We’re still famous. Fans will go apeshit if they spot us. But we simply don’t experience the same level of frenzy that Killian and Jax do. There’s a certain freedom in that. Whip and I have always been able to fade into the background and do our own thing. As a result, we hang out a lot more.

He runs a hand through his black hair, and it stands up in all directions. “We’ve all changed. Why try to fight it?”

For a tight second, I want to tell him about Brenna. The urge is so great, I can feel the words pushing against my tongue. I swallow them down. Threat of death notwithstanding, it would be a violation of Bren’s privacy.

“I’m not fighting it. It’s more it finally occurred to me there are things I can’t control. Things that affect my peace of mind. And that sucks.”

Whip’s eyes narrow again. Cold horror bolts down my spine. He knows this is about Brenna. I know this because we can both read each other like a billboard. It’s all there on his smug yet slightly pitying face. My fist clenches, and I give him a quelling look.

That he ignores.

“Man…”

“Don’t say it,” I cut in.

“I don’t know what set you off this time,” he goes on as if I haven’t spoken.

“Nothing set me off.”

He rolls his eyes, but his expression remains troubled. “She’s a lost cause. You know that, right?”

His words are a punch in the throat. They spike along my skin with itchy heat and lodge in my chest like a hot, writhing ball. I want to punch back, take him and his truth down a peg. Which isn’t like me. Well, anymore. In my youth, I was a hot-headed asshat.

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I know.”

No use denying or trying to evade anything else. Whip will see right through that bullshit. He eyes me with trepidation, obviously understanding that he’s rubbed me raw.

My temper snaps. “Stop looking at me like that. I’m not mooning or whatever the fuck you think. You have no idea what you’re talking about this time.”

“So tell me.”

“Tell you what?” Killian says, suddenly at Whip’s side. The guy must walk on cat feet or something. Whip and I both visibly jolt.

“Rye is not mooning over Brenna,” Whip says solemnly.

He is no longer my best friend.

“Right.” Killian nods, playing along. “He never does.”

“Fuck you both.” I say it without much heat. Getting mad never helps diffuse their nosiness.

Jax ambles over and slings an arm around my neck. “Hey, now, we all know Rye can be an asshole about non-Brenna topics too. The list is endless.” He attempts to put me in a headlock, from which I easily break free.

“Funny.” Inside, I’m grateful. Months ago, Jax tried to grill me about Brenna, and I asked him to back off.

“Let’s talk about this lumberjack look you’ve got going.” Jax rubs his palm on my cheek, and I swat him away. “What’s up with the beard, Rye-Rye?”

“Just felt like growing one.” Not the truth, but it’s yet another thing I don’t want to talk about. When the hell did hanging out with my best friends become something I’d rather avoid? It doesn’t sit right with me. But I can’t shake the feeling.

“It’s definitely a look.” Killian eyes my growing beard. “A little scraggly, though.”

“Are we going to start giving one another grooming tips now?” I ask while putting my gear into my bag. I need to get out of here. Be alone until I calm down.

“You’d have to actually groom yourself once in a while for me to give you tips, big guy.” Killian’s smile is wide and easy. He’s pretty much relaxed and happy all the time now. Which is great for him; he’s getting laid on the regular by someone he loves. Clearly, it works.

Is that what Brenna meant? That she needed to find the kind of contentment Killian and Jax found with their women? Does sex with someone you care about make so much of a difference? On paper, yeah. Of course, I can understand the logic. But I can’t make the leap into truly believing it. Sex is physical. I know intuitively that it would be better with Brenna, because I want her more than I’ve wanted anyone.

Brenna never mentioned love. We don’t love each other. But I do care. I’ve always cared about her. How can I not? Officially, she’s the band’s public relations manager, but the truth is, she’s as much a part of the band as any of us. We’ve gone from obscurity to fame together. She’s witnessed the blood, sweat, and tears—hell, not witnessed, she’s experienced them. Brenna and I can bicker like spoiled brats, but I would do anything for her. All this time, I thought she understood that. Sour regret fills my stomach when I think about how much my actions upset her. I feel like a bonehead, an asshole. I want to make it up to her, to prove I’m one hundred percent on her side.

What if she agrees to give it a try with me and quickly realizes that it’s not going to fill the void in her life? What the fuck do I do then? Because Brenna isn’t one to keep on with something that’s not making her happy. She’ll drop me faster than I can zip my pants up. And shit will get awkward. Fast.

“You’re zoning out again,” Whip says near my ear.

The guys are all looking at me with varying levels of amusement.

Shit. I shouldn’t have gone out today.

“I’m in a funk. No big deal.”

I hate the silence that follows. It presses in on my skin and chokes me.

“Well,” Jax finally says, drawing out the word like he’s struggling to find a topic that will break the awkward-ass tension I’ve dropped on them. “Let’s play ball, then.”

Good. Great. Anything is better than all this talking.

I move to grab the ball at my feet. And it happens. My hand seizes up, curling into a claw as white-hot pain shoots from the tips of my fingers up to my shoulder. I go absolutely rigid. The pain is so intense, I can’t move. All I can do is work through it with slow, agonized breaths. No one has seen; it’s only been a few seconds. But it feels like an eternity.

Casually, as I can, I grab my bag with my good hand and stand upright. Jesus wept, it hurts. Like a molten poker under my skin. “I’m gonna go.” I’m sweating. I know I am. My voice is clipped and tight.

The guys start to protest, but I’m already backing away. Need to get the fuck out of here. Now. I feel ill. Dizzy.

Panic attack. Jax has them. He’d empathize. He’d help. He’d ask questions I don’t want to answer.

Panting, I jog off the court. My hand is still curled into a painful claw.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

By the time I get a cab and collapse in the back of it with a sigh, my head spins with pain and fear. Slowly, with the cautiousness of a ninety-year-old, I stretch my fingers, wincing at the lingering soreness. I move my index finger the wrong way and wince.

As soon as I get home, I’ll ice my hand, then follow that with an ointment rub. I could take pain meds, but they don’t fix anything, only mask it.

Tears smart my eyes, the city a blur outside the grimy cab window. I’m surrounded by millions of people, and I’ve never felt more alone. Cold. Empty. And afraid. Because it’s not getting better. It’s getting worse.