I couldn’t believe my mom texted me. I frowned, hating how the text felt like a brick in my purse. He noticed. Of course he did. He leaned the slightest bit toward me, and his voice dropped enough to make it feel like the tone belonged only to me.
“You frowned.”
“What?”
“Your forehead did that little pinch thing,” he said, nudging me with his shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
That startled me. Not because it wasn’t true—but because I hadn’t realized he’d noticed me that closely.
“It’s nothing,” I said quickly, clearly lying.
“Sloane,”he said, quiet but firm. “You don’t lie very well.”
The sound of my name in his voice landed harder than I expected. He never used it—not in sessions, not in casual teasing, not even in the hallway. AlwaysDoc.Always a little guarded. But now? It was different. Closer. More personal. Like he saw past the role I played and aimed straight for me. My chest pulled tight, and my pulse skipped like it didn’t know what to do with the shift.
My grip tightened around my phone. I glanced down at the screen, still dark, still heavy with the text I hadn’t responded to. The words burned through the glass like they were waiting for me to speak them aloud.
I sighed and turned toward him. “My mom texted me too. After the game.”
His brow furrowed. “She say something about the broadcast?”
I let out a bitter breath. “She called me a sideline cheerleader among other passive aggressive comments.”
He didn’t react right away. His gaze dropped to my hands. I hadn’t noticed they were so tense until he reached over and placed his palm over mine.
“I’m sorry.” He frowned, the cute wrinkle between his brows directed on my behalf instead of his own issues. “I’d never want to overstep here, because you know your worth and know you’re a badass, but if you ever need a reminder, I’d be glad to help.”
We remained like that, neither speaking for a full minute before someone on the cleaning crew sneezed a section over. The sound jolted me back to reality, where I was a team doctor and he was a player—ayoungerplayer. One I shouldn’t be sittingwith like this, our hands close enough to touch. I pulled back, breaking our connection and stood. “It’s late. I should go home.”
“Yeah,” he said, not standing with me. His voice had that edge to it again, and he stared out on the field.
My chest ached for him, causing me to do irrational things that the typical Sloane Mercer wouldn’t do. I reached down, placed my hand on his shoulder, and squeezed. “Come on. I’ll drive us.”
He arched a brow, his gaze dropping to where my hand rested on his shoulder. I started to pull back, instinct already kicking in, but he caught it in his own—steady, warm, and larger than I remembered. His fingers closed around mine with a kind of gentleness that made everything else fade out. He didn’t look at me right away but traced the top of my hand like he was memorizing it, his thumb gliding over each knuckle with aching precision. It wasn’t flirtation. It wasn’t comfort. It felt like something he needed. Something I didn’t know how to name. His breath brushed my skin, and I sucked in a sharp inhale, the sound embarrassingly loud in the space between us. God, when was the last time anyone touched me like that? Months? We had to be breaking some ethics code, but my body didn’t care.
I didn’t move. Neither did he. We stayed there—his hand around mine, my heart pounding hard enough I swore he could feel it in my palm.
“James, you’re still here? Why?” a familiar masculine voice barked out, causing me to jump back two feet.
I turned sharply, heart in my throat.
Mac.
His expression was unreadable at first—shadow and disapproval molded into one. His eyes flicked from Oliver to me and then down to our hands, way too close. I stepped away fully, tucking my hands behind my back even though the heat of Oliver’s skin still lingered on mine.
Oliver didn’t move. He stared straight ahead, his face unreadable.
Mac’s jaw tensed. “We have a meeting in less than eight hours,” he said, voice clipped. “James, go home. Mercer, walk with me.”
Mac didn’t wait. Each step I took after him made it harder to breathe. I couldn’t blame policy or training this time. I’d crossed a line, and he was about to make sure I knew it.
10
OLIVER
The light in my apartment came in too bright. I hadn’t closed the blinds properly last night, and the rays hit the corner of my bed with a clarity that didn’t feel earned. My shoulders ached. My legs pulsed. A dull pressure throbbed behind my eyes, like I hadn’t really slept at all. I blinked up at the ceiling, dragging one arm over my forehead, and let the stillness sink in.
My body was stiff. Not the usual soreness but the kind that settled in deeper—the kind that felt like something was pulling tight under the skin. My chest felt full, like I couldn’t take a breath without working for it. I didn’t reach for my phone right away. I didn’t want to know what time it was. Didn’t want to know what kind of messages might be waiting.
