Chapter 11 Sloane #2
“Knock it off, Callum.” Ivy rolled her eyes but leaned into her husband more.
They had a comfort about them that I envied.
I had zero clue what it would be like to have someone who saw you, got you, and had your back all the time.
I’d never experienced it before, and occasionally my mind would warn me I was getting older.
Thirty-two and no partner, no kids, and my clock was ticking, but then I’d tell her to shut the hell up.
I didn’t want kids, and I wanted a career, a legacy over a spouse. I knew what it felt like to have family turn on you, not pick you, so not wanting that life seemed fine for me.
Right then, a Cubs player cracked a triple into the corner, and the crowd roared like thunder.
I launched out of my seat, both hands in the air, beer nearly sloshing out of the bottle as I shouted, “Let’s fucking go, Cubbies!
Yes! That’s how you run third! Pinch hit Frankie—come on, his splits are garbage against lefties.
Don’t do it—don’t pull him—let us feast! ”
My entire body vibrated with adrenaline as I leaned toward the field, palms open like I could will the manager to make the call. “Come on, don’t be a little bitch. Let him pitch. Give us the meatball. Give us the fucking meatball!”
It wasn’t until the roar dipped to a lull that I felt the silence behind me. I turned slowly to find five sets of eyes locked on me.
Jordan’s mouth hung open, borderline impressed.
Callum was grinning like he’d discovered a new favorite show.
Ivy’s brows had risen to her hairline. Even Noah blinked once, then leaned back like he needed a minute to recalibrate.
And Oliver—Oliver had his elbow on the back of his seat, chin in his hand, watching me with that quiet, amused look that made my heart skip in the most annoying way.
My face flushed. “Shit. Sorry.”
Jordan let out a laugh and hit my shoulder with the back of his hand. “Doc, who knew you had a mouth like that? Damn. You get this riled up about Rampage?”
“Only when you fumble two drives in a row,” I muttered, setting my beer down and sinking back into my seat.
“Jesus,” Callum said, his eyes wide. “You might be my new favorite person on the Rampage team.”
“I’ve been telling y’all she’s elite,” Ivy chimed in, smirking. “Wait until someone strikes out looking with the bases loaded. She’ll light up the sky.”
“She’s serious,” Oliver said softly, not glancing at the others. Just at me. His voice had that low drawl again, the kind that made it hard to focus on anything but how close he was.
I bit my lip to keep from smiling, but the warmth in my chest betrayed me.
Jordan shook his head in wonder. “Alright. That’s it. I’m officially requesting a sideline microphone for Mercer next Sunday. We could publish this shit and go viral.”
“You’re not cleared to handle that kind of power,” Ivy said flatly.
“Neither is she,” Noah added, but admiration rang in his tone.
I laughed, the tension from earlier finally breaking. I wasn’t just the doctor in this moment. I wasn’t the outsider trying to act normal. I was a Cubs fan in a box seat, yelling at the screen with people who didn’t treat me like I had to earn my spot here.
And Oliver hadn’t looked away once. If anything, he leaned closer to me and nudged my shoulder. “There she is,” he said quieter.
God, his comment had me warm. It was strange and wonderful to be seen by him, truly, while it also startled me. I should not be having these feelings from a patient.
“Hm?” I was a little dizzy with how close he was to me. He smelled good, like soap and cologne and something warm, and he kept making sure our legs touched. Every time I moved positions, he shifted, and sure, he was a big guy, but this felt intentional.
“I like you wild like this, smiling and loud and not worrying.” His tongue wet the side of his mouth, the gesture wildly dangerous.
His hand landed on the armrest, fingers stretching wide, his pinky brushing the hem of my jeans.
My heart thudded too hard in my chest, every inch of my body on alert. “You’re beautiful.”
I sucked in a breath, completely frozen at his compliment. No one had ever said that to me in that way, unfiltered, without wanting something in return.
He exhaled, slow, his jaw flexing as he leaned closer to me. Our mouths were inches apart, our bodies humming with energy as he reached over, squeezing my knee before the suite went wild.
A sharp cheer cut through as the camera swept across the lower decks and landed squarely on our box.
The Jumbotron lit up, full color and unforgiving.
The screen filled with our section—loud, wild, too many familiar faces.
“And with us today, Cub Fans, are a few of the Rampage players! Let’s hear it for the Rampage winning the season opener this weekend! ”
Jordan jumped up and flexed. Noah, deadpan, lifted his beer like a salute. Ivy clapped and hollered like she’d never yelled at a player in her life. Callum pointed at himself dramatically, hamming it up.
And there, right in the center, clear enough for all to see—me and Oliver. Leaning close. Knees touching. Our heads bent toward each other like we were in the middle of something we weren’t supposed to be in.
I sat up straighter, pulse kicking. I tried to slide a few inches away without making it obvious.
Too late.
The crowd clocked the Rampage players instantly. Chants broke out—Jordan’s name, then Noah’s. Then Oliver. The sound made my skin crawl and my stomach twist.
I lifted my drink, needing something in my hands, my face absolutely on fire from the attention. One thing struck me though from seeing us on the jumbotron. I looked happy—something I wasn’t sure I had been in quite some time.