Page 15

I wake up too early, the kind of early where the light is soft but unwelcome. The apartment is finally quiet—no Emma stomping through the kitchen in heels or leaving perfume trails like territory markings. Just silence. It’s rare. I soak it up.

I hit the grocery store with a false sense of calm, throwing things into my basket like I’m not spiraling. Oat milk, bananas, overpriced protein bars I’ll probably forget to eat. I move slow. Pretend this life is mine and stable.

Back home, I toss everything into the fridge and pull out my laptop to finish some charts. Ankle sprain, shoulder tightness, another sore wrist from a bad fall. All things I know how to fix. All things that don’t make my stomach clench.

My phone buzzes.

Unknown Number: You can run, but you can’t fucking hide.

I freeze. The blood in my veins turns to slush. Another message comes through—a screenshot of the team website. My name is circled in red.

Every part of me goes still.

I block the number, delete the message, throw my phone across the couch like that’ll somehow erase the chill running down my spine.

He found me.

Another text comes through, notifying my laptop.

Unknown number: I miss you, you fucking slut. Unblock me, so we can talk.

I swear under my breath, press the heels of my hands to my eyes. I’m not doing this. Not again. I won’t let it wreck me this time.

I slam my laptop shut.

This job is supposed to be my clean slate. My second chance. No more assholes in gym shorts. No more being gaslit. No more athletes with dollar signs in their eyes and power trips in their fists.

Definitely no more athletes.

But even as I say that, Slater’s face flashes behind my eyelids—sharp jaw, sharp voice, sharp hands.

I shake it off.

The apartment is still empty. I’m relieved. Sometimes I swear Emma wants to sleep with me, and while I’m all for open-mindedness, I’m not interested in that kind of confusion under my roof. Or inside my home where I’m supposed to be comfortable and safe.

Just as I grab my phone, another text comes through. My stomach feels like it flips inside out as flashes of the videos they took of me that night. How they humiliated me with them.

My gut wrenches at the thought as I look at the screen, expecting to see another threat.

Riley: Hey. Can you come in? Won’t take long.

I sigh. Thank God. It’s my day off, but I need something to ignore the flashing images in my head of that night.

Riley’s office smells like burnt coffee and industrial lemon. Riley leans back in his chair when I walk in, nodding toward the seat across from him.

“So,” he says, “how’d it go with Slater?”

I keep my face neutral. “Fine.”

“That’s it?”

“He’s not exactly warm and fuzzy.”

He raises a brow like he’s waiting for more. I hold the line.

Riley sighs. “Look, Sage. I know he’s a hard ass. But he needs help. If he doesn’t let one of us in soon, he’s going to wreck himself.”

I nod. I say nothing.

“You’re a good fit for this job,” he continues. “You’ve got something that works. People open up to you.”

I shift in my chair, not knowing where he’s going with that. “I’m just doing my job.”

“Pretty privilege is a real thing,” he says, like we’re talking about the weather. “Doesn’t hurt when people want to look at you. It’s proven that people trust you faster.”

I tense. He means it as a compliment, I think. Maybe he doesn’t even realize how it sounds. But it lands wrong. And now the weight of text messages on my phone feels heavier now. Am I only their target because of my face? Nothing else?

“It’s not a compliment,” I say, swallowing.

“It’s a tool,” he counters. “Use it.”

I nod like that makes sense. Like I agree.

I’m halfway out the door when I nearly slam into a wall of broad chest and familiar attitude.

Slater.

My blood crawls feeling him against me. I’m already shaken from the texts, and now this. I have no time for this.

He’s leaning against the wall like he’s been waiting.

“Reporting me?” he asks, voice low and close.

I shiver but don’t flinch. “I lied to him.”

That smirk curves across his mouth. “Good girl.”

“Don’t praise me.”

Two steps, and I’m against the wall. His hand is at my throat again—warm, heavy, not hurting, but reminding me exactly what he’s capable of. My heart spikes.

“This more like it?” he murmurs, mouth inches from mine.

I hold his gaze, steady. “You wish.”

A flicker of a grin. Then he leans in, placing his lips by my ear.

“Tonight. Same time.”

And just like that, he’s gone. Like he didn’t just light my entire nervous system on fire and scare the hell out of me.

I stand there, trying to breathe evenly, hands trembling at my sides.

Behind me, Riley steps out of his office, sees me. Frowns.

“You still here?”

I glance at my phone, thumb tapping the screen. “Just answering a text.”

He nods, distracted. “You can head out.”

“Thanks.”

I walk out like I’m fine.

But I’m already thinking about tonight.

And how I’m definitely not fine at all.

By the time I get home, the sun is dipping low behind the buildings, casting everything in amber. I drop my bag by the door and head straight to the bathroom, leaning over the sink like the mirror will offer answers.

What the hell is Slater’s problem?

I replay the moment. His hand on my throat. The husk of his voice. That grin. My pulse thumping like I’d just been chased.

That wasn’t normal. That wasn’t professional.

And I let it happen.

God, I can’t afford to be this girl. Some stupid girl caught up in some arrogant athlete’s orbit, trying to decode every expression like it matters. Like he matters.

I stare at my reflection for a beat longer before pushing off the counter and heading to the shower.

If I’m going back to his house, I’m not going back a mess.

I wash my hair, slow and thorough, like I’m trying to scrub off the way he looked at me.

I shave everything, even though I have no intention of getting naked.

I exfoliate. I use the good body wash, the one that smells like vanilla and almond.

Then I towel off and layer on lotion—legs, arms, even between my toes.

I want to feel like my skin belongs to me.

In my room, I dig through my drawer for something easy. Simple. Comfortable.

I settle on black leggings and a soft slate blue top. Casual, but clean. I add a spritz of perfume behind my ears and at my wrists. I keep my makeup light—just a little concealer, some mascara, tinted lip balm.

When I glance at myself in the mirror, I almost cry. Why am I doing this? I should not be going there. I purposely wear my raggedy clothes and pray to God that Riley wasn’t right about my face. I don’t want pretty privilege.

I pack my bag slowly, checking and rechecking that I have everything. Notes, gloves, tape, resistance bands. I’m halfway through organizing it when Emma breezes into the room, wearing another tiny black top and jeans that look spray-painted on.

She pauses in the doorway, her eyes dragging over me like she’s putting together a theory. “Do you have a hot date tonight?”

I blink, looking at my clothes. “No.”

Her mouth curves into a half-smile. “You sure? You look good.”

“No, just… errands. Does this really look cute? I should change.”

She narrows her eyes. “Don’t. You look cute, but I was wondering if you wanted to come out with me again. That bar was fun, right?”

“I can’t.” I keep my tone polite but firm. “And last time wasn’t really my scene. Sorry.”

“You sure?” she says, almost pouting. “You were so quiet, I feel like you didn’t give it a chance.”

I zip my bag shut. “Yeah. I’m good, though. But thanks.”

She shrugs and saunters off, heels clicking against the floor, leaving behind a cloud of sweet perfume and unspoken tension.

I stare at the closed door for a second too long, then take off this shirt and reach for something less cute. A tee I’ve had since high school will do. And then I grab my keys and head for the car.

My stomach is jolting with butterflies as I drive to his house again. When his gate is in front of me, my pulse jumps.

There’s no way he would know about Tyler and Marcus, right?

No.

Why would I even think that? I’m across the country. There’s no way he’s tied to them.

Whether I want to admit it or not, this job is putting me back into a situation I’m not comfortable in.

I can’t believe I’m coming back to this house.

To him.

The guy who put his hands on my throat again after I told him not to touch me like that.

I must be really stupid .