“Let’s not talk about the house right now, Chels. We have more important things to work out.” He’s so firm and so serious it scares me again and my gut is telling me to jump up and run. But part of the problem with that flight strategy is that I have nowhere to run to. Plus I vow I need to grow up and deal withus. I nod.
“You’ve had to deal with a lot of loss in your life. I can’t even imagine going through what you have. I’m amazed that you’re still standing, walking around and functioning.” He pauses. He doesn’t know everything, doesn’t know that I haven’t been dealing with my baggage very well.
“We all have . . . baggage.” I try for a shrug, but it feels more like a twitch. Tension snakes through my gut and I lean closer to him as if he can ward it off.
“Sure, but I have a feeling—no, Iknow—you have something you haven’t dealt with, something . . . Hell, I’ll just come out with it. What the fuck happened to you on the Olympic team?”
I scuttle away from him on the couch, heart racing like he’s just turned into a monster. How does he know? I don’t want anyone to know, least of all him.
“What makes you think anything—?”
“Don’t fucking lie to me, Chelsea. I see it and hear it, hell, I feel it in you whenever the subject comes up. The Olympics was supposed to be this tremendous experience for you, but it’s fucking clear to me that’s not the case. Tell me what happened.” His voice is firmer than before. He has no smile. There’s no way I can gloss over it or make up a story with the blood pounding hard, making me jumpy and so scared.
Scared of what? I don’t know. Taking a few deep breaths, I open my mouth to say something, anything. My sass, my fight comes to my rescue and I put on my metaphorical boxing gloves.
“What about you? Why don’t we talk about your baggage? What’s going on with you and your father? Tell me about that.”
He flinches and my regret is immediate, intense and punishing. He clenches his mouth, but keeps it shut, staring me down.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, putting a hand out, but not touching him. “I didn’t mean—”
“What? You didn’t mean to fight back? Of course you did. It’s your way.” He swipes a hand through his hair. “It’s okay. But we’re not talking about me.”
“Like hell,” I say. “If you’re making me spill my guts then you have to promise to do the same.” It’s a reasonable strategy. Fair is far. He’ll never agree to it—
“Deal,” he says. I open my mouth and my heart plummets again. I don’t want to hear about his pain much less share mine. What kind of hell would that be?
The healing kind. Some words of wisdom from the depths slap me. It’s not from my mom. She never wanted to talk or listen about the traumas in our life. My dad? I don’t remember much about him, but what I do was all smiles and fun.
My brother. He would know. He’d been traumatized when we lost our dad. He used to think of himself, refer to himself as the man of the family. When he was still a boy.
“Tell me, Chelsea.” He speaks softly, closes the distance between us and puts his arm around me again. The comfort, the scent of him, familiar and tantalizing, settles me, keeps the vibration of fear down to a low hum.
“The Olympics,” I say, “were a nightmare for me.”
He sucks in a breath and swears, like he always does.
“What happened?” I can see his mind spinning, see him concocting his version of horror, see it making his eyes go dark, his jaw so tight I can see the muscle jump. If I don’t tell him right away, he might break his teeth, so I do.
“I had great expectations, like everyone. I was one of the top five on the team, supposed to be a starter.”
“What?Jason told me you hardly played—What the fuck?”
“The fuck is the assistant coach. I was chosen by the head coach and got along with her well enough the few times Mom and I met her. She told me I was a top-five recruit and I believed her. When I got there—the team reported to New York City—I met the assistant coach. We—the team—stayed together in hotels, sometimes dorms, depending on where we were playing and whether school was in session. It was close quarters. He, the assistant coach, was young and good-looking and nice to all of us. At first. But as we got to know each other, he started acting like he . . . I don’t know how to explain it. Like he owned us. Like he could do or say anything he wanted to us. He would touch, he would talk dirty, he would visit girls at night—”
“What’s his name?” Ryan’s voice is a growl. That’s the only way to describe it. The animal violence simmers through him so that I can feel it, like waves of menace.
“I’m not telling you.”
“I’ll look it up. I’ll find out.”
“Don’t. You can’t do anything—shouldn’t do anything. He’s not worth it. You’ve already gotten into enough trouble,” I say.
“That’s for me to worry about.”
“You and your family and friends. Do you want us to have to bail you out of trouble again?” I see my strike hit home as he blinks, grimaces.
“Low blow,” he says. He’s unhappy because I’m right, but I hear a touch of admiration.