“It’s not a waste of time,” I insist.
Coen’s eyes bore into mine, his face set in a hard mask. “It is a waste of time because I don’t deserve to be here.”
The self-loathing in those words clenches my gut. Stone and I exchange worried glances, and Coen rolls his eyes. “I’m not talking about not deserving of being alive. I’m saying I don’t deserve to be on this team.”
“Of course you’re deserving,” Stone scoffs. “You’re one of the best players in the league.”
“Not the point,” Coen says.
“Then explain the point,” I urge. “Tell us why you feel that way, and we can go from there.”
Coen shakes his head, mouth drawn downward. “It would do no good. My chances of redemption went down with that plane, and without it, I can’t be on this team.”
Could he be any more cryptic, and could I be any more confused?
“What was on that plane?” Stone asks, but I’m thinking that should be a who was on that plane.
Expression shuttering to a blank mask, Coen slips away from us, and I can tell he’s done talking. That’s reaffirmed as he sets his beer bottle down and moves to the door.
Before he reaches it, I ask, “So you’re going to quit?”
“Yes,” he says in exasperation, wheeling around to glare at me. “Why can’t you accept that?”
“I won’t ever accept it,” I reply, moving toward him. I step toe-to-toe. “You’re going to regret this. It will be the biggest mistake of your life. And when you finally realize that, I want you to think back on this moment and remember that Stone and I were here trying to help you figure out a better option than quitting.”
“How can there be a better option?” he grouses bitterly. “After that incident with the ref, I’m probably going to get kicked off the team. At the least, I’ll be suspended for the rest of the season.”
“You’re not getting kicked off the team,” I say with assurance. Yeah, I don’t know that for sure, but I’m reasonably confident Brienne and Callum will look at the totality of the circumstances here. “You might be suspended for the rest of the season, but at least you’ll still be part of this team. And then you can regroup. Take some time to figure things out. Go to fucking therapy, go on a trip, get your head together. You cannot be making life-altering decisions to flush your career when you’re clearly suffering from some tough psychological shit.”
Coen glances away from me, shoving his hands into his pockets. I’m encouraged by his silence rather than an immediate denial of anything rational.
Stone steps forward. “I’m sure you’re going to have to meet with Callum about this sometime today. My bet is suspension. Appeal it if you want, or don’t. Accept it and take the rest of the season to get your head on straight.”
Coen’s gaze moves to Stone, as if this might be a reasonable solution.
Emboldened, Stone says, “Brooks left me a cabin in Potter County. It’s a bit northeast of here, very isolated, a good place for you to get away from it all. Head up this weekend and check it out. Stay as long as you like.”
Tipping his head, Coen admits, “I’d love to get the fuck out of this city.”
“Cabin is yours for as long as you want, but you can’t quit. That’s the price for staying. If before next season starts, you still feel the same, fine. But no quitting this season.”
It’s silent as he ponders Stone’s offer, and while I want to urge him to take it, I don’t want him to reject it out of anger with us. For right now, he’s fairly calm.
Pivoting toward the door, Coen opens it, glancing first at me, then eyes resting on Stone. “Let me think about it. I’ll let you know.”
My heart sinks. He’s not going to take the cabin—I can tell by the stony expression back in place as he waits for us to exit.
With a sigh, I walk past him out the door, followed by Stone. Turning, I face him before he can shut the door on me. “I’m here for you anytime you need or want to talk. I’m not giving up on you.”
Coen gives a curt nod and shuts the door. I wonder if that’s the last time I’ll ever see him.
CHAPTER 14
Jenna
The knock on my apartment door nearly makes me jump out of my skin. The mixture of excitement, nerves, and a bit of fear has me on edge. My hands shake slightly as I remove my apron and stuff it into a cabinet. I tell myself to calm down, but my heart is pounding, and I’m afraid at any minute, I’ll be drenched in anxiety sweat.
Let’s face it.
It was a big deal I went on a dinner date with Gage. The first man I’ve even considered giving time to in so very long.
It was an even bigger deal that I went on a second date, and at the end, easily succumbed to the early draws of passion with him.
But to invite Gage to my apartment so I can cook for him?
Well, that goes beyond anything I thought myself capable of.
It crushes the walls I’ve built up, and it’s taught me that I might want something more for myself.
Many would say that’s a big fucking deal.
It’s so much more intimate spending time together in the privacy of a home, and cooking for someone is one of the greatest acts of care you can do, whether it’s a simple meal for your family or wanting to put good food in the belly of a man you like in an attempt to please him.
Given the last kiss we shared on the banks of the Allegheny River under the illumination of the Pittsburgh skyline, I think about how we’re going to have utter privacy in a romantic situation. I’d like to tell myself that’s ridiculous thinking, but I’m the one who purchased candles for my little card table where we’ll be eating the roasted chicken, potatoes au gratin, and fresh asparagus. Gage is bringing wine.
Of course, romance is part of this setting, and he’s made it abundantly clear he’s attracted to me. And while I may not have been as forthright in my feelings for him, he’s a perceptive man. He knows I’m attracted to him.
More nervous excitement flutters in my belly as I move to the door. I take a deep breath and look down at the outfit I chose for tonight—a pair of skinny jeans with a long-sleeved lightweight sweater that actually has an open V-neck.
I’m putting myself out there.
No turtlenecks.
No scarves.
Granted, I’m wearing my long hair down and pulled forward, but I’m still exposing myself to Gage. I’m choosing to believe that my scars don’t bother him in any way, so I’m not going to hide them.
At least the ones on my jaw and neck.
I let my breath out and open the door, my eyes immediately drinking him in. It’s that flash I’ve experienced a few times already—when I first see him and have that blip of doubt as to how this can be real. He’s gorgeous, dressed in jeans and a button-down shirt, a bottle of wine in one hand and a white bag with handles in the other.
How can someone as beautiful, accomplished, and genuine as this man be interested in me?
But as I watch his own eyes travel over my body, not skipping or stuttering over my face or neck, coming back up warm with appreciation, I know I can’t doubt his feelings. It’s there, utterly stripped and naked in his expression that he likes what he sees. I flush with pleasure from that knowledge.