Page 126 of The Goalie in Room 1

The closet door stood open. An empty hanger rod that had once been packed with his clothes and the few of mine he’d swiped. Even the shoes he usually left outside the door were gone.

My stomach dropped.

“Cash.”

“What?”

“What the fuck are you doing?”

He looked down at the shirt in his hands, then back at me as if the answer should’ve been obvious. “Packing.”

I sat up too fast, the sheet falling away from my chest. “Why?”

“Usually makes moving shit easier.”

Moving.

The word punched straight through me.

Sometime between falling asleep in my arms, sated and boneless, last night and waking up this morning, Cash had decided to leave.

Maybe he regretted firing me. Maybe he regretted kissing me. Maybe he regretted that we fucked. Maybe he’d woken up beside me and realized the reality of having me hadn’t lived up to the months of wanting me.

Or maybe I’d given him exactly what he wanted and proven every fear he’d ever had about accepting something from me.

I shoved the sheet aside and stood. “If last night was too much⁠—”

Cash stopped folding, his eyes raking over my naked body. “What?”

“We should talk about it before you decide anything.”

“Decide what?”

“To leave.”

His eyebrows pulled together. “What the fuck, Doc? Who said I was leaving?”

“You said you’re moving.”

“I am.”

He zipped the duffel bag, grabbed the handles, and lifted it from the floor.

“Where?”

“Upstairs.”

He walked past me and out of the bedroom.

I stood there naked, staring after him.

Upstairs.

Not out.

Relief weakened my knees before irritation replaced it, and I chased after him, my dick bouncing between my legs. “You couldn’t have led with that?” I called out as he headed through the house.

Cash’s laugh drifted down the hall. “You didn’t ask where. You have a penchant for assuming shit, Doc. We need to work on that.”