“Absolutely,” I said.
He looked confused. Delaney smoothly redirected the conversation then guided me away.
“Cole, focus,” she murmured.
One drink wouldn’t hurt, just enough to take the edge off, to get through the night.
The first one burned going down. The second one dulled the edges. By the third, the pain receded to something manageable.
The board members didn’t notice the shift. Or maybe they liked me better loose and laughing. I kept gathering intel, even as the alcohol blurred my edges—more mentions of offshore accounts, someone’s nervous joke about keeping politicians happy.
“Cole.” Delaney appeared at my elbow, her expression carefully neutral. “Maybe we should get some food.”
“I’m fine.” I wasn’t fine, but the alcohol made it easier to pretend I didn’t see Eva across the room, easier to laugh at board members’ jokes, easier to be the dutiful son of a billionaire that everyone expected.
After dinner, I pulled Delaney closer when a photographer circled, then pressed a kiss to her temple that I knew would look perfect in photos.
Eva saw it.Fuck.Her expression splintered for an instant, vulnerable and hurt, before settling into that neutral calm I used to love breaking so fucking much.
The room tilted slightly. Delaney steadied me with a hand on my arm, her expression a careful mask of concern rather than judgment. A perfect fiancée worried about her man having a little too much fun.
But when we passed Eva and Tristan on the way out the door, Delaney leaned close to Eva.
“I’ll get him home safe,” she murmured, soft enough that only the four of us could hear. “I know he’s yours.”
Eva’s breath caught. A tear streaked down her face.
I turned away so I wouldn’t have to see it.
The drive home passed in fragments as I fought shame and despair and misery.
“No,” I snapped at the driver. “Take me to Declan’s club.”
The bouncers letme in the back door this time. I could still hear the pounding bass, but at least this time, I didn’t have to wade through them in my tux.
“Absolutely fucking not.” Declan looked me up and down, taking in my disheveled tux and the alcohol on my breath. “You’re in no condition.”
“I make you a fucking fortune every time I get in the ring,” I snarled. “Three fights for one phone call about a girl, and I’ve earned you how many tens of thousands of dollars already? Let me fucking fight when I feel like fucking fighting.”
The room tilted slightly, and I steadied myself against the wall.
“Your funeral,” Declan answered. “You have clothes to wear?”
“Nope.”
He sighed then led me back to a small, utilitarian office, where he handed me shorts. I stumbled into his desk after changing, and he shook his head, taking my hands into his and taping them carefully. “What are you punishing yourself for?”
I shrugged. Why should I bare my soul to Declan, who, like everyone else, was using me to make money?
“Your father’s been pissing people off,” he murmured. I stared at our hands while he wrapped mine. “I hear it’s because a couple of hockey games didn’t go the way he expected.”
My eyes flew to his.
“I don’t know shit about shit,” he said, “but be careful.”
The audience ranged from men in custom suits to Irish dockworkers like Eva’s father, all placing bets on men beating each other up in the ring.
Jameson was waiting when I climbed through the ropes—bigger than me, experienced, fresh off a win, with carrot-colored curls and green eyes that made me think of Eva for a second before I blinked her memory away. He took one look at me and grinned, his hand held out to me. “Cole fuckin’ Carter.”