Page 91 of Tight End

I stalk into the foyer and pull on my clothes. I grab my keys and then the door handle. I turn, my lips trembling with anger.

“And just so you know, you can’t hold a candle to Travis fucking Kelce as the best tight end in the league, you assbag.”

That was low, but fuck it.

I feel a tiny bit better after saying it.

I pull open the apartment door and slam it so hard behind me that the walls shake.

Something shatters inside the apartment and I let out a breath.

I hope it was something he loved.

Bastard.

When I’m in my truck, I sit still for a long minute and grip the steering wheel like I’d like to grip Sam’s throat. I swallow hard, startled when my phone pings with a text.

I pull the phone from my pocket, my pulse thundering.

Could it be?—?

But it isn’t.

It’s Lane.

Hey, you there?

I suck in a breath and stab at the keyboard.

Yes.

Three gray dots appear as he types.

Good. Come meet me for breakfast. Ray’s Diner. You know the place.

Yeah, I know the place. Best corned beef hash on the West Coast. Not that I can even think about eating anything right now.

Meet you there in ten.

When I pull into the diner parking lot, my blood is still on high boil. I glare at my phone before stuffing it into my pocket. No call from Sam in the ten minutes after I stormed out of his place and evidently, his life.

I scrub a hand down the front of my face and take a deep breath. The urge to go back to Sam’s apartment and beat him with his own crutches is damn strong.

Fuck him.

I need to work on myself.

What the hell about him?

I let out a groan and slam my hands on the steering wheel.

The demons nip at my heels.

This is why I don’t get close to anyone.

Nobody will love you if your own father can’t.

Fuck corned beef hash. I need vodka.

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