I laughed, grateful for my idiot friend who knew me well. The idea of sitting alone again, not hearing from Sloane, replaying every beat of what Mac might’ve seen last night made something inside me recoil, so yeah, I’d head to a Cubs game with the guys and hope it’d pull me out of this weird funk.
The suite smelledlike overpriced hot dogs, leather polish, and expensive beer. Callum flung the door open like he owned the place, his grin stretched wide across his face. “Gentlemen,” hedeclared, arms spread dramatically, “welcome to paradise above third base.”
Jordan was already halfway through the door, tossing his long-sleeved shirt onto a seat and pulling on a Cubs jersey that looked like it had lived at the bottom of a gym bag. “Where are the snacks?” he asked no one in particular. “I need some fucking snacks.”
Noah trailed behind, tall and steady, nodding a greeting to Ivy. Her smile was small, but it was there. The suite buzzed with laughter and noise and something close to lightness.
“Callum forgot to tell me he invited you all,” Ivy said, narrowing her eyes at us.
Jordan pulled her in for a quick hug and patted her head. “We’ll be okay, Ivy Lee. We won’t tell the team.”
“Ivy Lee?” she screeched, smacking Jordan on the arm. “Callum, I swear to god did you tell them to call me that?”
They all laughed, but my attention moved away from them to Sloane.
Sloane sat alone near the front row of seats, her elbow resting on the armrest, chin tilted slightly as she stared out at the field. She wore jeans and a vintage Cubs tee that fit too well, the faded material soft against her skin. Her hair was half up, loose in the way that made it impossible not to notice the shape of her neck. She looked…good. Really fucking good.
She turned when the door clicked shut behind me. Her eyes found mine. For a second—just a flicker—her face shifted. Surprise. Maybe something else. But just as fast, it was gone, replaced with the polished, unreadable expression I’d seen in the hallway that morning. I’d do about anything to knock off that fake look. I wanted the girl at the bar, the girl who laughed with me over French toast. Not this clinical, distant woman.
I had a thousand things I wanted to ask her—mainly about Mac, the team, her mom, but my dumbass was struck by thewind in her hair and the sheen of her skin. “Show me your shoes.”
She blinked, but then she grinned. “If I show you mine, you show me yours.”
Damn, I liked her wit. I stopped worrying about all the other shit plaguing my mind and strode toward her, letting my gaze move over her neck and collarbone. The silver necklace disappeared into the white tank she wore under her jersey, and she wore cute jeans that were cuffed at the bottom. Her shoes were incredible and so sexy that my breath caught in my throat.
Her shoes were custom Cubs Air Force 1s, bright white with red and blue swooshes stitched into the leather. The heel tab had her initials embroidered in navy thread—S.E.M. She’d laced them with alternating red and white strings, tied tight.
I paused in front of her, nodding once at the sneakers. “These are insane. Where the hell did you get those?”
Her grin widened as she lifted one foot slightly, turning it enough to show off the ivy detail tucked into the edge of the heel. “Friend of mine does customs. I designed them during the lockdown when I was stuck watching spring training reruns.”
“Of course you did,” I said, and I meant it more than I wanted her to know. She looked proud—but not in the way most people showed off. This was quieter. Like she wasn’t used to someone noticing the things she cared about without turning them into a joke. I bent down, letting my fingers brush the red lace at the toe before standing again. “They’re legit impressive.”
“Thanks,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ear. The smile that followed wasn’t confident—it was hesitant, almost shy—and it landed harder than I expected.
“I didn’t think you’d be here tonight,” she added, voice softer now.
“Didn’t think I would either,” I said, rocking back slightly on my heels. My skin felt tight with everything I wasn’t saying. “But I’m glad I ran into you.”
Her head tilted, curious. “Why?”
“I wanted to check in on you.”
Her brows lifted, eyes narrowing to study me. “Check on me? Why?”
“Sloane,” I said, her name a little quieter than I meant it. I didn’t laugh this time. “Because you looked upset this morning at the stadium. Because Mac saw us last night. Because I’ve been thinking about whether he cornered you after.”
She didn’t answer right away. Her gaze shifted slightly—left, like she was still weighing whether to lie.
“He asked about your performance,” she said finally. “Nothing more than that.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s all I told him,” she clarified, firmer now. “I don’t report feelings, Oliver. I track performance.” Her chin lifted slightly, but her voice cracked. “You don’t have to worry about me spilling your secrets, okay?”
Wait. I reared back. That wasn’t what I meant at all, but before I could clarify, the group came out, and Sloane had her arms crossed and was moving back to her seat…away from me.
11
