questions, but they had meaning.”

“I was making conversation.”

“You were trying to figure out if you had a shot.”