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Zach had grown up.

When he’d first pulled himself out of the car, Gavin had barely recognized him.

Still the same height, but his build had changed, almost completely. He’d filled out, bulked up. His face had done the opposite—morphing and thinning out, leaving him chiseled and handsome.

Gavin felt a jolt go through him at the realization that he was . Big and tall and handsome, with his kind blue eyes and wheat-colored hair, long but not as long as Gavin’s, clearly cut by someone who knew how to frame his face.

And that face . Jesus.

Gavin had always known he was into both men and women but he’d fallen in love with Noelle so young he’d never had a chance to do more than look. And he’d certainly never, never looked at Zach that way, but the jolt of something, deep in his belly, at how good Zach had grown up, was fucking him up.

In so many ways, Zach was that shy, scared nineteen-year-old he’d last coached. He was that kid Gavin had sent to the NHL. He was the pro player with so much talent and potential that he’d prepped his own team to play against.

And he was someone else, entirely.

Someone else Gavin wasn’t sure he knew anymore.

Right now, he was carefully outlining the selling points that Swift had probably sent him, referring to his phone that he’d set out on the counter.

Gavin stayed standing, on the other side of the long counter that stretched most of the length of the house.

Zach had slipped onto one of the barstool seats, like sitting down made this whole conversation more official, like he was really offering Gavin this contract and Gavin actually wanted to hear about it.

Like he might be truly tempted into considering it.

They both knew the truth, but Zach was committed to the charade anyway.

Not once had he considered that Zach, of all the guys he’d coached, might be better at leading than playing.

You could’ve been there for it, for all of it, but you made sure you weren’t.

He had. For a lot of reasons. Reasons that still felt solid, if not good. He had a decent life out here. It wasn’t terrible, but then it wasn’t the life he’d had, either, and that was the most important thing.

Gavin interrupted Zach when he was between points six and seven. Something about performance-based bonuses. Extra money if he led the Evergreens to the playoffs, and won there, too.

“What happens to you if I say no?” Gavin asked.

Zach looked startled. “Uh . . . what do you mean?”

And Gavin realized the interruption hadn’t been the surprising thing, but instead the concept that Gavin might actually be considering the job offer.

Suddenly he felt shitty that he was making Zach do this, and he didn’t even want it. He didn’t even mean it.

At least that had always been true, but then he’d never let anyone get this far before. He’d dismissed them in the clearing outside his house, the weight of his unloaded rifle always on his shoulder.

He had another gun he carried on long hikes, a lightweight pistol, because there was still wildlife out here, deep in the forests. But the rifle was showy and impressive and made all the slick NHL suits panic in a way that amused him at first and now only felt simpler. Easier.

“I mean, did they hire you thinking you could get to me, and if you can’t—”

A frown creased Zach’s face. “They didn’t hire me to get to you.”

“No?” Maybe it wasn’t fair, but Gavin didn’t really believe that.

The NHL didn’t like loose ends, and he was the ultimate loose end. No longer easily folded into their systems, into their development programs, into their coaching hierarchies.

“This was all my idea,” Zach said stubbornly. “Sidney wanted to approach—” He cut himself off. “It doesn’t matter who he wanted originally.”

It kind of mattered, in a way that Gavin hadn’t considered in a long, long time .

Before, before , he’d been competitive. He’d wanted to be the best. The most sought after. The idea of the Evergreens going after anyone else to be their new head coach would’ve kept him up nights.

But then he’d discovered there were a lot worse things.

“I was the one who suggested it.” Zach shot him a look. “Swift thought I was crazy to even come here, but I told him, I told him I had to try, to see you, to make sure . . .”

Zach didn’t have to finish the sentence for Gavin to know what he meant. That he was alive. That he was well. That he hadn’t drowned himself in booze or silence.

He couldn’t say that either of those things hadn’t seemed appealing at the beginning. But he’d grown out of self-destruction. Now numbness came naturally, without any assistance whatsoever.

“Well, you’re here. I’m here.” Gavin spread his arms wide. Ignored the guilt pulsing in his gut. It was easier than it should’ve been. “I’m fine. Even if I’m apparently rotting away here.”

“Why did you let me—” Zach stopped abruptly, expression suddenly angry. “I get it.”

If Zach got it, then that was one of them, because Gavin still wasn’t sure why he’d invited Zach in or why he’d been stupid enough to let him make an actual job pitch.

Maybe he’d been tempted by life, by real fucking life , for the first time in four years. Now that he should feel guilty about but like a cosmic joke played on Gavin, of course he didn’t. Not even a little bit.

“They won’t fire you, then?” Gavin changed the subject, back to his initial question. It was easier to stay focused on Zach and his future, maybe not the future he’d imagined for him, back when he’d known that nineteen-year-old, so fucking full of promise, but still undeniably bright.

Zach looked incredulous. “No,” he said bluntly.

“Okay. Good.”

“Do you want to hear the rest?” Zach asked cautiously.

He didn’t. He hadn’t wanted to hear the beginning or the middle either, but like an idiot, he waved his hand for Zach to continue.

It was really stupid but he couldn’t seem to stop himself.

Zach finished and then for a long moment, there was silence.

Zach still looked a little angry, like he couldn’t quite believe Gavin had made him go through the whole thing. Gavin couldn’t really believe he’d done it either.

“Well,” Zach finally said. “That’s it.”

“I listened to it,” Gavin said as diplomatically as he could.

It should be very easy to get the next word out.

The no . The no had come very easily to him for the last four years, but now the word was stuck in his throat.

Instead, he cleared it and said, “So, since I listened, I think you should tell me why you quit playing hockey.”

Gavin leaned over, pulled the fridge open, and grabbed two more beers. He shouldn’t care about this, shouldn’t feel like something he’d wanted, that he’d believed in, had turned out to be false. This was Zach’s life, not his.

But it still stung.

“And,” Gavin added, “don’t tell me the beer league where you demolished everyone was really playing hockey. Why did you quit the NHL? ”

“I didn’t quit ,” Zach said mulishly. “I fucking retired.”

“If you’re not even thirty, you didn’t retire.”

“I didn’t expect that you’d be an asshole about this.” He didn’t tell Gavin what he’d expected he would be an asshole about, but then it was obvious, wasn’t it?

He’d actually been pretty nice about the job offer. He’d let Zach get through the whole spiel. Hadn’t actually said the word no , even.

Gavin pushed that thought away. “I’m not being an asshole.”

“Kind of looks like it from here.”

“I just wanna know why it didn’t work out.

When . . .” Gavin swallowed hard. He’d meant it, earlier.

He didn’t want to talk about it. He could, but he never wanted to.

“You were playing. Playing well. Second line, if I remember. The Mavs had high hopes for you. Maybe not the foundation of the franchise, but the future looked promising. Your future looked promising.”

Zach huffed. “Am I allowed to say I don’t want to talk about it?” He took a long drink of beer.

It was inexcusable, and he should feel guilty about it, but he pinned on his best “fuck around and find out” Coach look and shook his head.

“You’ve got a funny way of not being an asshole,” Zach muttered.

“Just tell me. Not everything just . . . why .”

Because if he didn’t, Gavin was going to dig out his tablet when Zach left and Google it, and he really, really didn’t want to go down that rabbit hole.

He couldn’t say he’d never gone down it, but he’d gotten better about resisting. About realizing that the hole inside him and its accompanying agony was always worse when he let himself do it.

“I didn’t . . .I didn’t like it,” Zach said.

Gavin’s jaw dropped. That was not what he’d expected Zach to say.

“You love playing hockey, though.”

“Yeah, I love playing hockey. I didn’t love playing it as a job. All that corporate bullshit. The trades. The pressure to win. Never sure what’s going to happen the next day.” Gavin watched as Zach’s throat, strong and tanned, worked. He wanted to press his fingertips to his skin and feel it.

He looked away, shaky and suddenly unsure.

“And,” Zach added, like he didn’t want to even say it, but he couldn’t not , “the gay thing really fucking sucked.”

Fury coalesced inside Gavin. He knew what Zach had been saying about the corporate bullshit.

The intense highs of winning. The catastrophic lows of losing.

But he’d never imagined Zach’s sexuality was going to be a problem.

He’d listened intently when Zach had come out, stammering and blushing, and reassured him that he wouldn’t be alone.

That there were others. That nobody would give him shit.

He’d shown him articles about the out players in professional football.

About the Riptide and the Piranhas. How the new owner of the Charleston Condors was gay and in a relationship with one of his ex-players.

Zach had nodded intently, and later Noelle had teased Gavin, gently suggesting that Zach had probably been more aware of all of this than Gavin himself .