crap. It reminds me of the chaos inside The Barracks before a competition. If Pops were here, I’m sure he’d be making a crack about how we are breaking all sorts of fire codes. Good thing he’s on shift at the firehouse.
The last thing I expected was for Trav and the guys to show up, though with how they’ve been acting, I’m sure I would offend them if I said so. Instead we act like it’s normal for four hulking football players to be sitting on the floor, backs resting against the wall.
I’m also exhausted—damn exhausted. Each time my mouth stretches open for a yawn, a slash of pain radiates from my cheekbone.
Bette has told me at least six times to go back to sleep, but I’ve steadily refused. Instead, my increasingly heavy eyes remain locked on the door to my room. Mase stepped out over ten minutes ago to talk to Coach Knight, and he still hasn’t returned.
Shouldn’t he be back by now? It seems like he’s been gone way longer than a simple directive of ‘No comment’ should take.
That familiar anxiety bubbles in my gut, along with that constant feeling of This is all my fault.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
“Trav,” I call out, ignoring the increasing beeps of the heart rate monitor.
He braces a hand on the ground and jumps to stand. “What’s up, Short Stack?” He bends and rests his forearms on the high railing on the side of my bed.
I try to let the sight of his panty-dropping smile soothe me but fail.
“Tell me the truth.” The crinkling sound of my stiff hair fills my ear as I attempt to shift to a more comfortable position. “Is Mase in trouble?”
“For what?” A wrinkle forms between Trav’s brows.
“For yesterday.” I flip a hand toward the still closed door.
I honestly can’t imagine what Coach Knight thinks of me. First I crashed his locker room before his team’s most important game of the season. Then I was the reason his captains almost got into a brawl.
“You’re kidding me, right?” His blue eyes scan my face, looking for clues that I am indeed joking, but all he finds is stoic resolve. “Shit, Kay. You’re serious?”
I can’t help it. No matter how many times JT tells me I’m being melodramatic about fearing my past coming around and affecting the potential of Mason’s career, I can’t shake it. A lot of it probably feeds off the guilt of him not knowing all the details. Hopefully, coming clean will help.
There’s also…
“When you and Mase found out about the whole Chrissy/Tina thing, who broke up with who?” I do my best to keep my voice low enough to keep our conversation private.
Trav rears back like I slapped him, the wide-eyed blinking he’s doing giving away his shock.
Ooo, he was not expecting that to be your question. My inner cheerleader looks on with interest.
“Shit.” Trav runs a hand over his head, mussing his blond hair before dragging it down to grip the back of his neck. His eyes dart around the room almost frantically, and though I know deep in my gut she was full of lies when she showed up at my door, I don’t like the way a sliver of doubt sneaks in like smoke.
The urge to yawn—again—hits, but I bite it back. Doesn’t matter, though; like Mase, Trav catches it, his blue eyes soften, and I see him cataloging my injuries yet again.
After one more glance backward, Trav moves in closer. With an elbow propped on the pillow next to my head, he brings his mouth close to my ear.
“Tina is not a time in my life I like to revisit,” he admits, and I keep my gaze trained over his shoulder at the door that still refuses to budge. I can’t recall a time I’ve ever heard Trav sound so serious, so solemn.
“I get it.” Boy do it get it. Look at my ex.
“I know you do.” I hear him swallow. “That’s the reason why you—and only you—are the person I will do so for.”
A lone tear falls down my cheek, but I don’t dare interrupt the moment to wipe it away. Like Mase, QB1 rarely shows his soft underbelly for others to see, instead choosing to live behind a charming playboy mask. Trav may be a shameless flirt—especially in Mase’s presence—but he’s his ride or die. It doesn’t matter if answering questions would be slicing open a vein; Trav wouldn’t hesitate to take the knife to his own skin.