Tomboy

“Do you love him?” the male reporter asked.

Yeah, because a woman can’t be trusted to tell the truth if her heart is involved. “Why? Does that make me biased about his parents’ bullshit if I do?”

“Nah.” He shook his head. “It just makes the story better.”

That dude was fast moving up the list of punchable people that Fallon had had to deal with in her life. She let out a deep breath, counted to ten, and looked the reporters dead-on because, this, they really needed to understand.

“This is more than just a story,” she said, using the same do-not-fuck-with-this-shit-anymore tone she employed when she was talking to someone brought back from an OD, praying that this time they’d listen. “It’s his life. Leave him alone and let him live it.”

And since there was nothing left to say after that, she turned back around and strode into the madness that was the St. Vincent’s emergency room when the skies were thunderous. Phone in hand, she was texting Zach the details about what had just happened when the call went out about multiple traumas headed their way from a multi-car pile-up. She hit send and shoved her phone in her locker and rushed out front to help.

…

As soon as Zach got back into the locker room after a killer practice that had left him ten pounds lighter from skating his ass off, he grabbed his phone. After Lucy’s phone call this morning, the notifications had been going off like crazy, and he’d turned it off. Fallon was going to be off work soon, though, so he swiped his thumb across the screen to power it up.

His phone started vibrating with a million incoming notifications right at the same time as Fallon appeared on the big-screen TV at the end of the locker room. She was in blue scrubs, her hair braided with the tail draped across her shoulder, and she was giving whoever was talking a glare that would shrivel most men’s balls. So all was normal, right up until what she was saying to the reporter penetrated his brain.

Parents stole from him.

He’s millions in debt.

They skimmed money.

The team pays for his house.

He can’t afford furniture or a car.

Those may have been the words she used, but it all translated in his head to “failure,” and “loser,” and “fool.” And with each one, he sank deeper and deeper into that dark place where he was alone and no one could touch him. Not his parents. Not his critics. Not Fallon. There wasn’t any anger or hurt or bitterness here. It was just acceptance that this was how the world worked. People betrayed and used each other.

You should have known better, Blackburn.

By the time the phone he was white-knuckling stopped vibrating from all of the delayed notifications, the interview on the TV was over. His secret, the one he’d been hiding from everyone, was out in the open because he’d been dumb enough to think that Fallon wouldn’t betray him.

Standing there in the middle of the locker room, his hair still damp with sweat, he looked around. None of the other players were talking, and no one was looking at him, either. It was the kind of heavy, uncomfortable silence that takes over a locker room after a player suffered a season-ending injury.

“Blackburn,” Coach hollered from the doorway. “My office. Now.”

Zach nodded to the coach and looked down at his phone. All of the text notifications were from Fallon. She needed to talk to him. It was important.

Not really. Not anymore.

He tossed his phone into his open duffel and started forward toward the door, going through the motions like he was a man still in control, even though his entire world had just fallen apart.

…

Heart hammering in her chest and panic clawing at her skin, Fallon pressed the buzzer outside Zach’s gate, sending up a prayer that he’d answer. She’d been texting throughout her shift with no response. She’d called repeatedly on her way over, and it went straight to voicemail. Sure, it wasn’t like he was out fighting fires or arresting mobsters, but he could have gotten hurt at practice. He could have fallen down his steps.

She jabbed her finger against the buzzer again and again, desperation making her movements jerky. Finally, the light went on.

“Thank God.” Letting out a relieved breath, she sent up a thank-you to the heavens. “I was afraid something had happened to you when you didn’t respond to my texts and calls. We really need to talk.”

“Did you bring the reporters with you so they could document everything?”

Ignoring the way his voice was coming through the speaker, giving it a harsh, icy tone, she looked up at the closed-circuit camera perched on the gate. “I’m so sorry, I know it’s not what you wanted but—”

“Not what I wanted?” he asked, a cruel edge to his words that she couldn’t blame on the speaker. “You could have remembered that before you opened your mouth.”

No. This was not how it was supposed to go. He had to listen. He had to understand. She’d done it for him. “Your parents were telling lies.”