“Shit. You’d better get some answers from that bartender of yours when we get home,” he said, already pulling out his book. “But for now, you keep that shit out of your mind and get your head in the net where it belongs.”
But keeping Echo out of my head had never been my strong suit.
We fell three to six in game one.
Echo: Have you landed yet? I’ve missed you.
I stared at the text message as I sat outside Scythe in my truck, trying to organize my emotions into some recognizable, logical box.
I loved this woman.
I needed to know the truth.
Sawyer: Just pulled up.
Firing off the text, I got out of my truck and locked the door. The bar had the average number of Saturday afternoon cars, but I knew tomorrow night it would be packed with fans as we played Game two just down the street.
I opened the door and barely made it past the first table before a flash of purple appeared from my left. Then Echo was in my arms, her arms tight around my neck and her face against my throat.
My arms closed around her, holding her to me in what I knew might be the last time depending on what she said. God, even if she was using again, could I walk away from her? Could I bail at the first real test of my loyalty?
“I missed you,” she admitted, kissing my throat lightly.
A quick glance told me she had three waitresses on duty for a reasonable crowd. “Can we go upstairs? I need to talk to you.”
She pulled back to look up at me, confusion causing the skin to wrinkle between her brows. “Sure. Everything okay?”
“I hope so,” I said gently, unwilling to lie even to settle her nerves.
She nodded and took my hand, then led us through the kitchen and up the steps to her loft. The door closed behind us with a click, shutting out the noise from the bar. Silence stretched between us.
“What’s going on?” She reached for my hand, but I stepped back, almost hitting the bookshelf that served as a room divider.
“I love you.” That was the most important thing, so I said it first.
“And I love you…”
“When I got to the airport—heading to Vegas—I found a bag of cocaine in my pocket.”
She gasped. “You what?”
“Jacket. Cocaine. Pocket.” I wasn’t sure I could say the whole sentence again.
“What were you wearing?” she questioned, her eyes flying wide with worry.
“My warm-up jacket. The one you dropped off to me.” I tried to keep my voice soft but damn it, my stomach was flipping over, and nausea was quickly taking control.
Her mouth dropped open. “But you don’t use. Do any of the other guys?” She pushed her hair behind her ears.
“No. There’s no chance of any of the guys using. Especially with the drug tests we’ve been subject to since the shit with Thurston.”
She nodded, then stilled. “Wait. You…You don’t think it was mine, do you?”
Choose your words carefully, McCoy.
“I don’t want to,” I said softly.
She flinched and crossed her arms under her breasts. “You don’t want to, but you don’t know?” Her tone was hurt, not defensive, and it ripped right through me.
“I don’t know what to think! I got to that airport and just happened to check my pockets before going through the security checkpoint—the checkpoint that happened to have a drug dog at it, I might add.” I walked forward and turned my back to the kitchen, needing the space to breathe.
“Oh my God. What did you do?” She stepped toward me in concern but stopped herself before coming too close. “Are you okay?”
“Cannon handled it. I was fine physically, but…” I raked my hand through my hair. “I didn’t want to have this conversation over the phone or in a text, and—”
“And you were distracted during the game,” she assumed, her shoulders dropping.
“Sure, a little, but I’m certainly not blaming our loss on this.” I sucked in a full breath and steadied my nerves, knowing I had to directly ask what she hadn’t directly offered. “Echo, was it yours?”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” There was zero hurt in her tone there. Nope, that was pure rage.
“Look. I love you no matter what you answer, but I have to know. You’re the only one who had my jacket. You’ve told me that you’d used it in the past. You know what that shit has done to my life—to my mother’s. I have to know.” I slipped my hands into the pockets of my slacks. I hadn’t bothered to change after getting off the plane an hour ago.
Her face twisted, as if she couldn’t believe I’d actually asked, and for a moment, I thought she might not answer. “No. It’s not mine. I told you I used it a few times after my dad died, but that’s it. I didn’t like who it turned me into, and I pulled myself out of that life.”