Gage (Pittsburgh Titans 3)

“Me too.”

Stone walks my way, Baden behind him. “I have to go,” I tell Jenna. “Get back to sleep. See you tomorrow.”

“Good luck at Coen’s.”

As soon as I disconnect, Baden nods toward the paper in Stone’s hand, which presumably has Coen’s address. His eyes lock with mine. “You do understand that you’re going to try to convince a man not to quit this team while there’s a chance Brienne will release him. Keller has already called her demanding as much.”

“She won’t release him when she knows what caused his actions,” I say with authority.

Baden shrugs. “Probably not. But he’s looking at a lengthy suspension that’ll probably surpass the playoffs and stretch into next year.”

“And I’ve got no problem with that. He crossed the line, and there should be consequences. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to let him quit a career that he still has plenty of mileage to gain from. He can still be an asset to this team if we figure out how to get his head out of his ass.”

Baden nods thoughtfully and offers an encouraging smile. “Good luck tonight. I get the feeling that whatever is going on with Coen is far more deeply rooted than any of us can imagine.”

?

Stone and I take his car to Coen’s place, an apartment in a luxury high-rise across the river in downtown. A doorman opens the door for us, immediately recognizing me and Stone.

“Tough game, fellas,” he says as he tips his hat to us. “Are you here to see Mr. Highsmith?”

“We are,” Stone says with a smile. No clue if we need permission to go up.

The doorman nods gravely. “That was unfortunate what happened on the ice. Hopefully sanctions won’t be too severe.”

“Hopefully,” I agree, and we move past him toward the elevator. He doesn’t say anything else, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I expect he would stop any stranger off the street looking for Coen, but he must have assumed—wrongfully, of course—that we are welcome.

I know we’re not.

We ride the elevator in silence to the fifteenth floor and locate Coen’s unit. I knock on the door swiftly and loudly because I don’t want him to have the opportunity to ignore us.

To my surprise, it takes no time before he’s swinging open the door and looking at both of us with an unreadable expression. “What do you want?”

Stone takes the bull by the horns and brushes right past him into the apartment. “We want to talk.”

Coen glances at me, and I shrug. “Hear us out.”

Sighing, Coen steps back to let me enter and shuts the door behind us. Coen’s apartment is spacious and well-decorated. The styling is sleek and contemporary, done in blacks and grays. It’s spotless, not a thing out of place. Not even a pair of shoes kicked off at the door. In fact, it’s so orderly, it’s hard to believe someone lives here.

He moves into the living room, crossing his arms defensively over his chest. He neither invites us to sit nor offers us a drink, although I didn’t expect any different. “Go ahead and give me the speech on how I’m throwing it all away so I can tell you that I truly don’t give a fuck, and then you can leave and I can get some sleep.”

“You truly don’t care about it?” I ask him tentatively. “Your career, your fans? The pure joy that I know you used to have at one time playing this sport? The thrill of competition?”

“The millions of dollars between your contract and endorsements,” Stone points out.

“What part of me saying I didn’t give a fuck don’t you understand?” Coen retorts hotly. “Why can’t people take me at face value and accept what I say? I’m not doing it just to hear myself talk. I’m certainly not trying to be problematic. I’m tired of dealing with it all, so it’s best I move on.”

“Okay, fine,” I say, throwing out my hands in frustration. “You don’t give a fuck. I believe you. You’re ready to walk away and be done with this. But how about, for just a minute, you consider that this might be a temporary feeling you can work through? That it might suck to tough it out right now, but there could potentially be brighter days ahead? And if that’s the case, you don’t want to walk away from this and later have regrets.”

Stone jumps in, keeping up our running assault to get Coen to at least consider other possibilities. “Look, man… I can’t even pretend to understand what you must be feeling. The crash wasn’t but a month ago, and—”

“It’s not just the crash,” Coen mutters, stomping into his kitchen. Stone and I stay in the living room, separated only by a large island with stools. With his back to us, Coen opens the fridge and pulls out a beer, twisting off the cap and depositing it in the garbage.