SLOANE
The back of my neck heated. It could’ve been the sun beating down on Wrigley, the September weather warming up despite the slight breeze. My stomach had been in knots for twenty-four hours now, hence, the reason I took a huge swig from a cold Old Style and debated downing it.
My college roommate signed me up for a chugging contest our sophomore year, and I won. She hated beer but cheered so loudly for me… I smiled, making a note to text her later. She was one of the few people who’d remained in my life for more than a season. That was what most relationships had been for me—a season in college, a temporary neighbor, a boyfriend who hated how focused I was.
“Hey, Doc, what got you all smiling?” Jordan plopped down next to me, his swag and energy back to his usual self. At least, the man I studied and knew before joining the team.
“She’s probably thinking about ways to escape this suite knowing we’re here.” Noah joined the seats in the suite, sitting behind Jordan. He was so large his knees hit the chair.
“Leave her alone, boys.” Ivy swatted Noah’s arm and pointed aggressively at Jordan, her long black hair swinging behind her.She wore a blue bow today—her signature look—but it had Cubs logos all over it. “Sorry, Sloane. Callum and I fucked up and didn’t realize we were each inviting people.”
“Yeah, that’s on me.” Callum O’Toole, Ivy’s husband, grinned at me as he held out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Sloane. Ivy won’t shut up about you.”
“You too.” I smiled, nerves twisting in my gut. It was clear the five of them knew each other well, and I was the outsider. It was kind Ivy invited me, but I wasn’t one of them… one of the crew. I was the mental health doctor. They’d never relax around me. I was used to it—used to athletes always worrying about what I was thinking, if I was diagnosing them. Like, Oliver. Checking to see if I shared our conversation with Mac. I would never, but I should’ve expected that was why he cared. I knew better. He wasn’t worried about me. No one was. I was a lone wolf, and most of the time, I was okay with it. I wanted the career. I didn’t need all the entanglements. But sometimes, the loneliness made me so damn sad it felt like a weight.
But that was what people in my life did, always commented or joked about my profession.Was I analyzing them? Studying them? Did I have a file at home of all my friends?My throat burned, and I took another sip, excusing myself from the seats to grab another beer. I could have two or three and not feel it tomorrow, and if I was going to stay the whole game, then I needed a little liquid courage.
Scanning the room to ensure Oliver wasn’t there, I nodded when I made my way to the stocked fridge. The drinks came with the suite, which was incredible.
I cracked open the bottle as Oliver walked out of the en suite bathroom. Shit. My breath caught, but before I could slip past him and disappear, he was already there. His steps were too fast. His eyes locked on mine like he wasn’t going to let me leave until he got the words out. His jaw was set. That mouth—the same onethat had joked with me, asked me questions like he cared—was pressed tight with panic.
“Hey, Sloane, I want to clarify?—”
“It’s fine.” I lifted a hand like a shield, already turning slightly. “We’re good, don’t worry.”
“No, I think?—”
“Promise,” I said, trying to smile, trying to shut the conversation down before it could pierce the soft places I’d worked too hard to cover. “Seriously, we’re fine?—”
“Sloane, stop.” His voice cracked then, the edge sharper than I’d ever heard from him. “Please, give me a damn second.”
I stilled. Not because he raised his voice but because I heard the panic in it. The plea.
He reached for my wrist—not hard, not possessive, but enough to keep me from turning away again—and I froze. He dropped his hand immediately.
“I think you misunderstood me, and I want to be explicit and clear.” His gaze searched mine, his jaw flexing as he frowned. “I wasn’t asking you for details about what you said about me. I was asking because I was worried about you.”
“Why?” I whispered, hope clinging to the particles around me.
“I saw the way Mac looked at you. Because I was worried that sitting with me made your job more difficult somehow, and I didn’t know how to fix it without—fuck, I don’t know. I didn’t want to make it harder for you.”
My stomach bottomed out from his confession. I was afraid to admit that I was also freaked the hell out by what Mac could’ve said. Why was I sitting with a player that late, alone, in the stadium, his hand on mine? There was no excuse, and while Mac didn’t mention the incident, he seemed more irritated and guarded around me. I was more annoyed with myself for puttingmy damn career on the line in that moment. “Oliver, its…we’re good.”
His nostrils flared, and his eyes darted from my mouth then back to my eyes. “Then this morning… you ignored me completely.” His voice lowered, and the hard expression on his face softened. “I had no idea if you regretted helping me, regretting talking to me at all, or if you were in trouble. I panicked. I hated seeing you be so indifferent to me, like you didn’t give a shit.”
My throat tightened, and I hated how much truth I heard in his words. Not because he was right—but because I had made him feel that way. That wasn’t what I wanted at all. I’d gone cold to protect myself, something I’d always done.
“You matter, Oliver. That’s the problem,” I whispered.
His brow furrowed, confusion flickering behind his eyes. “What do you mean?”
I exhaled and looked away for a second, gripping the neck of the bottle so tightly I thought it might break. “Everyone wants something from me, always. Insight. Reassurance. A diagnosis. For me to say the right thing to save their career. No one wants to actually know me. I serve a purpose, and that’s it.” I swallowed, proud I was sharing my thoughts but nervous because I never did this. I never opened up and most definitely not to a player on the team. “When you asked what he said or what I said, you felt like all the others, getting information out of me.”
He stepped closer. “That wasn’t it. I swear to god, it wasn’t.”
“I know,” I said. “But I’ve spent years building a line between professional and personal, and I never blur it. Not for anyone. And then you—” I stopped myself before I said too much. Before I let the truth out the way I wanted to. The way that might undo all the walls I’d spent years building.
His hand hovered like he wanted to reach for me again but didn’t. Instead, he pressed his palm flat against the counter beside me, eyes searching mine. “And then I what, Sloane?”
