Everything for You (Bergman Brothers #5)(32)

I see it again, his hands clutching the seat, air sawing out of his lungs. I swear I heard his heart flying from where I sat beside him. Perhaps he’s not so “fine,” then. Or “happy.” As much as his always-the-optimist, upbeat demeanor grates on me, the threat to it makes me infinitely angrier.

“What was that?” I ask sharply.

Oliver blinks away, stares down at his bright-yellow sneakers, toeing the carpet. “A staring contest? Which I lost.”

I sigh impatiently. “That’s not what I’m talking about, and you know it.”

“Yes, Mr. Hayes. I know.”

“I told you to stop calling me that.”

He glances up and pins me with those moonlight-pale eyes again. A faint smile tips his mouth. “And I never told you I would.”

Anger flares inside me, hot, agitated. I want to cross the room, fist his shirt, and kiss that coy fucking smile right off his face. I want to throw him down on the bed, press my body into his and show Oliver what happens when he insists on provoking me, smiling at me, holding my eyes so long I want to fall into those ice-blue pools and never resurface.

“Answer me,” I demand. “Stop provoking and prevaricating. Answer me, dammit.”

He lifts his chin. “Why?”

My teeth grind. I don’t say what I’m thinking. I don’t tell him, Because I’m worried. Because you fucking scared me. Because I hate what being near you does to me, but I hate whatever’s hurting you more, and I have to know what that is. So I can bend it in the iron grip of my will and protect you from it.

“Because I have a right to know.” I stand to my full height, legs wide, arms folded across my chest. My most authoritative stance. “As your co-captain, what happens on team time is fair game.”

Oliver’s eyes flash, his smile slips, but for just a moment, before that coy charm is back, sparkling in his eyes. “Fair game, eh? Pun intended?”

“Fuck off, Bergman. Tell me.”

Slowly, he pushes off the wall, then strolls my way. He stops with a foot between us, stance natural, feet shoulder width apart as he slips his hands into his grass-green joggers’ pockets. Like a fool, I let my gaze drift up from those heinously bright yellow sneakers, green joggers, to his gold-and-blue Galaxy hoodie, which drapes frustratingly loose around his torso.

Oliver clears his throat. “How about I tell you when you’re done undressing me with your eyes.”

My gaze snaps up and meets his, fear and heat flooding me in equal measure. His eyes twinkle. His grin widens. He’s teasing me.

“I am not undressing you. I’m struggling to understand how a grown man can dress so terribly.”

His mouth drops open, stunned at my insult. “I wear color like a pro.”

“You look like a disorganized crayon box.”

He tips his head, giving me a slow, appraising once-over that sends a fresh wave of heat searing through me.

“No offense,” he says. “But coming from a guy who wears three colors—black, charcoal, and heather gray—your fashion critique doesn’t hold much weight.”

“Horse shit.” I pluck at my zip-up jacket with the team’s embossed logo. “I wear other colors. Blue. Yellow. That’s five.”

He rolls his eyes. “Hayes, you’re obligated to wear those colors. You don’t voluntarily wear them.”

“Awfully aware of my wardrobe, aren’t you?”

“Hard to miss it when you walk around dressed like a storm cloud.”

We are wildly off topic. I grit my teeth. “You’re distracting me.”

He grins. “You’re catching on.”

I close the distance between us, and his smile evaporates; his breath catches in his throat. I stare at his mouth, then meet his eyes. And then, sweet God, a faint pink blush creeps up his cheeks. It’s as satisfying as it is torturous. “You’re playing with fire, Bergman. Mind you don’t get burned.”

All humor vanishes from his face. He swallows roughly, and I watch his Adam’s apple roll. I barely suppress a groan. I can see it so easily, his head thrown back, his throat working as his eyes scrunch shut, his face tight with agonizing pleasure.

“Tell me,” I say quietly, holding his eyes. “Tell me what happened.” I bite my tongue so I won’t reveal any more than I have already. How worried I am. How much I care.

He searches my eyes for a long, silent moment. “I had a panic attack.”

As I thought. But it’s not enough. “What triggered it?”

Something flickers in his gaze, but he steels himself, stands tall. “A combination of things,” he says slowly, carefully.

“These happen regularly?” I’ve never noticed. I’d remember if this happened to him before.

He nods.

“You hide it.”

He hesitates, then says, “They don’t happen often, and generally when they do, yes, I’m able to isolate myself and deal with them privately. I see a therapist. I know what to do.”

“But they still happen.”

His nostrils flare. “Yes, Hayes. They still happen.”

“And what caused this one?”

He shrugs, agitated. “Like I said, a combination of things. I didn’t sleep great and it wasn’t our normal way of flying and I hate flying to begin with. It’s our first game of the season, my first time being co-captain, let alone with someone who hates my guts—”