Wren walks beside mewith her hands shoved inside the sleeves of Kael’s hoodie, and I swear to God my heart does a stupid little flip.
Not because she’s wearing another man’s initials.
Not because she looks adorable drowning in fabric twice her size.
And definitely not because I’m imagining what she’d look like wearing one ofmywarmups instead.
Nope.
I am a professional athlete.
I have discipline.
Self-control.
...sometimes.
“You don’t have to walk me out,” she says as I push the door open for her.
“I know,” I tell her.“I’m doing it anyway.”
Cold night air rushes in—harbor wind carrying the sharp bite of winter and the distant honk of traffic.Her hair lifts with the breeze, brushing my forearm.
She shivers.
“You sure you’re warm enough?”I ask.
Her mouth twists.“Do you rehearse these lines, or—?”
“Nope.”I grin.“All-natural charm.”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling.Not the polite kind.
The soft kind.
It hits me right in the chest.
We start across the parking lot, our steps echoing on cracked pavement.She stays close—not touching, but close enough that I feel her warmth through the cold.
For a moment, it’s quiet.
Then she asks, “Is Atlas okay?Earlier, he seemed...”
“Like Atlas?”I finish.
She gives me a look.
I sigh.“He’s complicated.”
“They all are.”
She says it under her breath, more to herself than to me, and my stomach does something weird.
She noticed us.
She sees us.
Not just the jerseys and the stats and the bullshit bravado.
