My pulse raced at the base of my neck, my adrenaline coursing through me from standing up for myself and stating what I wanted. My life was about what other people wanted, not me, and it felt good. Terrifying, but good.
“Sloane—”
“Don’t use that tone with me. This is nonnegotiable.” I took a shaky breath. “If you want to leave, I understand.”
“I’m not leaving.” He shook his head, a small smirk on his face. “Unrelated to the topic, I wanted to say you are really hot when you get bossy. We might need to revisit you being the boss in the bedroom.”
“Don’t flirt with me right now.”
“You’re right, I’m sorry.” He set his mug down and clasped his hands, resting his elbows on his knees as he held my gaze. “I shouldn’t have demanded that. It isn’t fair to you or whatever this is between us. I won’t hide how I’m physically feeling from you.”
“Okay.” I sighed, not quite believing how fast and easily he changed his mind. I kept my arms crossed, my stomach still flipping with uncertainty.
“Can you sit back down with me? I’m not digging this arms-crossed, distance thing right now. I hurt you, and I want to make it up to you.”
“You didn’t…I guess, maybe you did.”
I sat on the edge of the couch, but Oliver grabbed my robe and tugged, moving me to sit on his lap. His scent and arms engulfed me, and he brought one hand to my cheek, his fingers running over my bottom lip. His touch made me all warm and safe at the same time. “What are you doing?”
“I’m an idiot.”
“Uh, why?”
He stared at my mouth, then eyes as he exhaled softly. “You are the one risking it all. I know how much your career means to you, and I swear, Sloane, I will make sure nothing happens to your job. The least I can do is open up to you about what is risky for me.”
“I appreciate you saying that.” I smiled into his palm, still nervous about how quickly that was resolved. I wasn’t used to it. “So at work…we can’t touch. No flirting. None of the bedroom eyes. You have to treat me like you would Benson or Mac.”
He cringed. “Not even in your office?”
“When the door is shut and locked, maybe, but you have to let me lead. I’ll be incredibly nervous and uncomfortable, worried about being caught.” I intertwined our fingers, knowing he liked the extra touches. “We’ll basically be dating in secret.”
“Are you okay with that?” He played with the ends of my wet hair, where the curls started forming. “I love your hair. I fucking love these little curls.”
“Thanks, but yeah, what choice do we have? It’d be a breach of the code of ethics for my practice, on top of the Rampage handbook that restricts relationships between staff and players.””
He shrugged, pulling me against his chest in a hug as he leaned back into the couch. “We always have a choice, but I think we take it slow. Get to know each other, truly. Not hold back. We hide it at work to protect your career and see what happens. Think you can do that with me?”
“Yeah, I think I can.”
“Now, tell me about your family and why you stayed another night.”
And so I did. I told him everything—my conflict with my parents, my brother, that he wanted to talk again. Oliver listened, assured me, and only gave advice if I wanted it.
We hung out the entire day. Ten hours of chatting, laughing, cooking together. Then, instead of him leaving, he stayed the night with me again and showed me over and over how much he enjoyed hearing me come.
He said we’d take this slow, but nothing about him felt casual or slow. I hoped wherever this ended up…neither one of us ended up hurt.
26
OLIVER
We were already four weeks into the season, and everything about my body felt louder than usual. The soreness lingered longer than I wanted to admit. Every movement felt a fraction heavier, a little less fluid. The trainers kept insisting I looked great on paper—weight stable, vitals in range, muscle recovery solid—but none of that accounted for the low-grade hum in my chest or the way I had to force myself to focus through drills.
Tuesday started with light film and position meetings. I sat between Jordan and Quinn, trying to absorb the corrections while they traded barbs about Sunday’s loss. Quinn swore he’d tweak the route timing, while Jordan blamed the turf for a near-fumble. Noah wandered in with a breakfast sandwich and two coffees, tossing one sandwich at me without a word. It was his way of checking in.
We didn’t talk about Denver, not directly. But it was there, behind every lifted eyebrow and mumbled comment. Everyone was thinking about altitude. About breath. About stamina.
By the end of Tuesday, my chest felt tight again. Not painful—just restrictive. I reported to Ivy for vitals and sat still as shewrapped the cuff. Her eyes flicked over the readings, her brow pinched slightly tighter than usual.
