And yet, I don’t move my hand. My gaze lifts, locks onto hers.
She appears slightly dazed—I hope it was the kiss and my touch that’s doing it. Surely, she doesn’t want me to stop.
I lean back in, attempting to capture her mouth again as I whisper, “Give this to me, Harlow. Let me have something good.”
It’s the closest I’ve ever come to begging a human being for anything.
“It might be good for you, but it won’t be good for me,” she says before my mouth touches hers.
I rear back, shocked by her words. My hand falls away, leaving a smear of blood on her sweater. I’m almost offended. “You can be damn sure it would be good for you.”
Harlow shakes her head, a sad smile playing at her lips. “I’m not talking about orgasms. I’m talking about my self-esteem. If I let you use me in this way, it won’t be good for me personally.”
It’s like a bucket of ice water dumps over me, and every bit of lust and desire evaporates.
On the plus side, so does my anger. It just empties and leaves me feeling weak and nauseated.
The way Harlow looks at me right now—pretty sure it’s pity—makes my stomach roll.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter, taking another step back.
“It’s fine,” she assures me, reaching a hand out, perhaps to touch my arm.
I stumble away from her. “I’ve got to get to the arena.”
Harlow doesn’t move, and my eyes drop to her chest. “I got blood on your sweater. I’ll buy you a new one.”
Stupidest fucking thing in the world to say, but it seems to knock the pity off her face.
Instead, she becomes alarmed and tries to grab for my hand. “You’re hurt.”
“I’m fucking fine,” I growl, pulling my hand away.
She freezes, eyes wide, and then warily takes a step back. “I’m sorry.”
My anger ignites again. It’s truly not because of her, but she’s the easiest target to direct it toward. “Why the fuck are you apologizing? I attacked you.”
“You didn’t attack—”
“Just leave,” I cut in.
She doesn’t move.
So my hand again goes to her chest, this time not in an erotic gesture but one of rudeness. I push her—gently, but firmly—until she’s forced out of my foyer and into the hallway.
It takes all my strength and power not to slam the door in her face, but it’s with resounding finality when I do shut it, her surprised expression the last thing I see.
CHAPTER 16
Stone
The Titans’ workout facility is housed within the arena at street level, one level below the main concourse and two levels above the basement locker rooms. It faces the river with the downtown cityscape behind it, the idea in mind to provide the players with an enhanced experience, given the amazing view. The glass is reflective and you cannot see in, so the players have privacy. It’s the same on the concourse above and the levels above that, plus the glass is energy and pollution efficient.
Whatever that means.
Let’s just say you won’t see me driving an electric car anytime soon. I like my big SUV, and unfortunately, it guzzles gas.
There’s over six thousand square feet of workout space that runs the oblong length of the building’s river-facing side. All the equipment is state of the art and has been upgraded within the last two years. While most of the men prefer to work with free weights and barbells, there are numerous machines, including all the standard cardio torture devices like treadmills, bikes, rowing machines, and stair-climbers.
Despite the fact I had absolutely no sleep last night and came into practice after that awful encounter with Harlow, I actually killed it on the ice this morning. And when I say that awful encounter with Harlow, it’s not just because I made a complete ass of myself, but because my fucking pride got trampled when she turned me down.
Oddly, I’m in a lighter frame of mind right now as I enter the workout facility, intent on punishing my body with some heavy weights.
I’m not quite sure why my mood is so good, but it’s probably a combination of things. Getting to know my brother through his journals has given me some peace with his death. I think purging my anger with that brief, albeit violent, rampage through the condo helped. Hell, part of it might even be that soul-stealing kiss with Harlow, but my level of play this morning was focused, and I’ve never felt such connection to the sport before.
Fuck… maybe it’s Brooks’s ghost inhabiting me. Whatever it is, I’m grateful for it.
I do have to give credit to Gage, though. He and I are clicking in our respective positions of left and right wing. Normally, you want a dynamic trio, which would include the center, but Coen is playing so inconsistently, he’s almost a nonentity. That’s never been truer than lately as he’s been suspended after his arrest last week in New York. He’ll be out for the next two games, but he doesn’t seem to give a fuck. I’ve reached out to him via text to see how he’s doing since he did call me to bail him out.
His response?
Doing great.
Absolute lie, so I haven’t tried to contact him again.
Just inside the workout facility is a lounge area where the guys can hang and relax. Baden and Gage are there talking.
I take it Baden just finished a workout as he’s sweaty, whereas Gage is not.
Gage sees me and waves me over. When I approach, he asks, “You getting ready to work out?”
“Nah… thought I’d paint my nails.”
Baden snorts and Gage rolls his eyes. “Want to work out together, asshole?”
“Sure,” I reply and give my attention to Baden. “Anyone talked to Coen lately?”
“I haven’t,” Baden replies, a frown creasing his forehead. “Something up?”
I shake my head. “Not sure. He just seems to be blowing off the arrest, and it’s not like him. I mean… not that I knew him before, but by all accounts of what his reputation was prior to the crash, he’s clearly spiraling.”
“Yeah.” Baden’s troubled expression intensifies. “I know Callum has talked to him a few times.”
“He needs counseling or some shit,” I offer, knowing that’s probably not helpful. “When I bailed him out, he didn’t think there was anything wrong with what he’d done. I texted him recently, and he said it wasn’t a big deal. But this is a big deal, and he needs to get his head straight. A trip to a shrink or whatever, but the dude needs help.”
“Not sure we can mandate that he seek professional help,” Baden replies neutrally. He is a coach, after all, and won’t get into organizational policy with us. “But I’ll reach out to the appropriate folks and ask about it.”
“Good enough,” I reply.
Gage and I make our farewells and head deeper into the facility. It’s by silent agreement we’ll work barbells together, since that’s really the only time it’s wise to have a partner, especially if you’re lifting heavy, which I intend to do.
“I need to hit legs today,” I advise Gage.
“Works for me,” he replies casually, and we find an empty squat rack next to Jesper. He’s got a bench set up and is working on chest presses.