“Noon. Conference two. Come with clarity.” His voice didn’t rise, but his gaze narrowed.
“Yes, sir.”
He didn’t stop walking as he spoke to William about something, their tones sharp and lacking the joy that should be there after a major win.
I exhaled and turned toward the performance wing, every step heavier than it should have been. I knew what that meeting meant. Either he’d grill me about the numbers or drop something worse. Maybe both. Maybe Mercer’s name would come up. I couldn’t decide which part made my chest tighten more.
I slowed near the corridor junction, instinct pulling me back instead of forward.
That was when she stepped out.
Sloane. Quarter-zip sweatshirt. Hair clipped back. Tablet in hand. Every part of her read professional and precise, like she’d never let her guard down once in her life.
She didn’t look at me.
She walked clean past, footsteps quiet, chin level, eyes locked straight ahead.
I turned slightly, enough to track her without moving. Waiting. Hoping for a glance. A flicker of something. Her shoulder brushed closer than it needed to, and still—nothing. It was like I was invisible, nothing to her, and I fucking hated it.
I swallowed hard, my pulse thrumming like I was still mid-drive. I dropped my empty water bottle into the bin beside the elevator and shoved both hands into my pockets. Then I kept walking, no clear destination but to watch tape and face Mac, hoping I hadn’t wrecked her reputation along with my own.
The meeting was brief. Mac didn’t yell. He asked if I could maintain pace—then reminded me the League didn’t offer second chances for liabilities. I gave him the only answer I could: yes, sir.
Two hours later, I left.
The elevator spat me out into the main concourse level, harsh fluorescent lights stabbing through the low ache in the back of my head. My duffel weighed heavy on my shoulder, but I didn’t bother shifting it. Everything ached. Muscles, ribs, thoughts.
I’d done what I was supposed to. Stretch. Recovery tub. I’d nodded through Ivy’s checklist and answered Mac’s questions with one-word replies. I logged the film time. I checked the app. I didn’t ask about the report.
No one mentioned what happened last night in the stands, and that felt worse than if they had. The second I stepped into the parking lot, my phone buzzed in my pocket.
FaceTime: Callum.
I hit Accept without thinking and held the phone low as I walked toward my car.
“There he is,” Callum said, his grin already wide enough to be annoying. He had a smoothie in one hand and a Cubs cap on backwards. The background looked like a condo kitchen with zero adult supervision. “My second-favorite running back.”
“I’m your only running back, dick.”
“Exactly.” He slurped obnoxiously through the straw. “Ivy said you didn’t die, so I figured it was safe to recruit you for a good time today.”
I unlocked the car and tossed my bag into the passenger seat. “Recruit me for what?”
“Box seats. Cubs. In an hour.” Callum wiggled his eyebrows, looking like the punk-ass freshman I met years ago. The dude was always a goofball, smiling and finding the good in the bad. It was as refreshing as it was annoying.
I leaned back against the driver’s side door and glanced at the sky. I should have said no. I should’ve gone home, iced my legs, pulled the blackout blinds, and let the day end.
“I’ll have you know, I also asked Noah and Jordan to tag along. They are my actual favorites on the team,” he added.
“Quinn is your favorite,” I replied, laughter bubbling up. “I know you have a shrine for our QB.”
“He’s so good!” Callum choked on his drink, hitting his chest as he caught his breath. “That was embarrassing, but okay, you’re in. I’ll send you the tickets now.”
“Never agreed,” I replied.
“You will. I know your dumb face, and you have that sad ‘I need people around me’ look. See you in a bit, Oli.”
Then he hung up.
