Chapter Six #2
The world outside fell away completely.
There was no New York.
No Gentry PR.
No championship.
No past failures.
No almost.
Only this room.
This night.
This man.
***
When they finally came apart beneath the soft white sheets, Hailey lay stunned and breathless, her body warm and loose in a way she had almost forgotten was possible.
Tyler rested beside her, one arm tucked beneath his head, his chest rising and falling as he stared up at the ceiling.
For several seconds, neither of them spoke.
Then Hailey turned her face toward him. “Well.”
Tyler laughed.
It was a quiet, disbelieving sound that made her smile before she could stop herself.
“Well?” he repeated.
“I’m processing.”
“Should I be nervous?”
“Possibly.”
He rolled onto his side to face her, propping his head on one hand. The sheet sat low at his waist, and Hailey had to make a conscious effort not to let that distract her from the conversation.
She failed.
Tyler’s smile turned smug.
“Don’t,” she warned.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You thought it loudly.”
“I’m learning from you.”
She pointed at him. “That is not a compliment.”
“It was meant as one.”
“Mmm.”
His smile faded into something gentler. He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “Are you okay?”
The question landed softly.
Hailey’s first instinct was automatic.
I’m fine.
The words rose to her tongue, polished from years of use.
But in the dark, with Tyler watching her like the answer mattered, she found she did not want to offer him the automatic version of herself.
So she took a breath.
“I think so,” she said.
His fingers stilled against her hair. “Think?”
Her eyes moved to the window, to the faint strip of moonlit ocean beyond the glass.
“I don’t do this,” she said.
“Vacation flings?”
“Any of it.”
He waited.
That was another thing about him that unsettled her. Tyler knew how to wait. Maybe athletes had to learn patience in their own way. Maybe chasing a championship for five years taught a person how to sit inside discomfort without rushing to fill it.
Hailey pulled the sheet higher over her chest, though he had already seen everything. This felt like a different kind of naked.
“I’m good at work,” she said. “I know who I am there. I know what people need from me. I know how to anticipate problems, how to control a room, how to fix something before anyone sees it breaking.”
Tyler’s gaze stayed on her face.
“But outside of that?” She let out a small laugh. “I don’t know. I think I’ve forgotten how to just be a person.”
“You seemed pretty good at it tonight.”
“That was the Long Island.”
“That was not the Long Island.”
She looked at him.
He held her gaze steadily. “Maybe it helped you stop thinking so hard. But that was you.”
Her chest tightened.
She wanted to believe him.
That was the problem.
“I’m leaving in a few days,” she said.
“I know.”
“And you have your championship.”
“I know.”
“And we barely know each other.”
Tyler’s mouth curved faintly. “I know that too.”
“You’re supposed to be concerned.”
“I am.”
“You don’t look concerned.”
“I’m trying to look irresistible. Is it working?”
She rolled her eyes, but a smile broke through. “Unfortunately.”
His grin softened the ache in her chest, but only a little.
Then he reached for her hand beneath the sheet.
Not dramatic. Not possessive.
Just his fingers sliding through hers.
“I’m concerned,” he said quietly. “But I also know I haven’t felt this good in a long time. And not just because of what happened ten minutes ago, although I would like credit for that.”
Hailey laughed, startled.
“There she is,” he murmured.
The warmth in his voice nearly broke her.
Tyler squeezed her hand once. “I like being with you. Talking to you. Arguing with you. Watching you pretend not to watch me.”
“I was not—”
“You were.”
She sighed. “Fine. Maybe a little.”
“A lot.”
“Do not ruin this tender moment.”
His smile flickered, then faded. “I’m not asking you for anything, Hailey.”
The words went straight through her.
No one ever said that.
Everyone asked her for something.
Time. Strategy. Answers. Reassurance. Control. Competence. More than she could give, and then more after that.
Tyler lifted her hand and pressed his mouth lightly to her knuckles.
“I’m not asking you to change your life,” he said. “I’m not asking you to stay. I’m not asking you to fix me or my career or whatever happens next week.”
Something inside her flinched at that, because the truth was already forming.
She could help him.
She knew people. Real people. Coaches, trainers, sports consultants, retired athletes who owed her favors because she had kept their names out of headlines or helped them survive a terrible news cycle. She had contacts Tyler could only dream of reaching.
And one name had already been circling in her mind since he told her about the championship.
Coach Medrano.
The best beach volleyball coach in the world.
Semi-retired, selective, infamously difficult to reach, and very definitely on Hailey’s phone under a contact file labeled Do Not Call Unless Necessary.
This might be necessary.
Not because Tyler asked.
Because she wanted to.
That distinction mattered.
“Actually,” she said slowly, “I might be able to help with one thing.”
Tyler’s expression shifted. “Hailey—”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“That noble, self-sacrificing, emotionally constipated hero face.”
He blinked.
Then laughed. “I have a face?”
“You very much have a face.”
“I’m afraid to ask what it looks like.”
“Handsome but irritating.”
“Consistent brand.”
She smiled, then grew serious. “I’m not offering because you asked me. I’m offering because I might know someone who could help you before the championship.”
His posture changed.
Not excitement yet.
Hope was too dangerous to show too quickly.
But she saw it anyway.
“Who?” he asked.
“Coach Mateo Medrano.”
Tyler stared at her.
For the first time since she had met him, he seemed genuinely speechless.
Hailey lifted a brow. “You’ve heard of him?”
“Everyone has heard of Medrano.”
“Good. That saves me the trouble of explaining why he matters.”
“He doesn’t train just anyone.”
“No,” she agreed. “He doesn’t.”
Tyler sat up slowly, the sheet falling to his waist. His hair was a mess, his mouth still soft from kissing her, but his eyes had sharpened with focus. “You know him?”
“I know his agent. And his daughter. Long story involving a sponsorship dispute, a leaked endorsement contract, and a retired soccer player who should never have been allowed near social media.”
Tyler looked at her like she had just casually admitted to controlling the tides.
“Hailey.”
“What?”
“You’re serious?”
“I don’t offer professional contacts while naked unless I mean it.”
A laugh burst out of him, but it faded quickly into something more vulnerable.
“Why would you do that for me?”
There it was.
The question beneath the question.
Why would you help? Why would you care? Why would you believe I’m worth the favor?
Hailey sat up too, pulling the sheet with her. The night air kissed her bare shoulders, cool after the heat of him.
“Because you said you were tired of being almost,” she said.
His face went still.
“And I know what that feels like.”
For a moment, he did not speak.
Then he looked away, jaw tight, eyes fixed on some point beyond the window.
Hailey did not rush to fill the silence.
When Tyler finally spoke, his voice was rough. “Last year after we lost, I sat in my car for an hour before I could drive home.”
Her chest tightened.
“Jack kept calling,” he said. “Aaron too. Bethany texted me about twenty times. I ignored everyone. I just sat there thinking, that was it. That was the chance. And I blew it.”
“You didn’t blow it.”
“You didn’t see the play.”
“I don’t have to.”
He looked at her then, frustration and pain flickering across his face. “What if I get there again and I freeze?”
The question was too honest to answer quickly.
Hailey reached for him, touching his wrist. “Then you breathe.”
His mouth twisted. “That’s your professional advice?”
“That’s my human advice.” She ran her thumb over the inside of his wrist, feeling the strong, steady beat of his pulse. “You breathe. You remember you have spent your whole life preparing. You remember one mistake is not your identity. And if I can get Medrano here, you listen to him.”
Tyler looked down at her hand on his wrist.
“You really think I can win?”
“Yes.”
The answer came faster than she expected.
But she meant it.
Not because she loved some fairytale version of him. Not because he was beautiful or charming or very good at distracting her from her own life.
Because she had watched him play.
Because she had seen the discipline beneath the teasing.
Because she knew what pressure looked like, and she knew the difference between someone who was finished and someone who was afraid to hope.
Tyler was not finished.
He was scared.
So was she.
Maybe that was why she recognized it so clearly.
Tyler lifted his eyes to hers. “You barely know me.”
“I know enough.”
The words settled between them, soft and dangerous.
He reached for her then, drawing her back down beside him. Not with the urgent heat from before, but with something slower. He wrapped an arm around her and tucked her against his chest, his chin resting lightly against her hair.
Hailey let herself settle there.
That was new too.
Letting herself be held without planning her exit. Without worrying what it meant. Without turning the moment into strategy.
For once, she did not analyze the future.
She listened to Tyler’s heartbeat beneath her ear.
She listened to the ocean.
She stayed.
After a while, Tyler said, “I thought tonight would feel simple.”
Hailey’s lips curved against his chest. “Did you?”
“Naively, yes.”
“How disappointing for you.”
“Very.” His fingers moved lazily along her bare arm. “Now I’m lying here thinking about championships and famous coaches and a woman who scares me more than either.”
Her heart stumbled.
“I scare you?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
His laugh rumbled beneath her cheek. “Of course you like that.”
“I contain multitudes.”
“You contain threats.”
“Also multitudes.”
His hand stilled. “You scare me because I don’t want this to be one night.”
The room went quiet.
Hailey closed her eyes.
There it was.
The thing she had been refusing to name.
She did not want it to be one night either.
But wanting more was complicated. Wanting more had teeth. Wanting more could follow her back to New York, slip into her carefully built life, and ask questions she was not ready to answer.
What if she could have this?
What if she could not?
What if wanting Tyler was not the reckless part?
What if the reckless part was going back unchanged?
Hailey lifted her head and looked at him.
“I don’t know what this is,” she said.
Tyler’s gaze moved over her face, patient and intent. “Okay.”
“I don’t know what happens when I leave.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t know if I’m capable of making good decisions right now.”
His mouth twitched. “I’ve seen evidence both ways.”
She gave him a look.
He smoothed his thumb over her shoulder, his expression sobering. “We don’t have to decide tonight.”
Hailey let out a breath she had not realized she was holding.
“No?”
“No.” He leaned in and kissed her forehead. “Tonight, you stay present.”
Her chest ached.
He had no idea how unfair that was.
Or maybe he did.
Hailey shifted closer, sliding one leg over his beneath the sheet. “That was very smooth.”
“It was honest.”
“Still worse.”
He smiled against her hair.
Outside, the waves rolled in and out, patient and endless.
Inside, Hailey let herself exist in the quiet aftermath of choice.
Not Vice President Greenwood.
Not crisis manager.
Not the woman who fixed everyone else before herself.
Just Hailey.
Warm.
Wanted.
Held.
Present.
Sometime later, Tyler reached for her again, and she went willingly, meeting him in the dark with no sharp words left to hide behind.
The second time was slower. Less frantic.
More revealing. He kissed her like he had all night to memorize her, and Hailey touched him like she was learning the shape of something she had not known she needed.
When sleep finally pulled at her, she was tucked against him, one hand resting over his heart.
Her phone sat silent in the living room.
Her laptop remained closed on the desk.
And for the first time in longer than she could remember, Hailey Greenwood fell asleep without wondering who might need her before morning.