Page 69 of Filled

The door opens. Dakota’s barefoot in leggings and one of Coach’s shirts—I recognize the faded logo on the chest—hair damp at the ends like she’s just showered. She gives Cruz a look that’s half warning, half affection.

“He behaving?”

“He’s vibrating,” I reply.

“I noticed.” She steps back to let us in. “Coach is on the couch. He’s—” she lowers her voice, “he’s a little freaked out. Be gentle.”

“I’m always gentle, sweetheart.”

She snorts. “Cruz.”

“Yes?” he asks, with mock innocence.

I follow them through to the living room. Eli sits at the far end of the couch, elbows on his knees, hands clasped between them. He’s in dark jeans and a Henley with the sleeves shoved up, forearms working as his hands knot together. He looks up when we walk in and I watch his jaw flex.

He’s scared.

I’ve seen Coach intimidate sponsors, manhandle two-hundred-pound heavyweights into submission, stare down state commissioners. I have never seen him look like he might bolt for the door. There’s a wildness in his eyes that doesn’t fit the rest of him.

“Coach,” I greet.

“Dante.” His voice comes out steady at least. “Cruz.”

“Hey, old man.” Cruz drops onto the couch like he owns it, leaving the middle cushion between him and Eli empty. He’s grinning. “Nice of you to show.”

Dakota perches on the arm of the couch near Eli, her hand finding the back of his neck. He doesn’t flinch, but I watch his shoulders unwind a fraction. She’s grounding him.

I take the chair across from them, leaning forward with my forearms on my thighs. “So.”

“So.” Dakota’s thumb traces the base of Eli’s hairline. “We talk.”

“Talk.” Eli says it like the word is a weight.

“You’re here,” she says. “You showed up. That matters. But we all need to be on the same page before anything else happens.”

Cruz starts to open his mouth, and I cut him off with a look. He raises his hands in surrender, theatrical, but stays quiet.

“What are you wanting, Coach?” I ask. “Honestly. Not what you think we want to hear.”

Eli’s quiet for a long moment. His thumbs work against each other.

“I don’t know how to do this.”

“Nobody does in the beginning,” I supply.

“I don’t mean the—” his hand gestures, vague, taking in the room, all of us, “the arrangement. I mean any of it. I’ve been alone for years. I’ve been controlled for longer. I don’t know how to—” he stops, exhales. “I want her. We all have since the day she walked through the door..”

“We do.”

“And I—” he looks at his hands. “I’d be lying if I said it stopped there.”

Cruz has gone uncharacteristically silent, leaning forward now, watching.

“Where else does it go, Coach?” I keep my voice even.

He looks up. His eyes find mine first, then slide to Cruz, then drop. “I’ve never been with a man. I’ve never thought of myself as someone who would be. But the last few months—”he swallows hard, “I’ve been noticing things. About you. About Cruz. About Brady.”

“Yeah?” Cruz’s voice is soft. Genuine. None of his usual sharp edges or cocky bullshit.