He arches a brow. “Just… strategy.”
And God, it works.
It works too well.
Not for him—for me.
Because I wasn’t ready for a sweet confession.
But a tactic? A mission? A plan?
That, I know how to handle.
“Okay.” I sigh. Long. Resigned. “If we do this… it stays strictly professional. Even if it has to look real. Even if we have to train to win.”
The corner of his mouth tips up. “Professional is my middle name.”
“It’sElijah. Your middle name is Cohen Elijah Becker.”
“Okay, professional is my third name.”
A laugh escapes me.
Traitorous.
Thin and reluctant.
And he just… drinks it in.
Like oxygen.
He doesn’t touch me.
Doesn’t move closer.
Doesn’t flirt.
He just looks at me.
And in that moment I understand exactly why this is a terrible idea.
Because sitting in front of me isn’t the arrogant athlete or the infuriating client.
It’s someone who—God knows how—can see the cracks in me without judging them.
A shiver runs down my spine.
I shoot to my feet without thinking.
“I have a meeting in ten minutes,” I lie. “We’re done for today.”
He nods, stands slowly, shrugs on his jacket.
Just as his hand closes around the doorknob, the word slips out—like my mouth speaks before my brain can censor it.
“Thanks.”
He turns.
