Page 20 of My Little Secret

Chapter 9

HAWK

“Sadie?”My voice came out a raw whisper. This was impossible. What the fuck was she doing here? The commotion of the room around us shrank to a dull roar.

She gulped, looking like I’d slapped her. “Hey.”

A stunned moment of silence shuddered between us. Confusion roiled in my gut. I’d spotted her across the room as I was looking for my manager. Something about the way she held herself snagged me. Hell, she was practically a homing beacon.

“What are you doing here?” My gaze wandered over her face. Was she part of the press and hadn’t told me? That seemed absurd. And then I noticed the front of her shirt. BRUTE. My gut twisted, the word refusing to integrate into my consciousness.

“I would really love to talk to you about this,” she whispered forcefully, her eyes darting to something over my shoulder. “But later. Afterwards.”

“You’re—?”

“We just need to talk somewhere that isn’t here,” she insisted. “There’s so much I have to tell you, and I should have told you sooner but I didn’t know how to say it and I—”

I stepped closer, my heart forming the cadence to the question thrumming through me. “Are you sleeping with Brute?”

Her eyes went wide. “No! Fuck no! That is so disgusting. I can’t even—no. He’s my brother.”

A breath I’d been holding slithered out of me, and I wasn’t sure if I was more relieved or confused. “Then what are you—”

“I told you, we have to talk later.” She sounded desperate. “Jesus, Hawk, I’m so sorry for this. It wasn’t my plan to keep this from you; I didn’t want you to find out this way, I—"

“Get your fucking hand off my sister.” The voice sliced through, angry and urgent. Brute. I dropped her wrist, and Brute turned to her, eyes blazing. “Why is he touching you?”

“We were talking.” She looked up at Brute, face flushed. “Can’t we talk?”

“Not to this guy,” Brute said. His tone pissed me off even more, and I took a step back, drawing a deep breath. Nothing made sense, and now I didn’t know if I wanted it to.

“It was a mistake,” I said, my voice edged with anger. I gave her a pointed look and turned on my heel, removing myself from the situation before things got ugly. I could feel Brute’s gaze sizzling on me as I walked away.

No way. No fucking way. I wove through the crowd, half expecting Brute to come after me and grab me, push me to the wall or some shit. After his little stunt on the live stream, I wouldn’t put it past him to start a show that got the cameras rolling again.

Questions flooded me, left me weak and wandering. I paced the hallway for a minute before deciding to leave. I just had to go. I called my manager, and he sent the car. A few minutes later, I pushed out the front door of the studio, a whoosh of energy greeting me as fans perked up, shouting and talking as I walked down the carpet. I waved a little but mostly kept my head down until I got into the car.

Fucking unbelievable. I rubbed at my jaw, staring at the passing city without really seeing anything. Sadie was Brute’s brother. We’d been meeting up—I’d been getting her off—all this time and she hadn’t told me. That was some bullshit.

My phone dinged a moment later. It was Sadie. “Please please please say you’ll let me explain.”

I didn’t reply. I couldn’t yet. Another text came in just before we pulled into the hotel. “I really fucked up and I’m so sorry.”

Yeah. Fucked up was an understatement. I needed to think about this for a while before I said anything. I wanted the story—but her secrecy chafed at me. This whole damn time she knew.

My own words rang in my ears, my pleas to have her come to the match, her vague responses. Of course. It all made sense now. And made me feel like the biggest chump in the world.

I squeezed my hands into fists, watching as my phone lit up with another message. I pocketed it. I’d deal with her later. For now, I had bigger shit to focus on. Like demolishing her brother in this fight.

I leta day go by before I wrote back to her. I took my time, doing some research about Brute’s family. Found out some interesting things, like how Sadie was actually his PR manager. That made shit sting even worse. Made me think back on every single thing I’d told her, combing through the memory reel, trying to find the spots where I’d unwittingly made an ass of myself.

But the anxiety gnawed at me so much I had to give her something. It hurt to know that she felt like shit about it. And maybe I’d let her suffer enough.

I sent her a message after training that day. It was short and to the point. “Ok I’m ready to talk.”

Her response came so fast it seemed like she’d sent it before my message even came through. “Can I come see you?”

My stomach wrenched. That didn’t seem like a good idea. But also it seemed like the best idea. I didn’t want to have this conversation over text. But did it even deserve a conversation? Shit like this was better to just leave alone, let it die off and disappear by itself. I’d allowed plenty of hook-ups and flings to just wither away from ignoring texts. Most women didn’t hold my attention for longer than two dates anyway—seemed the pool that came my way was boring, shallow, grasping, and more interested in the spotlight than me.

---