Face Off (The Baltimore Banners Book 10) Page 9

  Dillon ignored him.

  “I said we need to talk.” And damn if Dillon didn’t move past him again, heading to the other side of the room. Ethan ran a hand through his hair then down across his face. He didn’t need this, not now.

  Just like he didn’t need the talk with Coach earlier. Sonny had pulled him aside after the game, his harsh voice quiet and subdued when he asked Ethan if everything was okay. If there was anything Ethan wanted to talk about.

  If there was anything Coach could do to help him. Because he was concerned. Because Ethan wasn’t acting like himself. And fuck, what the hell was up with that? If Coach had been screaming and yelling, like he usually did, Ethan could have handled it. Hell, he’d even been expecting it. He should have been yelled at, the way he played tonight. The way he played the other night. He had damn near missed getting out of the fucking penalty box on time. That was inexcusable. Unforgivable.

  You didn’t do shit like that and not expect to get your ass chewed out. You didn’t do shit like that, period. Ever.

  So when Coach had pulled him to the side, Ethan had expected the ass-chewing. Had even welcomed it. Instead, he received a lecture filled with understanding and concern. Was told he had help if he needed it. Was told he could talk to Coach about whatever was going on.

  And that fucking unnerved him. Coach LeBlanc, quiet and understanding? What the fuck was up with that? Instead of being reassured, the entire conversation had left Ethan frazzled and more on edge than he’d been before.

  Now Dillon was cornering him, stealing his phone like a little kid and insisting they needed to talk. Ethan didn’t want to talk—not to Coach, not to Dillon. Not to anyone except Cindy. Only he couldn’t, because Dillon was fucking playing keep-away.

  Ethan spun on his heel, irrational anger seizing him as he stalked Dillon. He wanted to lunge at him, tackle him until he could rip the phone from Dillon’s hand. Maybe Dillon could see his anger, maybe he could read the deadly intent on Ethan’s face.

  Or maybe he just had a good instinct for survival because he jumped over the bed, narrowly avoiding Ethan’s outstretched hand as he rushed to the bathroom. Ethan followed him, skidding to a halt when he saw Dillon holding the phone over the toilet.

  “What the fuck are you doing?”

  “Trying to get you to talk.”

  Ethan stepped forward, came to a quick stop. “Give me the fucking phone.”

  “Not until you talk. I’ll drop it. I swear to fuck I will.”

  Ethan curled his hands into fists, his heart slamming against his chest. Would Dillon do it? Would he really be that fucking stupid?

  That fucking determined?

  From the expression on his face, yeah, he would. Ethan sucked in a deep breath of air, willed himself to remain still and remove all emotion from his eyes and face.

  “Then talk.”

  Dillon’s eyes narrowed, his gaze cautious as he studied him. He grunted, a soft sound of either disbelief or wariness, then pocketed the phone. But he didn’t move closer, didn’t step away from the toilet. And Ethan knew Dillon’s reflexes were fast, faster than his own right now. Could he chance making a dash for it? Could he grab the phone before Dillon tossed it?

  Probably not.

  He sucked in another deep breath then folded his arms in front of him and leaned against the door frame. Waiting. Calculating.

  “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Bullshit. Something’s going on. I’ve never seen you so off before. Spill it.”

  “I said ‘nothing’. Now give me—”

  “What’s going on with you and Cindy?”

  Ethan’s heart slammed into his chest as a cold sweat broke out along the back of his neck. He kept his face carefully blank, tried to keep his voice calm and neutral. “Nothing. We’re just friends. I’m worried about her.”

  Dillon laughed, the short sound filled with disbelief. “You really think I believe that?”

  “No reason for you not to.”

  “Yeah, okay.” Dillon crossed his arms over his chest, his eyes narrowing even more. Ethan tried not to squirm under the scrutiny, tried not to show any emotion. “I know you’ve been calling her every night. Don’t lie.”

  “And? What about it? I told you, we’re friends. You know that.”

  “Maybe before. But I don’t believe that anymore.”

  “That’s your problem, not—”

  “Yeah. Problem. That’s the whole issue, isn’t it?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Dillon was quiet for several long seconds, his gaze direct. Assessing. “You know what’s going on with her.”

  It was a statement, not a question. Ethan thought about not answering—he didn’t have to, not when Dillon obviously knew the answer. But he did anyway. “Yeah, I know.”

  “Then what are you doing?”

  “I’m not doing anything.”

  “Yeah, you are. Ethan, she’s not…” His voice trailed off, a frown creasing his forehead. He finally shook his head with a sigh. “This thing she’s going through—you know she might never get better.”

  Anger and fear exploded inside him. He stepped forward, ready to grab Dillon by the throat and shake him, to tell him to take the words back. He stopped himself at the last minute, channeling the anger into his voice instead. “Bullshit. You don’t know that. You can’t fucking say that. You don’t know her—”

  “Don’t fucking tell me I don’t know her! She’s my wife’s best friend. I know her. I know what she’s been going through. I know she has a long road ahead of her. And I know she might never get better.”

  “She is getting better. A little each day. So don’t you stand there and fucking tell me—”

  “Listen to you! Look at you. You’re ready to tear my head off, I can see it in your eyes. So what the fuck is going on with you two? And don’t fucking tell me you’re just friends.”

  “We are.”

  “Cut the shit. This is me you’re talking to. You may have been friends in the past, but not anymore. What happened? When did that change?”

  Ethan thought about denying it—the words hovered on his lips, ready to fall. But the fight left him, almost as quickly as it came. What would it hurt if he told Dillon? What would it matter if Dillon knew?

  He sagged against the wall, let his arms drop to his sides and closed his eyes. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered because no matter how he felt, Dillon was right—about everything.

  “Down in St. Thomas. Right after the wedding.”

  “Christ. I knew it.” Dillon shook his head. From amusement? Disbelief? Ethan wasn’t sure. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

  “I wasn’t thinking anything.”

  “Yeah, obviously. So—what? This was just a one-night thing?”

  “No. She, uh, she stayed the week. With me.”

  “Shit. And then what? You just automatically assumed it would keep going and—”

  “Yeah, I did. It wasn’t a one-night stand, no matter what you think. We were supposed to get together when we get back home. But then—”

  “Then her shit imploded.”

  “Don’t fucking say it like that!”

  “Yeah. Sorry.” Dillon shook his head, tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling for several long seconds.

  “Does Maggie know?”

  “She suspects.” Dillon looked over at him. “But that’s not what you meant, is it? No, Cindy didn’t tell her. But she wouldn’t have been able to, would she? She, uh, yeah. It was pretty bad at first.”

  Ethan nodded, trying to swallow past the lump that had formed in his throat. He felt Dillon’s gaze on him but didn’t look up. He didn’t want to see Dillon’s face, didn’t want to see whatever might be in his eyes.

  “So that’s what was wrong with you earlier, at the start of the season. You didn’t know what happened, did you?”

  Ethan looked over at him, let his gaze slide back to the floor
without answering. What was the point in answering when Dillon had figured it out?

  “Whatever you were thinking—before, I mean. You have to let it go. It was one week in the Caribbean. Don’t make more of it. You can’t, not now.”

  “It wasn’t just one week. Neither one of us thought that.”

  “Maybe not. But that’s what it has to be.”

  “You make it sound like she has a terminal disease. She doesn’t.”

  “Maybe not. But this isn’t like the flu or some shit like that. It’s never going to go away. It’s always going to be there, ready to take over again. You know that, right? I mean, do you understand that?”

  Anger shot to the surface and Ethan tamped it down. Dillon was only trying to help, he knew that. But he didn’t want to hear the words, didn’t want to acknowledge the truth behind them. “I’m not turning my back on her if that’s what you’re getting at. That’s not what friends do.”

  “But you want more than friendship. I don’t think Cindy is any position to—”

  “Then let me worry about that. It doesn’t concern you.”

  Dillon studied him for another few seconds then let out a string of muttered cursing. “Fuck. No fucking way. Do not tell me—no, man. You can’t. You are not in love with her. Christ. I don’t believe this. That’s what you think, isn’t it?”

  “It doesn’t concern—”

  “Fuck. You have got to be fucking kidding me. You need your damn head examined, you know that, right? It’s not going to work. Why are you setting yourself up for this?”

  Ethan didn’t bother hiding his anger, not this time. He took a step closer, letting Dillon see his outrage. “Shut. The Fuck. Up. This doesn’t concern you.”

  “Just tell me why. Tell me you know what’s going to happen. At least be realistic—”

  “What the fuck would you do if this was Maggie? Would you just shrug your shoulders and walk away? Would you turn your back on her?”

  “No. No, of course not.”

  “Then why do you think I’d turn my back on Cindy?”

  Dillon’s eyes widened as understanding dawned in their hazel depths. He ran a hand across his face, the rasp of stubble loud in the small room. He sighed, shook his head. Sighed again.

  “Fuck. You really do think you’re in love with her, don’t you? So this, this thing…it hasn’t just been since St. Thomas, has it?”

  Ethan pursed his lips, wondering how much to say. A second went by, then several more. “No. Not for me.”

  “Shit. When?”

  “Honestly? Probably the first time I met her, that night we met them at the frat party.” Met? No, it hadn’t been as simple as that.

  Dillon was supposed to meet Maggie at some frat party and had invited Ethan to tag along. Only when they got there, Maggie and Cindy had been cornered by a pair of drunk idiots. Words had been exchanged, Dillon had thrown a punch, and all hell had broken loose. The four of them had made a quick exit, retreating before things got too out of hand and they were caught in the middle.

  Love at first sight? Maybe. Or maybe he was just seeing things differently now. Whatever it was, he and Cindy had connected right away, the kind of connection where it felt like you had known one another for a lifetime. The connection had only become stronger with time.

  Until Ethan realized it was more than just friendship. At least for him.

  “Shit.” Dillon muttered the word, mostly to himself. “Does Cindy know?”

  “No.”

  “Great. Just fucking great. Of all the…” Dillon shook his head again, a humorless smile twisting his lips. “I hope the fuck you know what you’re getting into.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you?” Dillon’s gaze was too direct, seeing too much. “I don’t think you do but I fucking hope I’m wrong.”

  He reached into his pocket, pulled out Ethan’s phone and tossed it across the room. Ethan caught it mid-air, his fingers tightening around the plastic case.

  “Go ahead. Call her. I just hope the fuck this doesn’t turn out the way I think it’s going to. For both your sakes’.”

  Ethan didn’t say anything as Dillon pushed past him and left the small room. He stared down at the phone in his hand, Dillon’s words ringing in his ears. Did he know what he was doing? No. And Dillon was right, the chances of things not working out the way he wanted were much greater than he wanted to acknowledge.

  But he didn’t care. He had to take the chance. To him, it was worth it.

  He closed the door then sat on the edge of the tub, his fingers already tapping the screen and pulling up Cindy’s number.

  Just like he did every night.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Cindy lowered herself to the overstuffed chair, trying not to flinch when the door closed with a soft click. Did Dr. McCormack notice? Probably. She seemed to notice everything. But she didn’t say anything as she made her way to the matching chair and took a seat.

  Cindy glanced around, studying the office in silence. This wasn’t her first time here, not even close. But this was something she did every visit. It had become a habit almost, a soothing ritual that calmed her before their session started.

  The room didn’t look like an office, not with its overstuffed seating arranged for casual conversation. The chairs were upholstered in soft material, stripes of cheery blue and yellow and white. The coffee table and end tables were made of wood, painted in white, designed to make them look old and comfortable. Vintage. Beachy, even. That last impression was enhanced by the pale blue walls topped with an ocean motif border. Simply-framed seascape prints were scattered throughout, placed in clusters on the wall that seemed random but had been well thought-out before being hung. There was even a tall glass bowl filled with sand and seashells and the faint sound of waves gently lapping against some unseen shore coming from a hidden stereo.

  Cindy knew this wasn’t the only room Dr. McCormack used. There were two others, each with a vastly different theme. But this was the one Cindy preferred. Not because of the soothing ocean motif, even if Dr. McCormack said that most of her patients preferred the calming effect of the water. No, that wasn’t it at all. At least, not entirely.

  Cindy preferred this one because it reminded her of that week in St. Thomas. Because it brought back memories of the time she had spent with Ethan.

  Before her world crashed around her and everything had changed.

  “Your hair looks nice. The cut is very flattering.”

  Cindy raised her hand, ran it through the soft strands then twirled her finger in the ends. She took a deep breath and let her hand fall into her lap before looking over at Dr. McCormack. She didn’t look like a psychotherapist, not dressed as she was in loose linen pants and a casual green blouse that went well with her coloring. Cindy knew she was over fifty but only because she had offered the information. Everything about her was trim and neat, from the swaying bob of her silvery blonde hair to her relaxed and open smile. She exuded a simple charm that made it easy to trust, easy to confide in.

  Cindy smiled, just a quick one, and muttered her thanks. She heard the hidden meaning beneath the compliment, knew that Dr. McCormack was commenting on much more than just her new hairstyle.

  It was the fact that Cindy had a new hairstyle, the fact that she had gone out and had it done that the doctor was commenting on.

  Cindy smiled again and glanced down at her hands, at the fresh manicure and brightly-colored polish covering her nails. “I went with Maggie.”

  Because her friend had insisted. Gently, maybe, but she’d still insisted. And Cindy had survived.

  “Sometimes having friends help. If you let them.”

  “Sometimes. I guess.”

  Dr. McCormack shifted in the chair, crossing her lean legs and settling against the stuffed back. “So how is everything else going? You look better. Not quite so tired or tense.”

  Cindy frowned, still gazing at her hands as she searched for the right words. She was hesitant, almost afraid t
o say them out loud. Afraid she’d be laughed at. Afraid she’d be proven wrong.

  She finally took a deep breath and looked over, wondering if she could see the small glimmer of hope hiding in Cindy’s eyes. “I think…better.”

  “You think?”

  “I guess. I mean…yeah. Better. Maybe.”

  “You don’t sound too certain of that.”

  Cindy laughed, the sound whisper-soft in the room. “I’m not certain of anything anymore. There are days I wake up and feel normal, like my old self. Then I sit up and everything comes crashing back down and I wonder if I only imagined feeling better. Or if it’s everything else I’m imagining. What’s real? What’s not? And how can I trust myself if I can’t even figure that much out?”

  “Do you think you’re afraid to trust yourself? Afraid to believe you might be getting better?”

  “Yeah.” Cindy cringed at the speed with which she was able to answer that one. It was probably the only thing she was certain of, the only thing she didn’t doubt. Her own fear. What did that say about her?

  She looked over at the doctor again, trying to see even a small hint of what she might be thinking. But the other woman’s thoughts were carefully hidden behind a mask of calm encouragement. Cindy sagged against the back of the chair and chewed on her lower lip, wanting to ask a hundred different questions but not sure how to start.

  And not sure she wanted to hear the answers.

  She sighed and asked the question she wanted the answer to the most—the answer she was most afraid of hearing. “Am I getting better? At all?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think it would probably be more reassuring to hear it from you.”

  A small smile teased the woman’s mouth, lighting the pale eyes watching her. “Three months ago, you would have never even said something like that. What does that tell you?”

  Relief, clear and uplifting, moved through her. But she pushed it away, afraid to trust it, afraid to believe in it. She took another deep breath and let her gaze wander around the room until it landed on one picture in particular: her favorite.