I cross my arms over my chest, armor snapping back into place.
“Good night, Wilder,” I say coolly. “See you Monday morning.”
His jaw tightens.
“First fucking thing,” I add.
Then I turn and walk away with my heels steady and spine straight. My heart pounding with everything I shouldn’t be feeling.
Anger.
Disappointment.
And a pull I don’t want to name.
Because no matter how good it felt, no matter how real it seemed for a few dangerous minutes, this is a game I can’t afford to play.
Not ethically or emotionally.
My scars might not be as visible as his, but they can be ripped wide open easily.
EIGHT
Wild
Monday morning feels like punishment.
The stadium is quieter than usual, the kind of calm that crawls under your skin and leaves too much room to think. My head’s painfully clear, and that somehow makes everything worse. No haze. No buffer. Just memory.
Her dress.
Her voice.
The way she looked at me like I disappointed her.
Regret sits heavy in my chest as I head down the hallway toward Susan’s office. I expect to see her door open, to hear her calm voice already mid-sentence, grounding the space like she always does.
Instead, when I step inside, it’s just Amelia.
She’s seated at the small table, tablet in front of her, coffee untouched at her side. Hair pulled back. Blazer on. All sharp edges and professionalism. If Friday night was temptation, this is the consequence.
She looks up when she hears me.
No smile.
No warmth.
Just steady eyes and composure that makes my stomach drop.
“Morning,” she says evenly.
I stop short. “Uh, where’s Susan?”
“She’s running late,” Amelia replies. “She asked me to start with you.”
Fuck.
Every instinct in me screams to turn around, to make some excuse, to claim practice or a meeting, or literally anything. But I don’t. I stay planted in the doorway like an idiot because running has been my go-to lately, and it hasn’t gotten me anywhere.
