Page 24 of Oliver (The Golden Team #7)

Emery

I t had been three days since they rescued me.

Three days of soft blankets, warm meals, and the steady hum of Oliver’s voice keeping the nightmares away.

I hadn’t returned to Colorado.

Not yet.

We were in Oliver’s home in Southern California. His home sat on the top of the mountain, looking out over the Pacific Ocean. It was beautiful.

Olly had come running the second he saw me, launching into my arms so hard we both tumbled onto the grass. He cried. I cried harder.

Now, he was back at school, and Oliver and I were alone in the house. Just us. No team, no news, no swimming, no pressure. Just the low crackle of a fire and the sound of wind stirring the trees outside.

I stood at the back porch railing, staring out at the landscape. My stitches pulled every time I moved, and the bruises still burned when I breathed too deep—but I was alive.

I heard the screen door creak open behind me.

“You okay?” Oliver’s voice was low, careful.

“I’m… not sure,” I said honestly.

He came up beside me, holding two mugs of coffee. I took one. It was exactly how I liked it—he remembered.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked.

“I can’t stop thinking about how fast it all changed,” I whispered. “One minute I was homesick and tired. The next, I had a gun in my hand and someone was trying to drag me out of bed.”

He didn’t speak. Just reached out and slid his fingers between mine.

“I don’t think I care about medals anymore,” I admitted.

That got his attention. His head turned slowly.

“I mean it. I spent so much of my life chasing something I thought mattered—records, championships, gold. But none of that was there when I was tied to a bed, wondering if I’d ever see you or Olly again.”

“You don’t owe anyone anything, Emery.”

I nodded slowly. “The committee’s going to be furious if I back out now.”

“Screw the committee.”

I smiled. “Easy for you to say.”

“I’m serious,” he said, stepping in front of me. “You’ve done more than most people ever dream of. If your heart’s not in it anymore, then walk away. Don’t spend another day doing something that doesn’t make you feel alive.”

I looked up at him. His hair was a mess. His shirt was stretched across his broad chest. His face was all angles and quiet strength. And his eyes—those eyes held me steady when everything else had fallen apart.

“What if I don’t know what I want next?” I asked softly.

“Then take your time figuring it out. And if you want… I’ll figure it out with you.”

My heart did that thing—it cracked, then stretched, then filled all over again.

“Do you still want me?” I inquired. “After everything? My life is chaotic. Why would you want to include me in your life?”

He stepped closer, brushing a hand down my cheek. “I wanted you before all this. I loved you before it got dangerous. And now that I know just how strong you are?” His thumb lingered near my lips. “Now I need you.”

I didn’t answer.

I kissed him instead.

Slow. Deep. Certain.

By the time I pulled away, his coffee was cold. Mine was on the floor. And I was leaning into him like the future might actually be okay.

“I’m not going back,” I whispered against his chest.

“Good,” he said. “Let’s build something new.”

Later that night...

The fire had burned low, casting soft golden light over the living room. Outside, the wind whispered through the trees, but inside, it was still. Warm. Quiet.

Oliver was lying on the couch, one arm tucked behind his head, the other reaching for me.

I came willingly.

He pulled me down beside him, and for a while, we didn’t speak. He just held me, his fingers tracing lazy circles along my back. My head rested on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart like it was my own.

“I still have nightmares,” I whispered. “But they’re getting quieter.”

“Good,” he said, his voice low and rough. “I want to be the reason they stop.”

I looked up at him, our faces inches apart. “You already are.”

I leaned in and kissed him—slow, deep, deliberate.

His hand tangled in my hair as he kissed me back, not with urgency, but with need. The kind that had waited, simmered, built over weeks of separation and fear. This wasn’t about forgetting what happened. It was about remembering what we still had.

He sat up, lifting me with him, and I straddled his lap, his hands steady at my waist.

“Are you sure?” he asked, searching my eyes.

“I’m not broken,” I whispered. “I’m alive. And I want to feel alive with you. I want you inside of me right now.”

That was all it took.

His mouth found mine again—hotter this time, hungrier. His hands slid beneath my sweatshirt, palms warm against bare skin. I gasped softly as his touch ignited every nerve ending in me. I tugged his shirt over his head, needing to feel him—solid, real, mine.

He lifted me in one smooth motion and carried me down the hall, never breaking the kiss, our hearts pounding in sync.

When he laid me on the bed, he took his time.

Every kiss was reverent.

Every touch was a promise.

His mouth followed the path of my scars, kissing each one like he was stitching something broken back together. I traced the muscles of his back, holding him closer, letting him anchor me.

And when he finally moved inside me, it wasn’t frantic or rushed—it was everything we hadn’t said, everything we’d survived, everything we were becoming.

We moved together slowly, in rhythm, like a tide pulling us both to shore.

And when I came apart in his arms, I didn’t feel afraid. I felt free.

Afterward, he wrapped me in his arms, our legs tangled beneath the sheets. I rested my head on his shoulder, listening to the rain that had started tapping against the roof.

“I don’t know what my life looks like next,” I whispered, sleep brushing at the edges of my voice.

“We’ll figure it out,” he murmured. “One piece at a time.”

And I believed him.

For the first time in a long time—I believed I didn’t have to figure it all out alone.