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I throw myself at Coen, wrap my arms around his neck, and kiss him. Just to get him to shut up, because I can’t stand him talking that way about himself.
He balks for only a second before he kisses me back. One hand cradles my head, the other cups my ass, pressing me close, and he kisses us both breathless.
But he tears away, looking at me with wild eyes. “I don’t deserve to have this with you.”
He releases me so suddenly, I stumble. Coen’s hands ball into fists, as if he’s restraining himself from reaching out to me.
“Tell me,” I say firmly. “You need to unload whatever this is.”
“You’ll hate me,” he promises.
“I won’t,” I promise back. “Because I can already see that whatever it is you’ve done, you’re so remorseful for it, you’re willing to shut out the world and be left alone in your misery. I don’t know what it is, but you’ve already atoned, or you’re well on your way.”
“You can’t know that. You can’t possibly understand if my sin is even forgivable.”
I glare as I step back into him and poke him in the chest. “Icanknow that. You don’t give me enough credit, but I’m telling you, I’d never let a man do the things you’ve done to me if I didn’t think he had a good moral compass, that at his core, he’s decent. I believe that about you, even if you don’t.”
Coen’s expression becomes tortured with indecision. I can see how much he wants to continue to hate himself with just a tiny glimmer of hope that maybe he could like himself again.
I reach out, take him by the wrist, and I have to push my fingers against his to get him to open his hand. I put my palm against his and squeeze tight.
He looks down at our union, a muscle in his jaw indicating the tight clench of his teeth. When his gaze lifts to mine, he looks defiant. “I let one of my teammates’ girlfriends give me a blow job.”
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t shocked, not by the crude nature of what he said but by the absolute dishonest phrasing of his confession.
“That’s not all there is to that story. You’re not telling me all of it.”
“There’s no more to tell. All that matters is I let her do it. I wanted her to do it. I let it happen, knowing it was wrong.”
“No,” I say adamantly, shaking my head. “You wouldn’t do that.”
“You don’t know me,” he growls.
I squeeze his hand harder. “I know you wouldn’t do that to a friend. There’s more to the story. Were you drunk?”
Coen blinks at me.
“That’s it, isn’t it? You were drunk.”
“Yes, but I knew what I was doing.”
“Then there’s still more to the story,” I assert. “Tell me.”
“There’s not.”
“Tell me,” I demand. “You’ve come this far. Might as well tell it all and let me decide how to judge you.”
Coen huffs in frustration and tries to pull his hand away. I don’t let go, so he takes his other hand and scrubs it through his hair. “I thought they’d broken up. She told me they had, and they hadn’t been dating long, anyway. It wasn’t serious, so—”
“I knew it,” I say triumphantly. “I knew you couldn’t betray a friend.”
“They weren’t broken up, though,” he says, and the pain in his voice hurts my heart.
“She lied to you?”
“Yeah.”
“Then it’s not your fault. That’s on her.”
