Her eyes finally lifted to mine, calm but sharp enough to cut. “Only to people who care about results.”
For a second, we just stared at each other—something sparking in the air between us. Not quite anger. Not quite curiosity. Something heavier, charged.
I should’ve looked away first, but I didn’t. Neither did she.
It wasn’t until the sound of typing from the next room broke the tension that I finally exhaled and leaned back against the desk, smirking. “You know,” I said, “most people would kill to get along with me.”
She didn’t even glance up. “I’m not most people.”
That one landed harder than it should’ve. I wasn’t sure why—it wasn’t cruel or cold. Just matter-of-fact. Like she’d already figured out who I was and decided she wasn’t impressed.
It shouldn’t have bothered me. Hell, I’d built a career on not caring what anyone thought. Coaches, reporters, fans—they could all think whatever they wanted. I’d stopped trying to prove anything to anyone a long time ago.
But somehow, hearing I’m not most people from Ellery James hit different.
Because for the first time in years, I caught myself wanting to prove her wrong.
Not with words. Not with charm.
Just… by showing up.
By the time the last volunteer left and the lights dimmed in the hallway, the office was dead quiet—except for the steady tap of Ellery’s keyboard.
She was still at her desk, posture straight, hair falling loose from her bun, eyes fixed on the screen like the world might collapse if she stopped typing. Papers surrounded her like a fortress—neat stacks, color-coded tabs, and sticky notes arranged with the kind of precision only a control freak or a genius could manage.
I leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, half amused and—if I was being honest—half impressed.
“You ever go home?” I asked.
She didn’t look up. “Eventually.”
I smirked. “You know, for someone who hates athletes, you work like one.”
She glanced up, surprise flickering across her face before she hid it behind a small, contained smile. “You’re not as funny as you think you are.”
“Good thing I’m not trying to be funny.”
She shook her head, but I could see the corner of her mouth threatening to lift again. I stepped inside the room, the quiet settling between us like a truce neither of us had agreed to.
She kept typing, phone buzzing beside her with what looked like a dozen unanswered texts. One of them flashed across the screen—Kyle —and I didn’t know why that name twisted something in my gut.
“So,” I said, trying to sound casual. “You ever actually go home to your boyfriend, or is this what passes for date night?”
Her fingers stilled on the keyboard, but she didn’t look up. “He has training.”
I raised an eyebrow. “That why you’re still here? Waiting for him to remember you exist?”
That earned me a look—sharp, unamused, the kind that could drop a man faster than a red card. “I don’t wait on anyone,” she said evenly.
Point taken.
I held up my hands in mock surrender. “Just asking.”
“You should focus on your own schedule,” she said, voice clipped again, slipping neatly back behind her walls. “If you’re planning to come back tomorrow, be here on time.”
“I will.”
She arched a brow. “You said that before.”
