“Dude, don’t let it get to you,” Crosby says. “That guy was a double-decker asshole of the highest order.”
“I can’t fucking believe he asked that,” I mutter, my breath shaky. “I’m so pissed off. So fucking pissed.”
“He’s a bottom feeder angling for a story,” Chance adds. “He knows nothing, and it’s all click bait to him.”
I stare at my friends, simmering with outrage. “I would never give signs to Declan. Never. You know that, right?”
Crosby holds his hands out wide. “We know, bro.”
“We’d never doubt you,” Chance seconds.
I drop my head into my hands. “This is just . . . I don’t even know what it is. But I hate it.”
“Look, he’s the type of reporter who hunts for any hint of a scandal,” Chance points out.
“And he’s fishing where there’s nothing to catch,” Crosby declares. “Plain and simple.”
Nikki rounds the corner and gives us a report. “Weasel Face Evans was banned from the Cougars’ post-game briefing room. Thought you’d want to know.” She crouches next to me and asks, “You okay, sweetie?”
“I am. Thanks, Nikki.”
I am not fine, but the only person I want to tell exactly how not fine I feel is getting on a plane right now. The desire to vent to Declan, to share every awful second of that interview, is like a drumbeat, loud and insistent. I haven’t felt this off-balance since I nearly lost my spot on the roster five years ago.
I could message him, see if his plane has Wi-Fi, maybe get a reply. But he’s probably already asleep—it’s a long flight and he has a shoot in the morning.
I refuse to look at my phone the whole way to the airport, resisting temptation as I head through security, giving him space to unwind as I walk along the jetway. But when I take my seat on the plane heading home, checking my messages before I power down, a text from Declan flashes on my screen, sent forty-five minutes ago.
Declan: Call me. We need to talk about that interview I just saw on the sports blog.
The hair on the back of my neck stands on end.
Oh, hell no. He can’t be doing this to me again.
12
Grant
No.
He wouldn’t do that. Still, my pulse spikes. My palms sweat. I’m on a Tilt-A-Whirl of time and emotions, with wild thoughts whipping through me.
I shift in my seat, turning away from everyone else on the plane, and call him, stat, but it goes straight to voicemail.
You’ve reached Declan Steele. You know what to do.
But do I? Do I know what to do with the cyclone of feelings ripping through my chest? I’ve never dealt with a personal attack in the press. Sure, I’ve witnessed reporters speculating about good games and bad games. I’ve faced tough questions about even tougher losses. I’ve fielded plenty of queries about my charity work.
That’s all part of the job.
But until now, nothing has ever dug into the core of who I am, who I love, and how I play the sport. No one has ever attacked my integrity.
The question still stings.
I want to tell Declan about the crappy end to my night, curl up with him on the couch, feel his arm around me, hear his reassuring voice. He is what I want after a shitty day at work.
I stab his name again, and the call goes straight to voicemail . . . again. My stomach churns as I press my forehead against the tiny window and stare at the starry night sky in Texas while we taxi.
I check the time, doing some quick calculations. Declan should be in New York in a couple more hours, but there’s nothing I can do until then.
Closing my eyes, I swallow roughly, holding the phone tight.
Get over yourself, Blackwood.
He’s not leaving you over an interview. He said he’s never leaving you.
That ought to reassure me. His words. His passion. His absolute intensity for me.
But can any person truly promise he’ll never go?
Tonight, I don’t have any answers.
Except this—I need to get my shit together. I’m twenty-seven years old. I’m in a serious relationship. I’ve got to treat it seriously, and that means yank myself out of this funk. Before I lose cell service, I write Declan back, replying to his message rather than obsessing over what it means.
Trust.
I have to trust in him, and in us.
Grant: I tried to call you, but it went straight to voicemail. Hope your flight was good. Love you so fucking much.
I try to sleep on the plane, but I can’t. I grab my iPad and click on my calendar, hunting for a distraction. I’ve got a busy day tomorrow with an Alliance event with LGBTQ teen athletes in the afternoon, then a free night before a series against the Coyotes begins the next day.
Maybe I’ll see if Crosby and Chance want to play pool tomorrow evening. Or better yet, I’ll drive to Petaluma and have dinner with my grandparents.