Roman (Raleigh Raptors 2)

Every backhanded comment. Every demand, every rough touch I’d blamed on alcohol or stress or the natural athletic instincts he couldn’t bury.

How could I lay that bare? To the one person in the world whose opinion mattered to me above all others?

“Rick always pushed me to have kids,” I admitted. “And I’ve always wanted a big family. You know that,” I said, wringing my hands. “But I didn’t want them with him. That should’ve been my first clue, you know? I want babies. I didn’t want his.” I shook my head. “I mean, who thinks that? Wouldn’t you have left if you didn’t want—” I cut myself off, my eyes flaring wide. “I’m sorry, Roman, I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” he said, waving me off. “I came to peace with that a long time ago.”

I swallowed hard, hating how frayed my mind was that I didn’t think how insensitive my words were to my best friend who couldn’t have children.

“Go on,” he urged.

“I told him I wasn’t taking anything to prevent it,” I said. “Yes, it was a lie. But I knew in my heart I wasn’t ready for a baby. I told myself that’s why I didn’t want his babies because I couldn’t handle it right now. I mean, I only just recently started to sell my work with any real results. And I’m twenty-six. I don’t have to have my entire life figured out right now.” I sighed. “He found my pills. And I thought I’d hidden them so well.” I’d kept them in my purse at all times, buried beneath tampons and PMS meds. I never thought he’d make it past those, if he ever felt the need to look in my purse anyway. “He lost it,” I continued. “And then…well, you know the rest.”

Roman fisted his hands on the island. “This isn’t the first time he’s acted like this, is it?” He finally asked.

“There are some things I can’t tell you,” I said, swirling the red sauce at the bottom of my now-empty bowl.

“You can tell me anything,” he said. “You’ve always been able to tell me anything.”

That stinging shame curled my insides again. God, I’d never felt less intelligent in my entire life. How could I have been so blind?

“You can trust me.”

“I know I can, Roman,” I said, sighing as I ran my fingers through my long blonde hair. I needed a shower to work out the tangles. “It’s not about trust. I promise. And I literally can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done. What you did…” My voice trailed off as tears bit the backs of my eyes. He could get in so much trouble for that punch. A teammate, nonetheless. “Last night, all I could think of was getting somewhere safe. You were that place. I was an idiot. I should’ve thought. I didn’t think about how I could get you in trouble—”

“Fuck that,” he said, shoving off his barstool and rounding the island to stand before me. Walt quickly backed up and padded over to his bed in the living room to lay down.

Roman tilted my chin up so I would meet his dark eyes. “You always come to me, you hear me? For anything. I’m here. I don’t give a shit about the consequences. And that asshole deserved what he got.”

I blew out a breath, my forehead falling to rest against his chest. He wrapped his arms around me, his hands smoothing circles on my back.

“I just need some time,” I admitted. “I’ve barely been able to sort it out in my own mind.”

“Okay,” he said, his voice low as he released me. “I understand.”

“Thank you,” I said. “For last night. For breakfast. All of it.”

“Always.”

“Please don’t tell our mothers, either,” I begged as I chewed on my bottom lip, the call of his bed and a two-week-long nap so strong I felt I might pass out right there.

“I wouldn’t do that to you.”

Some tight pieces of my chest uncoiled. I didn’t need my mother or his knowing what went down last night. Or the past few years. Any of it. Not until I’d had time to sort it out myself. “Can I ask one more thing?”

“Anything.”

“Can I borrow your shower?”

Roman laughed, a quick, warm sound. “You know where it is.”

I pushed off the barstool, heading toward his bedroom. I stopped short of his door, a cold panic clawing up my throat. I spun back around, rushing into the kitchen. “I’m so sorry,” I gasped.

I grabbed both our empty bowls off the kitchen-island and hurried toward the sink. “I don’t know what I was thinking.” I flipped his faucet toward hot, quickly rinsing the bowls beneath the water as I reached for the scrub brush he kept to the sink’s left. My chest tightened at the idea of what could’ve happened if I’d left those dirty dishes on the counter—