“Shit.” She wrapped her arms around herself, all the color draining from her face. “Oliver, I also live on the third floor.”
“That is a wild coincidence. I knew my former neighbor was selling but didn’t realize how fast it happened. You must’ve moved in… a month ago?”
She nodded, a strange, unreadable expression on her face. Her mask. That was what that was. It was the same expression I saw on her face at work, the one where she hid her snorts and the real fire in her.
“I lived that way—” she pointed the opposite direction—”for years. That’s why Graham’s bar is my go-to. I saw this place open up and always loved the exposed ivory and brick.”
“It’s a great place. Oh my gosh, just wait. We can carpool to work!”
“No, no that’s not happening.” She brushed by me, walking rather fast for a casual stroll. I didn’t mind the view if I were being honest though.
Her shorts clung to her curvy ass. I loved curvy women. I always had and always would, and Doc had a banging body. I jogged toward her, easily catching up with her. “Slow down, neighbor. What’s the rush?”
“Nothing is.”
“They why are you running? Are you upset?” Shit. That thought hadn’t occurred to me yet. “Sloane, wait.”
“I’m not upset, no.” She paused at the entrance to our building, her gaze hesitant. “This threw me for a loop, that’s all. Seeing you at the bar, then now this…surprised me.”
“Yeah, me too, but it’s not a bad thing, is it?” I gripped the back of my neck, missing the easy banter from the bar. It was like a switch flipped.
“Of course not. You can live here.”
“Thanks for the permission.” The familiar, uncomfortable feeling that I did something wrong hit me, and I pressed the button to call for the elevator. Sloane didn’t respond, just stood there silently as we waited.
I let her.
The doors opened, and I motioned her in first, then followed, still reeling at the fact we were neighbors now. I stared at her as we moved up floors, unable to stop myself from chatting. “Just think, we can water each other’s plants when we’re out of town. Or if you run out of eggs when making French toast you can borrow them from me. Ugh, I hate that. We can bother each other now.”
“How many times have you actually run out of eggs while makingFrench toast?”
“I sense a tone that you don’t believe me, but trust me. It’s happened more than twice.” I shrugged, once again gesturing her to leave the elevator once it arrived on our floor. “Do you think we’re wall neighbors?”
“God, I hope not,” she mumbled, but I caught it.
“A little harsh there, Doc.”
“It’s not—look.” She stood straighter and faced me head-on, her eyes blazing with something fierce. “You heard what happened at the break room. I have to fight every single minute to get respect, and being friendly with a player on the team would set me behind. I’m trying to earn my spot here, find my place. I worked… it doesn’t matter. This job is my dream.”
The raw desperation in her voice matched the same feeling I had about this season with my heart condition. I understood the desperation, the aggressive need, but in the same breath was pissed. “So you’re going to pretend we don’t live in the same building or visit the same bar? You gonna treat me like a stranger?”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Sure sounds like it, Doc. But yeah, if that’s what you want, got it. Assignment is understood.” I rocked back on my heels, hating the pain on her face even though I didn’t put it there. “Have a good night.”
I left her there, annoyed that she hurt my stupid feelings. After going into my apartment, I did my nighttime routine, and instead of obsessing over the walk-through the next day, I thought about Sloane Mercer and how she was a puzzle I’d never solve.
5
SLOANE
The bleachers were empty, the scoreboard was blank, and the turf already radiated heat by 11:05 a.m. It was walk-through day. Our first game of the season was tomorrow, and this was the moment—the one where everything came together. The excitement in the air was tangible, the nerves and energy from everyone.
The Rampage had a ten-minute open window for media, and that was it. No fans allowed. Two camera crews hovered near the tunnel, staying in their lane, catching some warm-up footage, and jotting notes for pregame reports. Then the whistle blew twice, and a staffer ushered them out. From that point on, the field belonged to the team.
Booth stood near the 45-yard line, arms crossed, eyes locked onto a group of receivers running red zone checks with route cards. A laminated play sheet flapped against his thigh as he shouted out corrections. “Jordan! Reset your split,” Booth called, not looking up from his clipboard. “You line up too tight, you’re gonna screw the spacing. Don’t freelance. Stick to install.”
Jordan adjusted without argument. He didn’t joke or flash a grin. He reset his feet, tucked his chin, and dropped into stance with nothing but pure determination and focus on his face.
