I smooth back her hair and tilt her face up to meet mine. The tears rolling down her cheeks slice into me and hurt nearly as much as the news Carter delivered yesterday. “Let’s go somewhere we can talk in private.”

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I couldn’t fall apart on my family. I couldn’t do that to them.”

I kiss the top of her head. “You can fall apart on me. Come on.” I thread my fingers through hers and lead her to my room.

“You know? About Dad starting hospice?”

The door shuts behind me with an ominous thunk. Shay turns, folding her arms and searching my face as I nod. I haven’t been home in years, but tomorrow, when the Demons head back to L.A. on the team plane, I’m going to rent a car and drive up to Jackson Harbor. I have to see Frank one last time. “Carter called. He’s pretty torn up.”

“Me too.”

“Come here.” She doesn’t move, doesn’t drop her arms or rush toward me and bury her face in my chest like she did in the hall.

It’s as if now that we’re here, now that we’re alone, she’s second-guessing her choice to come to me, and I can’t have that. I close the distance between us and pull her into my arms. Her arms are still folded against her chest, but I stroke her hair, her back. “I’m so sorry,” I say. “It’s not fair.”

And I am. So sorry. Frank Jackson’s the closest thing I ever had to a father—which is a sad state of affairs, considering the man who provided half my DNA is still alive.

I feel the moment Shay surrenders to the need to be close to me. She drops her arms and wraps them around me. She stops reinforcing that dam inside her and lets it break. Her tears rack her small frame and she trembles in my arms, shakes and clings to me like I’m the only thing keeping this grief from pulling her under.

I don’t know how long we stand there—just inside my hotel room, my arms wrapped around her, her tears soaking my shirt—but when she pulls away, it’s with a deep breath and a lift of her chin that tells me she’s determined to be strong.

I search her face—those deep chocolate eyes I’ve dreamed of so many nights and the sweet pink lips that are pouty without trying. She searches mine in return, and I wonder if she’s missed me as much as I’ve missed her.

“I should probably go. Your wife . . .”