Page 27

The flight passes in a blur of small talk with the coaches about treatment plans and injury prevention strategies.

I try to focus on being professional, on proving that I belong here and can handle this responsibility.

But the entire time, I can feel Slater’s presence like laser beams boring into the back of my head from ten rows behind me.

Chicago O’Hare is chaos, but somehow, we manage to get through baggage claim and onto the team bus without losing anyone. The hotel is nicer than I expected. Not like those motels I was staying in during my drive across country.

Check-in is smooth, and I make a point of keeping my distance from Slater throughout the entire process. When the coaches hand out room assignments, I’m relieved to see that I’m on a different floor from most of the team. Maybe I can get through this trip without any more complications.

I’m almost to the elevator when his voice stops me.

“Sage.”

I turn around reluctantly. He’s standing there in his travel clothes, hands shoved in his hoodie pockets, looking like he wants to say something but isn’t sure how.

“Yeah?”

“Give me a keycard to your room.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “Excuse me?”

“I’m going to bring you lunch,” he says, like I’m silly for thinking it was for any other reason. My anxiety lessens, and maybe my first thought was a bit overboard.

The simple kindness of the gesture catches me completely off guard. I hesitate, knowing I should say no, knowing this blurs every professional line I’m trying to maintain. But the thought of him doing this for me and not having to venture back downstairs makes me cave.

I fish the extra keycard out of my wallet and hand it over. “Thank you.”

He nods and walks away without another word.

My room is on the fourteenth floor, with a view of the Chicago skyline that would be impressive if I weren’t so exhausted. I change into comfortable clothes—soft cotton shorts and a loose tank top—and lie down on the bed for a quick nap before tonight’s game.

The sheets are Egyptian cotton, and for a moment I let myself sink into the luxury of it all. This is so far removed from my trash bag existence this morning that it feels like a dream.

An hour later, I hear the keycard beep and Slater walks in carrying takeout bags that smell incredible.

“I hope you like Italian,” he says, setting everything down on the small table by the window.

The gesture is beyond anything I thought Slater would go to. This man who threatens people and has a sex room in his house just spent his free time making sure I had lunch.

“Thank you,” I say, genuinely touched. “This is really sweet of you.”

He shrugs like it’s nothing, but I can see something softer in his expression as I unpack the containers. Chicken parmesan, garlic bread, Caesar salad—all my comfort food favorites.

I settle cross-legged on the bed with my lunch, and Slater sits on the edge, watching me eat with an intensity that should probably make me uncomfortable.

“Are you ready for tonight’s game?” I ask between bites.

“Always am.”

I study his posture, the way he’s holding his left shoulder slightly higher than his right. “How’s your hip feeling?”

“Fine.”

I set down my fork. “Do you want me to do some stretches on you?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, just looks at me with an expression I can’t read.

“I’m happy to have a friend like you, Slater,” I continue, trying to lighten the mood. “Let me help your hip. Lay down.”

Something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe, or disappointment—but then he moves to the center of the bed and lies down on his back.

I shift to kneel beside him, placing my hands on his hip to assess the tension. It’s only when I lean forward to apply pressure that I realize I’m not wearing a bra under my tank top. The loose fabric gapes slightly, and I can feel his eyes on me.

I should be embarrassed, should probably grab a sweatshirt or something. But I’m a professional, and this is what I do. I continue the stretches, working through his hip flexors.

After a few minutes, he sits up.

“Friends, huh?” he says, and there’s something sharp in his voice.

“Friends?” I repeat, confused by the sudden shift in his mood.

He stands and heads for the door without another word, leaving me sitting on the bed with my hands still positioned like I’m treating a patient who’s no longer there.

The door closes with a soft click, and I’m left staring at the space where he was, not knowing what to do with myself.

Is he mad? Did I say something wrong?

I finish my lunch alone, replaying the conversation over and over, trying to understand what just happened and why my chest feels tight with something that might be disappointment.

If we can’t be friends, then we can’t be anything.