Page 142 of Interference

“Please.” He waved dismissively. “You were just looking for reasons to blame me for everything.”

I pushed out a breath and pinched the bridge of my nose. Then I dropped my hand and met his gaze. “Fine. You tell me—what exactly should I have been doing differently? Because that was the only way I knew how to figure this out.”

“You could’ve acted like you wanted me once in a while.”

I blinked. “What? Like, in bed?”

“That would’ve been a good start.”

“But… I did. The only times I didn’t—I mean, did you want me to initiate things when you were mad at me? When I couldn’t even speak to you without you snapping at me or cold-shouldering me?”

Simon rolled his eyes. “So it’s my fault. Again.”

“What did you want me to do?” I didn’t bother trying to hide my exasperation. “I wasn’t going to try to have sex with you when you wouldn’t even look at me.”

He scowled, and I could hear the counterargument coming. Didn’t know exactly what he’d say, only that he was going to try to twist things to make me look like the bad guy. And quite frankly, I was done with that shit.

“Look,” I said before he had a chance to speak. “We’re done. It’s over. I’m sorry if I didn’t make you feel like I wanted us to stay together. And the pressure we were under—that we’re still under—it fucked us up. I don’t think either of us can deny that. If the team hadn’t put our balls in a vise like that, maybe we’d have had an easier time. But the fact is… we’re done. And we still have to coexist.”

Simon glared at me. “So what do you want? You just want me to pretend everything is sunshine and roses, and that I’m happy you’re with that asshole?”

It took everything I had not to lash out in defense of Wyatt. I hated the way Simon talked about him, but this was damage control time. I needed us to come to some kind of agreement so we could function together until the season was over.

So I swallowed my frustration and quietly said, “I’m not asking you to like anything. I’m not even asking you to like me. We just have to be teammates and convince the cameras we’re still a couple. Beyond that?” I shook my head. “No, I don’t expect you to be happy about it.”

Simon scowled and looked away.

“It’s like you said when we broke up,” I said gently. “We just have to get through this season, and then we’ll be able to show the team management that we can clearly coexist as exes. Then we won’t have to room together anymore or pretend everything is okay.” I exhaled. “It’s just a few more months.”

“Yeah, easy for you to say,” he muttered. “You’re living in the big house with a brand-new piece of ass.”

“Moving out was your choice,” I said. “You want to trade?” I gestured at the apartment around us. “You want us to move in here while you go back to the house?”

“Us,” he spat. “Christ, you really are already shacking up, aren’t you? And I wasn’t supposed to get suspicious when some random ‘friend of a friend’”—he made viciously sarcastic air quotes—“had nowhere else to go?”

“I never laid a hand on him until after we split up,” I growled. “Quite frankly, I don’t give a damn if you believe me or not. I never cheated on you, and that’s a fact. But you’re avoiding my question. Do you want the house? Would that make you happy? Because we’ll move out if—”

“Keep the house,” he snarled. “I don’t want to live there now that I’ve seen what the two of you have done to that living room and kitchen.”

I rolled my eyes. “No one made you look at the cameras.”

“Whatever.”

Ugh. For fuck’s sake. Why in the world had I tried so hard to stay with this man? Because it wasn’t all in the name of protecting our careers. I’d loved him. I’d wanted us to be together the way we’d talked about. All those nights of fantasizing about off season vacations and the post-retirement good life—I’d really believed in that. Now, the thought of spending another minute with this man—never mind till death do we part—made me sick.

“We’re miserable, Simon,” I told him. “We were miserable the last year we were together, and we’re miserable now. The only solution is to agree to move forward until we can finally be open about breaking up.”

He met my gaze with angry, hurt eyes. “Oh yeah. You’re definitely miserable. You’ve got—”

“None of this has anything to do with Wyatt,” I snapped. “You’ve tried to make it about him at every turn, but this all comes back to you and me. No one else. And the solution comes down to you and me.” I spread my arms. “So tell me what I can do and what you’re willing to do.”

He stared at the floor between us for a long moment. Knowing him, he wanted to fight. He wanted to rip everything we’d had to shreds and probably blame both Wyatt and me for everything. But right in front of my eyes, the fight went out of him. Slouching against the door, he looked absolutely drained.

The impulse to cross the room and hug him was almost irresistible. I felt guilty for staying where I was; despite everything, there was still a part of me that loved and cared for this man. I didn’t enjoy seeing him upset or hurt. I wasn’t finding any thrill or satisfaction out of watching him squirm.

But I had to keep the lines clear, and comforting him would just blur them.

I stayed put, silently waiting for him to gather his thoughts and tell me where we went from here. Was this what it meant when someone said they had to be cruel to be kind? Because it sure felt like it.

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