“Of course they do,” he said, voice hollow.

“I need to know if all this is true.” Her voice was wobbly, but her face was set in stone. Cold. So cold. And he deserved it. “If there are any mistakes in there, if there are any errors, if this was another kid with the exact same name who looks eerily similar to you . . .”

She was grasping at straws, and he couldn’t blame her. But unfortunately . . . “It’s me.” He scanned the list of acts once more. “It’s true.”

Her breath sighed out, uneven. She held out a hand for the folder. “Thank you for your time.”

He blinked, but she’d already bent her head over the desk, writing, as if she’d dismissed him. From the meeting, or from her life? “That’s all?”

“For now. Go practice.” She shooed him, like an annoying fly, without looking up.

It should have pissed him off. Would have, if he hadn’t figured out she was upset, hurting, in a bad place. He deserved to be shoved out the door, and he couldn’t blame her.

“So I’ll see you later?”

“I have work to do.” She laughed, and it sounded like nails on a chalkboard. “Understatement. Just be available by phone please, in case I have further questions.”

He opened the coach’s door, ready to escape the frigid temperatures of the office, but he had to know . . . “I didn’t do it, you know. The pranks on the gym, the stolen equipment, all that.”

“I know.” Her tone was firm, no question to it. And though she refused to look at him, that unwavering belief in him had him leaving a few degrees warmer than he had been.

*   *   *

“SO you were in juvie.”

Greg watched Graham flip a steak on the grill. “Yup.”

“What was it like?”

“Better than some of the foster homes I’d been in up to that point. Worse than others.”

Brad set his own bottle of water on the patio table in Sweeney’s backyard. “How the hell are you just now sharing this with us? We’ve been a team for months now.”

“Why did you keep your relationship with the hottie athletic trainer a secret for so long? Or that your knee was hurt?” Greg watched the tips of his roommate’s ears turn beet red. “Yeah. Sometimes, we just want to keep stuff to ourselves.” He rotated his beer, but didn’t pick it up. “And that guy isn’t me. I’m not that guy. He was a shit-for-brains heading nowhere faster than anyone could catch him.”

“Well, you are fast,” Sweeney said, grabbing a plate and pulling the steaks off the grill. When Brad made a noise, he sighed and put one back on. “Forgot, you like yours completely dead and burned to a crisp.”

“Just so that it’s not still looking at me when you put it on my plate.”

“For those of us who like them the way God and all fine dining establishments meant them, we eat.” He set the plate down, tossed a steak on Greg’s plate, and one on his own. “Potatoes should be done in a minute.”

“So what happened?” Brad waited while Greg chewed. “I mean, clearly you cleaned yourself up, but why? Nobody could catch you, you said so yourself.”

“Nobody could catch me. But I ran into a brick wall. A kid I couldn’t beat in a fight. We’d been friends, before.” If one could call a partner in crime a friend. Now, he wouldn’t. Back then, it was the closest thing he’d had to anything resembling friendship. “He stole a stereo, I hid it until we could hock it. He decided he wanted to sell it in secret for all the profits, we fought, he kicked my ass.” Greg grimaced, taking a sip of beer while Sweeney grabbed the potatoes and Brad’s fully cooked steak. “He left me with the merchandise, so I got hit for that, too. When I came to, I was cuffed to a hospital bed.”

“How old?” Graham asked quietly.

“Almost seventeen. I could have been tried as an adult.”

Graham nodded. “I probably would have pushed for it.”

“Thanks.” Greg gave his friend a slap on the back. “Helps to know who you can count on.”

“He’s consistent,” Brad said in a helpful tone. “Back to the story.”

“Not much of one. Someone saw something in me. Not sure if it was the judge, or the attorney that pushed for it. All I know is, I’m standing there, wearing orange—”

“Not your color,” Graham added.

“Thanks, Fashion Police. I’m standing there with bracelets that connect and this judge is reading me the riot act. I’ve got my tough guy face on, the one that says I don’t care, doesn’t matter, who gives a shit. And somehow, he just decides to cut straight through the BS. He notices I’ve got good grades . . . when I actually attend school. I guess he put two and two together on the foster-family round robin I’d been playing, and decided to give me an option.”

“Military or juvie,” Graham cut in.

Brad shushed him. “Let the man tell his story.”

“Yeah.” Greg sipped his beer, pushed a piece of steak around on his plate. Despite the fantastic cut of beef, he just wasn’t in the mood to appreciate it. “Let the man relive the most embarrassing, horrifying time in his life.”

His friends sat in silence, waiting.

“Military or juvie. I guess he assumed there was enough time for real jail—or prison—later on if it came to that. The way I was heading, it would have been inevitable. So I picked the military. Figured it was just a different kind of jail, but at least the uniform impressed the ladies. Plus, after four years, my record would be expunged. So technically, I don’t have a record. Someone had to do some serious digging to find that stuff.”

“Ah, a true patriot. In it for the chicks and the clean record.” Sweeney toasted him with his beer. Brad scowled, as if unimpressed.

“So you went into the military at seventeen?”

“I was just shy of my birthday when I got busted. I spent the last remaining weeks under my probation officer’s thumb. That lady was on me like barnacles on a schooner. I didn’t have the chance to screw it up. The day after I turned seventeen, the judge signed me over to the military, and emancipated me. Off I went like a good boy. Found out the military wasn’t that bad after all. Got a degree, moved to the officer side of life, kept clicking the yes button when they’d ask if I wanted another few years. Why not? Decent money, decent health care, and it wasn’t the life I led before. Why fix what isn’t broken?”

“You fixed it already.” Brad settled back in his chair, fingers laced over his stomach. He watched Greg with an intensity that would have had him squirming if he hadn’t known that would satisfy his friend. “You straightened your shit out yourself. The military gave you the opportunity, but you made the choice. So, good work.”

“Aw, thanks, Dad.”

Brad held up a middle finger.

“Not to be a sap, but he’s not wrong.” With a mouth full of potato, Graham grinned. “Nice work, asshole.”

“Aw, my adoring fans.” He fell silent, pondering the next step from here. His friends seemed to accept the reason for his sketchy past without much trouble. But his friends weren’t the woman he loved and lied to for weeks. “I didn’t steal anything from the gym.”

Both friends made disgusted noises, with Graham throwing a piece of potato skin at him.

“Shut up,” he said, annoyance clear in his tone.

“Just stop,” Brad encouraged. “Nobody who has three brain cells to juggle thinks you did jack shit. Obviously, it was a setup. You just happened to have a pretty decent backstory to make people think twice.”

“But you probably have an alibi for most of it. I mean, you were with Reagan, right? Either at practice, or with one of us hanging out, or with her. That’s pretty solid.”

Greg gave the JAG officer a raised brow. “This isn’t a court case. There’s no trial, so I don’t need an alibi. She knows I didn’t do it. Pretty sure almost everyone does. My past getting out would be embarrassing, but I doubt it will really move the needle on people assuming I’m guilty.”

His friends looked at each other for so long, Greg growled, “What?”