There’ll be rules again in the morning—boundaries, distance, the careful version of us.
But right now, it’s just us.
By the time I leave her room, it’s close to midnight.
I take the elevator down to my floor, thumb tapping against the crutch just to keep from thinking too much.
When the doors slide open, another elevator dings beside me.
David steps out, laptop bag over his shoulder, fatigue written all over him. Film review—that tracks.
His eyes flick from me to the elevator I just came out of and my chest tightens. For half a second, I freeze.
“Everything good?” he asks, voice casual but curious.
“Yeah.” I lift the small mesh bag in my hand, the compression sleeve folded inside. “Just grabbed something from medical.”
David squints, then nods, rubbing the back of his neck. “Get some rest, man. Big day tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” I say, forcing an easy tone.
He gives a tired nod and heads down the hall.
When I shut the door behind me, I finally exhale, my pulse still racing.
That was too damn close.
Chapter Twenty-One
CHARLOTTE
The first thing I notice when I wake is the smile I can’t seem to shake.
Morning light slips across the hotel sheets, and for a second I just lie there, replaying pieces of last night—the quiet, the way his hand lingered at my waist, the look in his eyes when we finally stopped pretending.
It still feels impossible. And perfect.
Then the world catches up.
Game day. Travel roster. My badge on the nightstand beside my phone.
And the reality that what happened between us now lives in a fragile, private bubble.
I’m not reckless enough to think it’s simple. I know the policy. I know the consequences. But after weeks of confusion and restraint, I finally feel sure of something: us.
We’re careful. We’re waiting. We’re choosing this, together.
By the time I’m in the shower, steam fogging the mirror, I catch myself humming without meaning to.
When I clip my badge onto my polo and tie my hair back, my reflection looks the same—but there’s a warmth in my chest that wasn’t there before.
I can live with the secret.
At least for now.
The visiting medical suite smells like tape and coffee—half the travel kit unpacked across the counter, elastic bands coiled beside the training table. I adjust the bike seat for Declan’s height, making sure it will clear his brace.
Declan steps in, hoodie unzipped over his workout tee, dark hair still damp from a shower. The faint scruff along his jaw catches the light, and when his blue eyes meet mine, my pulse stumbles.
