“We need to look toward the future,” Coach Sawyers said the next morning.

He stood at the front of the conference room, addressing the coaching staff as he did every Monday. Looking toward the future was the name of the game, especially after a loss. I knew this, everyone knew this, but it was easier said than done.

“We cannot dwell on defeat. We don’t have time. We need to focus on what went well and correct any issues so we can move on to our next win.”

He launched into an overview of the things we’d done well and the things we could do better. And I respected him for not laying blame on any one player. Just as he wouldn’t place blame on any one coach. We were a team, and we won and lost as a unit.

I knew I wasn’t solely responsible for the loss, but I couldn’t help blaming myself anyway. I shook my foot beneath the table as I stared straight ahead, evaluating the issues I needed to correct.

One. I’d crossed the line with Tristan.

Two. I’d been distracted ever since, my mind a million miles away.

Three. I’d avoided a member of the team, neglecting to fully prepare him for the game.

Four, I sighed, glancing at my watch. Four. I’d failed to support a player when he was struggling with difficult news.

Which was probably the one that disappointed me the most. I was a sports psychologist. I’d been trained to support athletes and promote their mental health in all aspects of their life. And there was no time an athlete needed more support than when they were injured or facing the end of their career. The death of their dreams.

It all added up to the fact that I’d allowed my own selfishness and immaturity to interfere with my job. I’d let the team down, and I’d let Tristan down. I’d let myself down, I admitted. I’d acted unprofessionally, and I’d lost sight of my goal.

“Would that be all right with you, Blake?” I snapped to attention, realizing all eyes were trained on me.

Crap. Distracted again. I needed to get it together.

I smiled brightly even though I had no clue what Coach Sawyers was asking me to agree to. Seeing no other choice, I said, “Of course.”

“Great. I’ll e-mail you the list of players I’d like you to speak with, starting with Tristan.” I nodded woodenly, dread filling the pit of my stomach like cheese flowing on nachos on game day.

“All right, everyone.” He clapped his hands once. “That’s it. I’ll see you for the team meeting in an hour.”

Steven leaned over to me as I gathered my stuff. “No rest for the wicked, eh?”

He had no idea, I thought as I smiled and nodded, pretending everything was fine. Pretending I hadn’t almost had sex with Tristan in a public restroom. Pretending I wasn’t a huge fraud.

I’d been burdened with guilt for the past week, but it seemed even more intense following the loss. We’d been doing so well all season, Tristan especially. And now this.

What if the kiss was to blame? Not for losing the game, but for the sudden decline in Tristan’s performance. Yes, he was struggling with the news of his shoulder. But if Tristan was at all superstitious—and most athletes were—the kiss might have thrown off his game. If for no other reason than it was out of his normal pattern. It was unexpected.

Or at least I thought it was outside his norm based on what Amy had told me. If the rumors were true, Tristan was celibate during the season. I found it difficult to believe he’d abstain from sex for such a long period, but what did I know? He was disciplined, and he seemed…tense. Uptight. Stressed. Even before the bomb dropped about his shoulder.

I crossed the room to Coach Sanders. I was consumed with questions, but he wouldn’t have the answers I sought. “Do you have a second?”

He tucked his tablet under his arm, edging toward the door. “I have a meeting in five. Walk with me?”

“Of course,” I said, easily falling into step with him. “What do you envision for these meetings?” I asked once we were in the hallway.

“Just a one-on-one with a few of the players who really seemed to struggle this past week. I want to make sure they’re at the top of their game.

“There’s no room for baggage on the field. But I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that.”

I nodded. He couldn’t be more correct. Except, how could I counsel anyone else when I was the worst offender? This past week I’d dumped a cargo-plane’s worth of excess baggage on the field. But now it was time to pack it up and ship it off.

“Steven’s having a good week, and he can handle the QCC duties,” he said. “Work around the players’ schedule, skip meetings if you need to. But I need you to make this happen.”

Despite the prospect of facing Tristan, I was excited. Professional sports teams weren’t known for promoting mental health, even though everyone acknowledged the crucial role mental state played in performance. And here was Coach Sawyers, practically begging me to work with the team to help them navigate these challenges.

A thought came to me, but I wanted to run it by him first. “Would it be okay if I meet with them during strength training or over meals? I find people are more willing to open up when they’re engaged in an activity. It takes the pressure off.”

“Whatever you need,” he said. “As long as you start with Tristan.” He slowed his pace, glancing around before lowering his voice. “He recently learned his injury may force him to retire sooner rather than later.”

I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “Yes, he told me.”

Coach Sawyers tilted his head to the side. “Did he?” It was more of a statement than a question, and I felt like he saw everything, knew everything. “And that’s why you’re the woman for the job.” He grinned, echoing my promise from my interview.

I appreciated his confidence in me. But for once, I wasn’t so sure.

With Coach Sawyers’s words ringing in my ears, I carried my tray across the cafeteria, intent on the table where Tristan, Colt, and Xavier usually sat. The smell of burned popcorn filled the air, lingering like the stench of the uniforms after a game. I frowned when I noticed Colt sitting by himself.

“Hey,” I said. “Where are Xavier and Tristan?”

“Nice to see you too,” he said, more to his tray than me. Coach Sawyers hadn’t included Colt on his list of players to speak with, but maybe he should’ve. He was sullen and short-tempered, his entire demeanor projecting a don’t-fuck-with-me vibe.

“Can I join you?” I asked.

Half-empty tables surrounded him, most players having eaten by now. The staff stood at their posts, recovering from the lunch rush and waiting for any stragglers.

“Sure,” Colt sighed, finally looking at me.

We ate in silence for a few moments before I finally asked, “Would you rather take an ice bath or a cold shower?”

Colt closed his eyes and shook his head, and I could tell he wasn’t amused. Still, he answered, “Cold shower.”

I took a few bites of my salad. “Would you rather share a room with Tyrese or DD?”

“Neither,” he said. I waited for him to say something else, to make a crack about sharing a room with me, but he didn’t. Wow, this was worse than I feared. Was he upset about the loss, or was there something more going on?

“Would you rather—”

“I’d rather not answer another fucking ‘would you rather’ question,” he interrupted. Ah, finally a genuine reaction. He yanked his fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry, Blake. I’m not very good company right now.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “We can just sit here. We don’t have to talk. I just…I don’t know, I thought you might want to.”

He cradled his head in his hands, elbows on the table. When he looked up at me, his gray eyes were the color of steel. “Tristan’s acting strange.”

“Strange how?” I asked, curious to hear his assessment. Colt knew Tristan better than almost anyone, and I wanted to know what he’d observed.

Colt shrugged. “I don’t know—more of an asshole. Sometimes he’ll get in these moods, but they don’t usually last this long.”

“When did it start?” I asked, already dreading the answer.

He glanced toward the ceiling. “Last Sunday, after the game.” Tristan’s best friend and roommate had just confirmed my greatest fear. The Monk’s legendary control was slipping, and I was to blame. “He was grumpy after the game. He was a jerk at dinner, and it was even worse after we left Jared’s.”

I could feel him watching me. I shifted in my seat as I attempted to keep my expression neutral. Colt had to know, or at least suspect, what had happened between Tristan and me. Right?

“He didn’t have to be such a jerk to you,” he finally said. He placed his hand over mine, but I quickly slid mine out from beneath his.

I needed to touch him just as much as he needed to touch me, but we couldn’t. For so many reasons, we couldn’t. Tristan was one of them, but it was much more complicated than that.

“What happened when you went to talk to him?” Wait a minute, wasn’t I supposed to be asking the questions?

“I, um…” I fumbled for something, anything, to say. “We didn’t have much of a chance to talk.”

He tilted his head to the side as if he’d just thought of something. “He really didn’t say anything to you? You guys were gone quite a while. That or Xavier and I sucked down the meal faster than I realized.”

My tongue was glued to the roof of my mouth. How did I answer that? I didn’t want to lie, but it wasn’t my place to say anything about Tristan’s injury. And I certainly wasn’t going to tell Colt about all the nonverbal communicating Tristan and I had done. Our hands, lips, and tongues had spoken volumes without saying a single word.

“We were interrupted,” I finally said, my throat tight, and my voice breathy.

He blew out a harsh breath. “He’s wound so tight. He’s going to snap. I think he’d be a lot nicer if he got laid.”

My throat tightened, and I choked on the bite I’d just taken. Colt eyed me with concern, and I took a few sips of water between coughs.

“You okay?” he asked, patting me on the back.

“I’ll be fine.” I jerked away from his hand. “Will you?” I asked, my eyes watering, throat tight. I’d never seen him this upset.

It pained me that he was hurting, as did the realization I was to blame for all of it. Tristan was upset about his injury, and I’d made matters worse. I hadn’t spoken to him, but I assumed he was mad at himself and me for crossing a line. We were on a downhill spiral, and Colt was feeling the impact.

He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “I’m sure it will be. I just hate when he shuts me out.”

“Does he do that often?” I asked, pushing my tray away. I’d barely eaten, but I couldn’t stomach the idea of food.

“Sometimes.” He glanced around, leaning forward again so no one could overhear. Considering the cafeteria was mostly deserted, it wasn’t really necessary. “Usually when his family is pushing his buttons.”

“Is that what you think is happening now?” I leaned closer even though there was no need. I couldn’t help myself when it came to Colt.

Colt shrugged. “Fuck if I know.”

We were silent a moment, both lost in our thoughts before Colt said, “The Monk breaks his fast,” and jerking his head in the direction of the kitchen. I followed his gaze and spotted Tristan scanning the line of food.

Colt pushed back his chair and stood, grabbing his tray. “Maybe you can convince him to break his vow of silence.”

“You think he’ll talk to me?” I asked, my eyes tracking Tristan as he made his way to the drink station.

“It’s worth a shot. He likes you.” He grinned, and heat crept up my neck in response.

I stood and followed him to the trash, waiting for Tristan by the door. He crossed the room with powerful strides, pounding the floor with every step. He kept his eyes down, unwilling to be deterred from his goal.

I smoothed down my skirt, trying not to let my nerves show. “Can we talk?”

“I’m busy.” Tristan kept his head down, unwilling to so much as look at me.

“Bullshit,” Colt coughed into his hand. “Carrie gave you a pass on the locker room media circus. So you’re free for an hour.”

Tristan glared at Colt. “Traitor.”

“Hell, alone time with Blake…” Colt said, giving me an appreciative glance. “Sign me up.”

Tristan’s jaw was set, a vein bulging in his neck. “Great. She’s all yours,” he said before marching off.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Did I want to follow him? Not really. But this was my job, and Coach Sawyers was counting on me to do it. Despite evidence to the contrary, I could be professional when it came to Tristan. I could, damn it.