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CHAPTER EIGHT

SAWYER

“W hat does it look like, Dad?”

I don’t know who to look at first: my son, straddling a retro Harley on the side of the road, or the woman I can’t get out of my mind—and likely never will now that I’ve seen her in full leathers.

Jesus .

As I draw nearer, Collins adopts a confident stance, hands propped on her hips. “It’s all good, Dad . Ezra here wanted to have a look at my bike. He’s really into it.” She throws me a look that’s impossible to misinterpret— let the boy do his thing.

Ezra drops his attention from me back to the bike as he studies it carefully, and I take the opportunity to edge a little closer. Her eyeliner is bolder than usual, and her hair blows in the chilling wind.

“You know he’s twelve, right? Way too young for motorcycles.”

She lifts a shoulder. “Obviously, I wasn’t going to let him ride it, and I was a similar age when I discovered bikes.”

I study her for a beat, feeling like she just told me something she hasn’t shared before. I want to know more about her past but pause on an inquisition since I know it won’t get me anywhere with her. “Did I just learn something about you?”

She scoffs lightly and flips her hand at Ezra, asking him to climb off. He does and steps onto the sidewalk, pulling out his cell to take pictures.

“In fact,” I muse, “I knew you were into bikes. I just didn’t know you had one of your own.”

“Two,” she replies quickly. “Technically, I have two bikes. The other one is in the garage where I work. In my spare time, I restore it. I’ll probably sell her when I’m done.” She reaches out and runs a hand over the pristine black leather seat. “Would be hard to part with this old girl though.”

So much of me wants to ask what’s so special about this bike that makes it indispensable to Collins. From reading between the lines and based on what she’s told me, I know she doesn’t see much as permanent—not where she lives or where she works, and maybe not even the company she keeps.

For the first time, as I watch her inspect the Harley-Davidson that looks like it was manufactured in the ’80s, I see something that resembles emotion. Like this is a part of her she can’t let go.

“Does she have a name?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest. I probably shouldn’t push, but I can’t help it.

She tips her head to look at me, her expression reverting back to the familiar hard one I’m used to. “No.”

I don’t believe her.

“You could never part with something you haven’t even named?” I challenge.

Collins climbs onto the bike and reaches behind her, unlocking a box fixed to the back. She pulls out her helmet and smooths a hand down her hair.

“I said it would be hard to part with her, not that it would never happen. Giving anything a name makes saying goodbye all the more difficult.”

She turns to my son, who’s still busy taking photos, a warmth in her eyes. “It was nice to meet you, Ezra. Maybe I’ll see you around again sometime.”

With one motion, she starts the bike, and the engine roars to life.

I scrub a hand over my jaw and summon all the gross thoughts I can conjure. Anything to counter the visual of her kick-starting that bike.

“I guess I won’t see you on Saturday since you’ll be heading to the event in Vegas, right?”

She pulls her helmet on, wavy pink strands falling below it and resting on her shoulders.

Collins shifts into gear, glancing at me briefly. “Correct.” She’s grinning—I can tell by the creases forming around her eyes. “I guess I’ll see you when I see you. Or not.”

* * *

“All right, that’s enough screen time for tonight. Go brush your teeth and head up to bed.” I thumb over my shoulder toward the stairs.

Without any kind of protest, Ezra slides off the barstool, where he sat for the past half hour, staring at his laptop, and heads straight upstairs.

As his foot lands on the first step, I set the plate I wiped on the kitchen counter.

“You didn’t tell me how soccer practice was,” I quickly say before he’s out of earshot.

He pauses, looking uninspired, and my heart sinks a little further. There has to be at least one sport he enjoys. I can barely get him to my own hockey games.

“It was fine,” he replies unenthusiastically.

I flip the towel I was using over my shoulder and walk toward him. “Kendra told me you’re a natural. Especially in goal.” Which I guess is unsurprising, given he’s way taller than average height for his age.

Ezra knocks his knuckles against the wooden handrail. “Why did you lie?”

Not where I thought this conversation was heading.

“What do you mean?”

He drops his shoulders, frustrated with my denial. But I honestly have no idea what he’s talking about.

“About Collins. I saw the pictures that were posted online, but you never once said anything to me. You just denied even knowing her on TV.”

I hoped my agent had gotten to the pictures before Ezra or his friends noticed them. He rarely watches my games, let alone post-match interviews, so I figured I could let this one slide.

Obviously not.

“Is she your girlfriend?” he asks before I get a chance to respond.

The word hits me like a ten-ton truck, knocking me right off guard. He’s been quiet since the second we said bye to Collins, but I chalked it up to him being tired from practice. Clearly, his mind was on something else.

It’s the first time he’s asked me about another woman. We’ve talked about his mom, but not in too much detail. When he asks questions, I give him answers and show him the photos I have of her, including the ones of Sophie holding him as a baby. I just never anticipated a time when he would ask me about anyone else. I guess because I never thought that time would come.

“Collins is Kendra’s friend; she’s been to a few of our games, and that night, I was walking her back home since she lives in the same area as us,” I answer the question, praying he doesn’t interrogate me further.

I hate lying to him, but I really don’t want him to know about our hookup. It’s not information a twelve-year-old needs to know. The pictures must’ve been taken in the dark and without a flash; otherwise, I’d have noticed it at the time and asked the asshole to respect our privacy.

Ezra rolls his lips together, deep in thought. “If you knew her and she’s a friend, then why did you lie and act like she was nothing?”

The pissed look on Collins’s face that night outside the bus stop is right in front of me as I take questions from my son. I didn’t want to deny her existence like she was some kind of stranger; it felt wrong to me, too, but seriously, what choice did I have?

I blow out a long breath. “Because she’s a very private person, and I didn’t want her to be identified. Besides, I don’t know if you would describe us as friends. She’s someone I know.”

Ezra’s brows pull together. “But you like hanging out with her, right?”

I prop my hands on my hips and shake my head slowly. “I wouldn’t even say that we’ve hung out togeth?—”

“Because I do,” he rushes out, cutting me off. “I like hanging out with her. She’s cool, and she likes bikes, which are way more interesting than goddamn sports.”

“Language,” I scold.

He rolls his eyes and starts up the stairs. “Whatever,” he huffs out as I track his movements until he disappears out of sight.

I stand there, rooted to the spot, wondering what the fuck just happened when my cell starts vibrating on the kitchen island.

I skid to a halt having raced over to grab it from next to Ezra’s laptop before it goes to voicemail.

“Hey,” I say, not even bothering to check the contact.

“Worst. Advice. Ever.” Archer’s unimpressed tone is unmistakable.

“What was?” I ask, my brain still catching up with the conversation I just had with Ezra, never mind processing what my goalie has to say.

“After practice today, I found out Shane was in town, seeing some of the guys for a few beers. With your advice still ringing in my ears, I thought it might be a good opportunity to tell him face-to-face—you know, man-to-man.”

I close my eyes and take the stool Ezra was previously using. “And?”

“And I’m calling you ahead of morning skate to give the heads-up on the bruised jaw I now have.”

“Fuck.”

He huffs out a humorless breath. “I can confidently confirm that my playing-around days are over, as is the era of me listening to you.”

“Other than landing one on you, what did he say?”

This time, he does laugh, but it’s dark. “He told me if he ever saw me again, he’d break my legs.”

“Did you hit him back?”

A couple of seconds of silence pass before he speaks.

“No. I didn’t particularly want the title of Bar Fighter to go with Resident Playboy.” He pauses again. “My agent is telling me some photos of the hit made it on the internet. I can’t look at them.”

“Hang on,” I say, grabbing my reading glasses from the counter opposite the island and waking Ezra’s laptop before punching in the password. “I’ll take a look for you. They’re probably already down though.”

Archer shares the same agent as me, and he’s known for being fast at getting shit like this taken down, although seemingly, he’s not as fast as Ezra’s peers.

As soon as I hit the last digit of his password, I pause, staring at the screen.

“Oh fuck, they’re really bad, aren’t they? Coach is going to ream my ass out tomorrow morning.” Archer groans, assuming my silence is in response to what I’m seeing.

I still don’t say anything.

BikerCollins.

An Instagram profile with over ten thousand followers and a hundred different posts—some Reels and other static images—lights up the screen in front of me.

I click on her latest upload—a Reel of her refurbing the Harley she was talking about. She’s dressed in ripped denim shorts, black Doc Martens boots, and a worn gray Def Leppard T-shirt. Her hair is thrown up in a bun with pieces framing her face as she talks to the camera, walking her followers through some kind of step-by-step instructions. Thankfully all in silence since Ezra has the volume on mute.

How did he find out she had this profile? Did she tell him? Did his friends find it? Or did he perform a random Google search on her first name?

Regardless, nothing gets past this kid.

“Sawyer, talk to me.”

“Huh?” I blink multiple times and come to.

“The images—are there any on the internet?” Archer asks.

I close the window and run a quick search—no hits. “Nothing. Already taken down, I guess.”

Archer breathes an audible sigh of relief and then starts talking, but like the bad captain and friend I am, I zone out again.

Ezra was viewing her Instagram profile.

I click a couple more buttons.

And by the looks of his search history, he’s watched multiple Reels and viewed nearly all her other posts.

I scroll further into his history; he’s been searching for images of us together—obviously showing no hits—and random questions about Harley-Davidson motorcycles.

Fuck me.

Did I just find my son’s new interest?