Rewind It Back (Windy City, #5)(17)

The coaches all slip into the locker room.

Rio’s defenses seem to fall a bit once it’s truly only us again, like he’s tired of all of this. “I don’t want to hire you, Hal.”

As much as I want to, I don’t correct the nickname he used to call me by.

“I know.”

“I don’t want you in my house. I don’t want to have to see you every day.” He runs a hand through his hair, and I watch the way his fingers flex around his texture. “Fuck, Hallie, before Saturday, I thought I’d never see you again.”

The words come out with a painful edge, and I’d be lying if I said they didn’t slip past my armor and land a hit. Most of me never thought I’d see him again either.

“I know.”

Just when I think he may change his mind and tell me he’ll let me do the project, he grabs his boombox off the bench and exhales. “I have to go. We’re leaving on a road trip for the week.”

Every part of me wants to ask him if he’s already called the firm and requested my replacement or if he’s planning to call later. But he seems overwhelmed just from my being here, so I don’t.

Instead, I stop him by asking, “What’s up with the ancient boombox?”

He rears back playfully. “Watch yourself, Hart. I believe the term you’re looking for is classic.”

I try not to let the smile tick up on my lips, but it finds its way there for a brief moment. “What’s up with the classic boombox?”

He shrugs. “It still works. Why replace what’s not broken? And the guys can give me shit for it all they want, but I’m the only one on the team with good taste in music.”

“You’re welcome for that.”

He laughs, deep and full, and I feel it through every nerve in my body.

It’s been a long time since I’ve heard that sound, and I missed it.

“Bullshit,” he says through his laughter. “You’re welcome for your taste in music.”

“What kind of delusional state are you living in, DeLuca?”

Those dimples sink into his cheeks, that glimpse of my old Rio coming back to life. “There was a solid year when you only listened to boy bands. And when we were together, you wouldn’t let me listen to anything else either.”

“Exactly! It’s called taste. Look it up.”

“You once told me the wrong band’s name when we were listening to a mixtape you made me because you genuinely didn’t know the difference between them. They all sounded the exact same.”

I laugh and it feels nice. Light and nostalgic. “God, how do you remember that? That was forever ago.”

“Hard to forget the years you had shit taste in music, Hal. It’s been burned into my memory and not in a good way.” His attention drifts back to the locker room as if he wants to leave the playful shit-talking before it gets too comfortable. “I really do have to go. I’ve got a flight to catch.”

I nod in understanding, letting that easy moment between us pass. “Okay.”

He doesn’t turn away immediately, but eventually he does, pausing in the entryway of the locker room. He speaks to me without looking back in my direction. “I’m sorry, but I can’t give you an answer on the renovation right now.”

“I get it.”

He breathes a laugh to himself. “Do you, though?” Those pleading green eyes look at me over his shoulder. “Five minutes and it feels like that again, like nothing happened. Imagine six months. I don’t want it to be like that again. After everything, it can’t.”

Because I didn’t tell him the truth all those years ago. He doesn’t want to forgive me for it.

Well, I don’t want to forgive him either.

“I do get it.” Entirely defeated, I simply nod. “Have a good road trip, Rio.”

With that, I don’t spare him another glance. I leave, walking back to the job I’ll only have for another six months.





Chapter 6


Rio


“Are you eating enough?”

I laugh into the phone. “Yes, Ma. I’d be eating right now if you let me get off the phone.”

“Hey, now. I labored with you for thirty-four hours. I can keep you on the phone for as long as I’d like. Don’t forget that.”

“That was twenty-seven years ago. It’s time you stop holding that over my head and let it go.”

“I’m your mother. Your Italian mother, at that. It’s my job to guilt trip you,” she says. “So, you miss me, or what?”

“Jesus,” I chuckle. “Of course I miss you. How was Sunday dinner? And why are you still cooking?”

I can tell she has me on speakerphone because the sound of a wooden spoon scraping against a metal pot is crystal clear through the line. Sunday dinner may as well be called Sunday lunch, so there’s no reason she should still be cooking at this time of night.

“The Morenos’ grandson is visiting for the week, and they brought him over today. He said he loved my Bolognese sauce, so I figured I should make them a batch. You know, in case he gets hungry while he’s visiting his grandparents. Carla has never been one for the kitchen.”

“Ma,” I scold.

“Don’t ‘Ma’ me. You know how good my Bolognese is. Best in the neighborhood.”