I cut him off before this conversation got more off track. “It wasn’t that.”

In the stadium, there was a cheer, something happening. I felt a sear of panic. “You need to go. You’ll be up soon.” Someone could come in at any moment. Our staff. The Reds’ staff. Another player. Someone could come in and we’d—this—would be caught.

“Did I miss something?” He moved, blocking my exit, and gripped my shoulders with both hands. I finally looked up, a mistake. He looked so innocent, so sincere, his brow furrowed over those gorgeously dark eyes. Eyes that I had fallen into last night. Eyes that I had seen a future in, some ridiculous imaginary future. “I thought…” He swallowed. “I thought last night was pretty great.”

Ha. Fury boiled in me, images burned in my soul pushing to the surface, the heave of cleavage, his bare back, the run of a girl’s hand down it, her mouth reaching for his face… “It was great,” I spit out. “Until you left. Until you went back to your room and—” I couldn’t finish. The words stuck in my throat like bile.

He let go of me. “You went to my room? Last night?”

“Yeah.”

He looked down, rubbing the back of his neck. “And what’d you see?”

It was the wrong thing to say. Not a confession, just a request to know how deep his grave was dug.

I shouldn’t have answered. I should have pushed for more, pinned him until everything came out. But we were in the middle of the game, and our time was short. “Girls.” I swallowed hard. “Kissing you.”

“They didn’t kiss me.” One of his hands was back on my arm, and he was guiding me, until my shoulders hit a locker, and his stare was impossible to escape from. “Look at me.”

I was looking. I couldn’t not look. I was staring into his eyes, and I believed him when he spoke.

“They had a connection. They got me some coke. They were there, they snorted it with me, they left. Nothing happened.”

“Coke?” I whispered. “Cocaine? Are you stupid?!” I yelled the word, shoving at his chest, but it didn’t give. I glared into those eyes and saw shame.

“Yeah.” He gritted out. “I was. And I was weak. And I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry to me!” I exploded. “If you get tested—”

“It’s out of my system in three days. And I’m not going to get tested. You know they don’t test for that unless I give them a reason—”

The door at the end of the locker room banged open, and a ball boy squinted at us, Chase caging me against the wall. “Mr. Stern?” the teenager called out, some Cincinnati local.

“Yeah?” Chase didn’t turn his head; he stared at me, eyes begging for understanding that I couldn’t give.

“You’re in the hole.”

Shit. There would be talk. Speculation. The door slammed shut, and we were alone again.

“I like you,” he said, and there was never more simplistic beauty.

“You hurt me,” I accused and felt tears come. Tears at a terrible time, our team’s needs imminent. “You’re stupid,” I repeated. Drugs? I hadn’t believed the rumors, too many of them swirling around these men. I’d thought he was above that. I’d thought he was stronger than that.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and he leaned forward, his lips gentle as they pressed against my cheek, underneath my eyes, my tears kissed away. “Forgive me. Please. I need it.”

I didn’t know if I could. His need for drugs had led to too much. What I had given up in Tobey’s hotel room … it hadn’t felt valuable then, it hadn’t felt major. But now, looking into his eyes, I wanted it back. I wanted Chase to hold me and love me, and I wanted to have that to give to him. I hated him for ruining that. And I loved him for his regret—regret that matched my own, my heartbeat echoed in his eyes.

Both of us had made mistakes. He had confessed his. I couldn’t begin to bring up mine. Instead, with precious seconds ticking by, I ducked under his arm. “You’ve got to go,” I called over my shoulder, heading toward the door.

I was almost there when I saw the handle turn, my jump to the side barely in time before it flung open, in my direction. I flattened against the wall, hidden by it, and heard the bellow of our manager. Chase had been following me, almost running into Don, and I watched his fingers wrap around the edge of the door, keeping it away from me. “I’m coming,” he gritted out, his eyes darting to me, and I mouthed the word GO.

He didn’t move, and I gave him the only thing I could, a smile. It was small and hesitant, but his eyes grabbed at it, his fingers leaving the door, and he reached for me, the pads of his fingers brushing over my cheek for a brief moment, and then he was gone, the echo of his cleats bouncing off the walls as he followed Don to the field.

That night his disappearance was the talk of every sports show, our own team giving him hell, his bathroom excuse bought by most but not by all. Maybe it was just paranoia, but I felt my dad’s eyes, boring into me, past the laughter and the ribbing. I focused on the glove I was oiling and didn’t look up.

That night, he texted me and asked if he could come by.

That night, by the time he gently knocked, I had my mind made up.

47

“You can’t do drugs anymore.” I cracked the door and spoke quietly through it, scared to give my heart more than a sliver of a view. I’d be the first to say that I was naïve about a lot of things. Young in the world of experience. But drugs—I’d seen them destroy too many players. Their marriages, their careers, their reputation. He had too much at stake. Not just with me, but with life.

“Okay.” He tilted his head at me, and I eyed the freshly shaved jaw, the damp hair, the cornflower blue polo cleanly tucked into the top of his jeans.

“I’m serious.” I wet my lips and saw his eyes drop to them. “No coke, or weed, or heroine or—”

He pursed his lips at me. “It’s just coke—was just coke,” he amended. He held up his hands. “But no more. I promise.” I didn’t know him well enough. I didn’t know whether his promises were gold or tinfoil. He glanced both ways down the hall. “Please let me in before someone sees me.”

I rolled my eyes but opened the door wider, ready to table the discussion for another time. “Scared of my father?” I asked.