Page 82 of North

Rafferty slides back into the chair at the table and clasps his hands before him. “No, Farren. I’m not. I’m human, same as Liam and Derek. Same as our father,and North. You can’t make blanket statements that apply to all of us. You can’t assume you’re going to get hurt—”

“But—”

“But so the fuck what?” he says with a shake of his head. “You get hurt, you heal, you move the fuck on. It’s what you should have done a long time ago.”

“It’s not that easy,” I say in a small voice because he’s making me feel like a simpleton.

“Yeah, it is, Farren. What happened to you was awful. Traumatic. It formed part of who you are today, but it didn’t take all of you away. You love and care for your family and friends. You were starting to really open up to North in ways I know you’ve never done with anyone else. You got a little spooked and it set you back, but get past it. Face those fears. Tell them to fuck off and go get your happiness.”

Something about his words strikes a chord within me.

Go get your happiness.

“And North is my happiness?” I ask. “You really believe that?”

“I do,” he says. “And I don’t know what else to say to make you believe it.” Rafferty stands from the table. “Ball’s in your court now.”

“North was pretty mad last night. I’m not sure he wants to talk to me.”

Rafferty lifts a shoulder. “Only one way to find out.”

I slink down in my chair, drumming my fingertips on the table. My brother makes a lot of sense, but he’s asking me to let go of years of built-up defenses to peel back my distorted lens from which I view men, trust and relationships.

It seems daunting.

Scary.

Risky.

I compare that to what I’m feeling now.

Flat.

Empty.

Sad.

It looks like it’s time for me to really think about what type of life I want and what path I’m going to choose.

CHAPTER 27

North

The private tarmaclounge at the Pittsburgh Airport is buzzing with the usual preflight chaos—luggage being loaded, guys chatting in small groups, the faint roar of jet engines in the distance. Normally, this is one of my favorite parts of our road trips. There’s a sense of camaraderie, a shared purpose—the excitement building for another game and the chance to beat an opponent on their turf.

But today, I’m in a foul mood, and every noise grates on my nerves like nails on a chalkboard.

We’ll be boarding soon and for now, everyone huddles in small pockets drinking coffee and chatting. Rafferty’s leaning against the small café bar that caters to the private fliers, talking with Atlas and Foster. King is scrolling on his phone.

“Hey,” Rafferty calls out as I approach, his voice casual but laced with concern. “Got a minute?”

“Sure,” I mutter, stuffing my hands into my jacket pockets.

“How you doing?” he asks as we step away from the group.

“Doing fine,” I say grumpily and with enough sarcasm he knows I’m not.

“Going to ask me how Farren is?” he prods.

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