Chapter Twenty-Seven

That had to be the worst night of sleep Lance had ever had, and he’d had plenty of bad nights in his day. Nights in physical pain and hours spent tossing and turning before a big game. Lumpy mattresses and bumpy flights and countless other things had kept him awake and miserable.

But this…?

Every inch of him ached, and it felt like someone had punched a hole clean through his chest. Rolling over only reminded him Charlotte wasn’t next to him, regardless of it being something he’d already known.

Over and over her hurt expression flickered through his mind on a torturous loop.

The news about who her dad was had sent him spiraling, stirring up his trust issues and making him doubt everything, and that damn text had pushed him over the edge.

The fight spun out of control so quickly, words spewing from his mouth before he could check himself. A pounding headache loomed as he recalled that retort he’d made about how she’d slept with him despite the rules.

He was an asshole.

He groaned and shoved a pillow over his head, not wanting to face the day or the plane ride home. Was it bad that a small part of him didn’t care if she had told her dad and he’d leaked it?

Yes, yes it was. He couldn’t afford not to care. Couldn’t afford to get so wrapped up in a woman who hadn’t been 100 percent honest with him. He was already so tangled in her web that every ounce of happiness had drained from him the instant she’d stormed out the door. Much longer and he’d be sucked dry and unable to break free.

After a few minutes of wallowing, he sat up and reached for his phone.

His stomach sank. There were several missed calls from Gavin Frost and his agent in the mix of dozens of others. The news must’ve broken, and Gavin was probably upset he hadn’t gotten to announce it the way he’d hoped—hell, the way any of them hoped.

As much as he wanted to put it off, it wouldn’t change anything, so he dialed up Gavin, preferring to talk to him over his agent. He’d been in the guy’s shoes and was always better with players anyway.

“Gavin, I’m so sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry,” he said, and Lance focused on the way he’d said the words. Not sarcastic. Genuine, with a hint of remorse. “I told my mom not to answer the phone, but when I wouldn’t talk to the reporters, they called her, and she has this thing about lying. I tried to tell her it wasn’t lying, but you know how pushy those reporters are. She cracked. My family was just so excited about me playing for the Mustangs, and…”

The rest of his words faded as Lance put together what he was saying. “Your mom talked to a reporter.”

“Like I said, I’m sorry.”

It wasn’t Charlotte. Of course it wasn’t her.

It’d never seemed quite right, and he hadn’t wanted to believe it. But he’d let himself believe it anyway, and he’d accused her of tipping off her dad and shit, shit, shit.

“If your people want to put together a statement for me to release or read,” Gavin said, “I’m happy to do it. I’ll do whatever I can to make this right.”

Lance pinched the bridge of his nose. Pre-Charlotte, he would’ve let his frustrations spill out of his mouth without thinking, but he was slowly learning to take a second before he spoke—with the exception of last night, damn it. She’d made him better, and for all her efforts, he’d accused her of being a liar. He cleared his throat and concentrated on staying on good terms with his newly acquired quarterback. “Don’t worry about it, it happens. Let me get back to you on the statement.”

He didn’t have people quite yet. Technically, he had one person, and he’d screwed up so badly he wasn’t sure she’d ever speak to him again.

Every thought turned to going to find Charlotte so he could apologize and beg for forgiveness. He hung up, flung off the covers, and tugged on jeans and a T-shirt— Even a shower would take too long. He finger-combed his hair and stepped into his shoes as he made his way to the door.

As his horrible luck would have it, the halls were full of people checking out.

Not that it mattered. He knocked on the door to her hotel room. When she didn’t answer, he pounded on it. “Charlotte? Charlotte, please talk to me. I was an asshole, and I’m sorry, and I…”

Everyone in the vicinity was staring now, but he didn’t give a shit. “Charlotte, please. Please let me in so I can tell you what an idiot I am. Not that you don’t already know.”

Nothing.

He strode to the front desk, impatiently tapping his fingers against his thigh as he waited in line.

Finally a desk clerk waved him over, and he asked about getting a key to Charlotte’s room— He’d paid for it, after all, and desperate times called for desperate measures.

“Oh, Miss James checked out early this morning.”

It was early now. “What time?”

“Four thirty.”

Two hours ago. “Did she say where she was going?”

The desk clerk hesitated.

“We work together, and I’m sure you can see that my name is on the room. I just… My phone’s not charged,” he lied.

“We called her a cab to take her to the airport.”

His tattletale phone rang in his pocket, and when the desk clerk frowned at him, he gave him a sheepish look.

The second he answered it, Gavin’s agent added his apologies about the leak. “We know you wanted to make a big announcement, and that’s what we wanted, too.”

“It’s fine. Let me call you back.” Lance disconnected the call and tapped Charlotte’s number. As the phone rang and rang, he paced the lobby like a madman. Considering he’d completely lost his mind, it was accurate.

He swore when it reached her voicemail, earning him dirty glares from a few of the people in the lobby. With no other choice but to go on with the day he’d planned before his life fell apart, he went back to his hotel room, shoved everything in suitcases, and called for a car to take him to the private airfield where a plane would be waiting for him.

On the drive over, he wrote up two press releases using the examples of others he’d found online—one from the team and one for Gavin. Then he fired them off to the sports reporters he had a good rapport with and told Gavin and his agent they were free to shout the news from the rooftop.

He called Charlotte again as he was boarding, leaving her a voicemail that begged her to call him back.

Just before the plane landed in San Antonio, he called again and left another voicemail.

Lance’s phone rang nonstop the rest of the day, long after his flight had landed and he’d arrived back at his empty penthouse that seemed even emptier than when he’d left it.

But none of the calls were from Charlotte, and as he fell into bed at the end of the day, completely exhausted, he worried that she’d never talk to him again.