Chapter 4
Oliver
It was the night before our walk-through game, and I was nervous as fuck.
I couldn’t sit still. I worked so goddamn hard to get to this point in my career that it seemed surreal.
It seemed like a dream that could quickly switch to a nightmare.
My pulse raced, and the familiar tingling started in my fingertips, a sure sign I had to settle my thoughts.
Oliver: any chance you guys wanna meet up?
Ivy: WHY?
Callum: stop being a narc, Ivy Lee.
Ivy: He should be resting!!
Callum: What she meant to say was we are otherwise preoccupied for the evening and unable to put clothes on. But, in an hour, we can FaceTime if you need to talk through anything.
Ivy: Why are you this way?? Why? You could be normal.
Callum: When have I ever been normal?
I silenced my phone, snorting at their antics.
It wasn’t that I couldn’t go somewhere myself, but it was strange to be a grown man going to a bar for a soda water.
But fuck it. Baseball was on, and I could catch the end of the Cubs game.
Grabbing my keys and phone, I slid on an older Cubs hat and locked up.
My favorite bar in the neighborhood was called Graham’s, and it was a block away from my unit.
The bartenders there knew me, didn’t give a shit that I played for the Rampage, and let me be.
Being around other people helped me escape my thoughts and stressors.
I was an extrovert—being around people was my favorite thing about being on a team, that I was always around others and others energy fueled me.
I loved being a part of something bigger than myself.
So the thought of being by myself in my place, the walk-through game tomorrow, was too much.
“Hey, Oli,” Mario, the die-hard Cubs fan and part-owner of the bar nodded at me as I walked in. “Your usual?”
“You got it, my man.” I always took the third chair from the left, but tonight, someone sat in my spot.
I wasn’t irrational. I knew the chair didn’t belong to me. Yet…I had the biggest day of my career tomorrow, and I was superstitious. Mario noted me pausing and winced.
A woman sat there, brown hair piled in a tight bun. She wore a Cubs tank, showcasing her shoulders and toned arms. A flicker of interest surprised me—maybe it was the tight, almost professional hairstyle paired with the clearly used and old Cubs gear, but from the back, she was puzzle.
She banged her fist on the bar, shouting, “Let’s fucking go! Call in the closer!”
Oh, so a real Cubs fan.
I neared her, my lips twitching as she booed loudly at the TV behind the bar. Whatever perfume she wore clung to the air around her, the scent familiar somehow yet mouthwatering. Citrus and floral something.
“Hey,” I said, clearing my throat as I leaned onto the bar to her right. “This is gonna sound weird—”
She turned, and surprise lit up her face.
It was Doc.
Sloane Mercer. The team mental health doctor, the woman who smiled at my shoes, yet shrank into herself when our male staff acted like a bunch of misogynistic assholes.
“Oliver” She pursed her lips—which were bright red—and tilted her head to the side. “What are you doing at my bar?”
“Your bar, huh?” I grinned, still not sitting down but choosing to lean my elbow onto the bar top. This put us close, closer than normal. Heat radiated from her, and I wasn’t gonna lie, I liked it. “Didn’t realize your name was Graham.”
“Ha-ha.” She rolled her eyes, but before she said anything else, the Cubs pitcher allowed a home run to tie the game. “Motherfucker. Wells always hits up and inside. You’d know that if you paid attention. One job here. One job. Don’t allow home runs. I swear…”
“Fascinating.” My smile widened at her little outburst. “This is a side of you I didn’t know about, Doc, and I’m pleasantly surprised.”
“What is?” She hadn’t glanced at me again, instead staring daggers at the TV. “Come on, my god.”
I chuckled.
“What is so funny? Are you a Gila Monsters fan or something?” She picked up her bottle of Coors Light and sipped it, the brown bottle dangling from her fingertips. Something about her was oddly attractive—a fucking doctor, sitting at a bar, yelling at a TV with a beer in hand.
“No, I support Chicago through and through. Just, seeing you like this is fun for me. All angry and loud.”
“Here you go, Oli, soda water and lime.”
“Thanks, Mario.” I nodded at him, but his gaze had questions. Like, why aren’t you pushing the woman out of your spot? Or how do you know her? “Doc here seems to think this is her bar. Care to tell her the truth?”
“Doc?” Mario repeated, his gaze moving toward Sloane. “You’re a doctor?”
She sat a little taller. “Yes, I am.”
“She works for the Rampage now. One of the first mental health coaches in the franchise, probably one of the first across the country,” I said, admiring how her cheeks flushed as she stared at me. “It’s impressive as hell.”
“Damn, Sloane. This whole time… I don’t know what I thought, but that’s sick.”
“Thanks, Mario.” She smiled and ducked her head as her ears reddened. “It’s not a big deal—”
“Yes, it is. Stop it.” Fuck it. I slid into the chair next to her, our knees hitting for a second as I got comfortable. Her perfume was even better this close, and I couldn’t stop trailing my gaze over her wrists and neck, wondering if that was where she sprayed it.
“Oh, please, yes, sit down by me. Be my guest,” she mumbled, her grip on the bottle tightening.
“Thank you for the kind offer,” I teased, leaning closer to her and noting the freckles on her shoulders. Something about freckles charmed me—and yup, a few dotted her face too.
“Jesus, throw a strike!” She tossed the little bar napkin, but it didn’t go far. “What was the point of the trade if your closers can’t do their job?”
“Question,” I interrupted her rampage. “Why are you this way?”
She glared at me. “Clarify your question because there are many ways I could interpret that, and none of them are good.”
I sipped my soda water, so glad I was here and not at home spiraling. I hadn’t thought about tomorrow once since walking in. “You being an aggressive Cubs fan. I never would’ve pegged you for having such a potty mouth.”
“You’re a grown man. Don’t say potty mouth.”
“Doctor’s orders?” I smirked, enjoying annoying her a little too much.
She snorted, and the sound was so unladylike, so unfiltered and real, I wanted to get her to do it again.
“Smartass.” She laughed more, jutting her chin toward the soda water. “Good choice to keep your head clear for tomorrow.”
“Not only a tonight choice. I rarely drink.” I waited for a remark or comment. So much of our social lives revolved around drinking that often, when I shared that, people were annoyed by my decision.
Not drinking made first dates weird. It made conversations strange too, because they always asked why. Why not? Are you recovering? Are you sick? Sloane shrugged, seemingly unbothered by my lack of alcohol. “So back to this business about being your bar?”
“It is, and you’re sitting in my chair.”
She frowned, her dark brown eyes narrowing as she studied me. “Um, no this is my spot.”
“Do we need to work on a custody negotiation?” I nudged her shoulder with mine, and she did it back, grunting a little bit. “Don’t hurt yourself, Doc. I’m kinda large.”
She took another sip of her beer as the game came back on. She didn’t acknowledge me one bit as the Cubs’s lineup had their shot at winning the game in the bottom of the ninth. She whispered to herself a bit, and I watched her.
This woman was a mystery to me, and that was the problem—I liked puzzles. I liked seeing a bunch of pieces laid out and to find the way they fit together. Maybe it was because I hadn’t figured out the puzzle of my own body, but I loved a challenge, and I wanted to figure Sloane Mercer out.
She still had the polished doctor look to her, yet her language and aggression at the game was in such contrast to it. Instead of the joggers I usually saw her in, she wore cutoff jean shorts that showcased toned and smooth legs and flip-flops.
Her toenails were bright red, and one of her toes had a little ring on it, and fuck, that little charm got to me. It was sexy.
“I can feel you eyeing me, Oliver,” she said, not taking her eyes off the game. “Knock it off.”
“I’m enjoying my water, Doc, that’s all. And sure, I’m a breathing man, so I’m checking out your legs. You have great legs.”
“Is that appropriate to tell the doctor you work with?”
“Are we at work right now?” I fired back, watching her pulse race at the base of her neck.
Someone on the Cubs hit a home run after a full-count, and they won the game.
Sloane clapped, joining in a few others in the bar that hollered for the Cubs win.
“Thatta boy. We just called him up, and he’s outperforming the veterans on the team.
He’s gonna earn his starting spot soon, I bet it. Don’t ya think, Mario?”
“Sure do, Doc.”
“What is with that tone?” She pointed at Mario, her lips curving up. “None of that Doc nickname.”
“Why? I find it cool as fuck that the woman who comes in is a doctor. You’re hot, a Cubs fan, and brilliant? I’m charmed, Sloane.” Mario leaned his beefy forearms on the bar top, grinning at her like a fanboy.
She grinned back, and I didn’t really enjoy that. He was too close to her, stars in his eyes, and she didn’t shut her smile down. “I like coming here and being whoever I want to be. I’m not Doc here, okay? But you can call me brilliant and hot anytime.”
Mario winked, sliding her a bill before walking away. Sloane set down a twenty before staring at me. “This is where we part. Get some rest tonight. Big day tomorrow.”
“Let me walk you home,” I demanded, an uncomfortable wedge forming deep in my chest.
“No need. I live a short walk from here, but thank you.” She smiled, but it was tight and not genuine. Not the smile she gave Mario.