Chapter 18
Waking up next to a cold wall after sleeping beside her for almost a week feels wrong, but I needed some space to think, which meant climbing into one of the hall bunks instead of into the bed next to her.
I could hardly focus on the conversation at dinner last night, but my friends seemed to believe me when I said it was because of what happened back at the arena.
It wasn’t a complete lie. The altercation with Grady was part of the reason, and not in a small way, but Sloane’s admission stirred something in me.
She’s a journalist, Savannah said that first night outside of my parents’ house. Getting on the inside with someone in EWE…that could make someone’s entire career.
Gaining access to the inner workings of Elite Wrestling Entertainment is a feat that many journalists have tried and failed to accomplish.
They aren’t allowed at headquarters unless invited by one of the Raffertys or Noah.
It’s been an unwritten rule for as long as I’ve worked at the company: unless it’s a corporate-scheduled interview, you don’t talk to the press.
It’s why so many people think there is some big secret about what goes on behind the scenes, when it’s not as scandalous as they seem to think it is.
Actually, it might be written somewhere—I wouldn’t be surprised if it is—but the point still stands: Watch what you say in front of the media, and depending on the type of interview (kayfabe or out-of-character), you should always be prepared to pivot away from certain topics.
For example, my personal favorite: “Isn’t it fake?
” or “Did (insert the name of any Rafferty) really do (insert some outlandish scenario) backstage?”
For the most part, I don’t think anyone has malicious intent in their questions, but for the sake of the company and our livelihoods, I understand that even one bad seed can ruin it for the rest.
The smell of coffee wafts through the curtain on my right, beckoning me from my bunk.
With every crack and creak my body makes, I regret my choice of sleeping arrangement last night.
These are not as comfortable as I remember them being ten years ago.
I roll my shoulders and crane my neck from side to side, relieving some of the tension built up in my muscles, but I know it won’t all disappear until after I have a conversation with the woman standing at the other end of the bus.
Her back is to me as she watches an early morning talk show. As I suspected, there’s fresh coffee in the pot, but I’m surprised to see her with a cup of it in her hands. We don’t have creamer or sugar on the bus, which means…“Are you drinking black coffee?”
Sloane jumps, turning around with a hand against her chest. “How long have you been standing there?”
“About a minute,” I say, pulling another mug from the cupboard. “When did you get up? I didn’t hear you leave the bedroom.”
“About ten minutes ago.” Her feet remain glued to the same spot as she lifts the mug to her lips. “Did you sleep okay?”
“No.” I bring my own mug to my lips, breathing in the nutty aroma before taking a long drink. “To be completely honest with you, I slept like shit.”
She sighs. “Bennett—”
“Sloane, why didn’t you tell me?” I ask, rubbing my eyes.
Having this conversation is not how I wanted to start the morning.
Today was supposed to be a good day—a great day.
Today was supposed to be the day I introduced Sloane to the legacy of EWE and hopefully helped her understand my love for it a little more.
But now…I don’t know if she will walk through those doors as my girlfriend, interested in it because she’s trying to understand this part of my life, or as a sports journalist, looking for some story.
“Because of how you’ve reacted,” Sloane says.
Her voice is matter-of-fact but soft, more controlled than it was last night.
She’s put a barrier up between us, maintaining a comfortable distance in case things go south.
“You immediately jumped to the conclusion that because I’ve written about sports in the past, I must be writing some story about you.
That couldn’t be further from the truth.
I’m not writing a story about you, or Brooks, or Brody, or any of your friends. ”
“If you had told me, we could’ve had a conversation, like we are right now—”
“Yeah, we’re having a conversation after you freaked out last night.”
“I didn’t freak.”
Her brow cocks. “You freaked, and everyone at dinner noticed something was up.”
“They think it was because of what happened with Grady. I didn’t tell them anything about this.
” Even if I wanted to, even if I had come close to telling Brooks and Brody when it was just the three of us waiting outside for the girls.
Ultimately, I decided not to because I don’t want them to think this is another Harper situation.
Sloane is not Harper. That much was evident by her concern for my well-being last night.
That’s why we’re in this predicament, because she was worried about me, and I got upset with her for it. What kind of asshole does that make me?
Leaving my coffee on the counter, I reach for hers and place it on the table. A smile tugs on my lips when I see the dark liquid, not an ounce of cream or sugar in sight. Her gaze is locked on something to my side, but I grip her chin, pulling her eyes to mine. “Do you want this?” I ask.
Sloane looks taken aback. “What?”
“Do you want this? Us?” I ask again. “Do you want me? Because if you’re having second thoughts, you need to tell me now.”
She doesn’t answer, not verbally. Her eyes drop to the floor, and back, her throat contracts with a tight swallow, and her mouth opens and closes before she bites down on her bottom lip.
My chest aches when she still doesn’t answer, and for me, it’s confirmation enough. “Maybe we rushed this, or I did. I shouldn’t have pushed you to come on the road. You don’t even know me. I can take you home—”
“No, I don’t want that,” Sloane cuts me off, grabbing my face.
“Then what do you want, Sloane?”
Her eyes glaze over with tears, and she tries to blink them away, but they refuse to retreat. She takes a shaky breath and closes her eyes before finally meeting my gaze. “You.”