“Not yet. But this is a red flag. He’s spiking under controlled tempo.”
Oliver returned to line slowly. He unstrapped his gloves and wiped his face with the towel draped across his shoulder. His lips were tight. His jaw stayed locked. When he passed the towel to another player, his hand shook once. He jammed it into his waistband before anyone could see.
He glanced up, his gaze landing on me. He breathed hard, and sweat dripped down his face, and my stomach tightened from the picture he made. I had no business admiring the way his biceps stood out in the cutoff shirt or the trimness of his hips or the way his hair fell to the side. I stood, frozen, trying to figure out who this guy was—the one who was kind to me, stood up for me, almost flirted with me. The one who was my neighbor, and the one who refused to open up to me about what was going on.
Before I could figure out what direction of thought to hold onto, he winked and went back to focusing. My skin flushed from the wink, and I ducked my head, praying no one saw that. I had to finish the damn report on him to give to Mac, and I couldn’t let winks or cute flirtations distract me.
I wrotethe same sentence four times before deleting it. It was 8:00 p.m., and here I was, alone in my condo, trying to get Mac this damn report on Oliver James. My laptop glared at me with the half-finished document open. Every paragraph I wrote felttoo thin or too vague. Too clinical or too personal. I couldn’t figure out where the line was anymore.
I’d been staring at the screen for nearly forty minutes, toggling between his file and my own observations, trying to piece together something actionable without blowing up his season. I could feel the pressure Mac had dropped on me like a weight across my shoulders. The clock ticked louder the more I tried to focus.
I pushed back from my desk and stood, then paced toward the window like it would offer answers. It didn’t. My tea was cold, and the tension in my neck was unbearable.
What I needed was one more question. One clarifying piece. One line from Oliver himself that could help me anchor this thing before I sent it off.Yes. That would help. I could ask him more about how he toed the line and what he did when his pulse raced.
My brain whispered don’t, but my feet were already moving. I slipped on my slides, grabbed my key, and stepped out into the hallway, tablet in hand.
It was late enough that everything was quiet. The carpet muffled my steps as I neared his unit. Third floor. Same hall. Stupidly convenient and suddenly the worst idea I’d had all day.
I paused in front of his door. I wasn’t even going to knock. Just—think. Clarify something. Ask a quick question, maybe. I wasn’t sure. I stood there, staring like the door would open on its own. I knocked, my pulse racing at what I was doing. I never got writer’s block when it came to reports, yet with his…I couldn’t figure it out.
When he didn’t answer, relief and disappointment hit me. Of course he wasn’t home. I didn’t know what I expected. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to talk to him after the week we’d both had. But still. The disappointment settled somewhere under my ribs.
I turned to head back to my place when the elevator dinged and out walked Oliver James.
“Well, well,” Oliver said, his tone slow and way too amused. “You stalking me now, Doc?”
I couldn’t help but take him in as he stepped out of the elevator holding a plastic grocery bag and a six-pack of flavored sparkling water tucked under his arm. He wore loose gray shorts and a cutoff Rampage shirt, showcasing those biceps that had no business being that toned.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I said, shifting the tablet behind my back as I cleared my throat. “I wasn’t here for you.”
He smirked as he neared, brushing a strand of hair back, the movement drawing more attention to his arms. “Oh, so you like hanging out outside my door? That normal behavior for mental health professionals?”
“I needed to stretch my legs,” I said, straightening and hating getting caught. My face burned, and my cheeks had to be bright red.
He tilted his head like he didn’t buy my excuse for a second. “With your tablet?”
“I was thinking about a follow-up question. For your report.” I avoided his eyes, even though I could feel him staring. “It wasn’t worth bothering you.”
“You’re literally at my door.”
“I wasn’t going to knock.”
“That makes it so much better.”
I finally glanced up at him again, and he was grinning. Not the cocky smile he wore on the field but the one that made him seem younger. Softer. The one that cracked through his usual intensity. I hated that it made something shift in my chest.
He walked toward me, stepping around me to unlock his door. “You wanna ask your question, or you wanna keep pretending this hallway’s a vibe?”
I hesitated.
He caught it.
His voice dropped, lower now. “You can come in. I’ll be good.Promise.”
God help me, I almost believed him.
“Two minutes,” I said, moving toward his door. “And I’m not taking my shoes off.”
