15. Sloane
Chapter fifteen
Sloane
“You’re staring again.”
His voice is rough with sleep. Low. Warm. Right against my ear.
I freeze.
“I’m not staring,” I say automatically.
A pause.
“Liar,” Colby murmurs.
I exhale slowly and shift beneath the covers, the sheet whispering against my skin. His arm tightens around my waist, heavy and careless in the way only someone fully relaxed can manage. Like he doesn’t realize what he’s doing. Or who he’s doing it with.
That’s the problem.
This is dangerous.
Not because of the sex.
Because it feels safe.
I stare at the pale slice of morning light cutting across his bedroom wall. Everything is quiet. No phones buzzing. No alarms. No pressure. Just the slow rise and fall of his chest behind me.
I shouldn’t still be here.
I shouldn’t like how easily my body fits against his.
I shouldn’t feel… settled.
“Relax,” he says softly, thumb brushing my hip like it’s unconscious. “I’m not kicking you out.”
“That’s not what I was thinking,” I say.
“Mmhmm.”
I roll my head back slightly. “You don’t know what I was thinking.”
He hums. “I know that face. It’s the same one you made when Dex started singing like he was auditioning for American Idol.”
A laugh slips out before I can stop it.
“That was not singing,” I say. “That was a cry for help.”
He smiles into my hair. I can feel it. “You handled it like a pro.”
“I shut him down in under ten seconds.”
“You did,” he agrees. “The entire table looked impressed. Slightly afraid, too.”
“Good.” I pause. “As they should.”
He chuckles, warm breath ghosting my neck.
The easy humor lingers. Soft. Comfortable.
That’s what gets me.
This doesn’t feel like the morning after a hookup.
It feels like waking up with someone.
And that unsettles me far more than if he’d already rolled away.
I shift again, my fingers tracing an idle line across his forearm. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t tense. Just lets me.
“That pin idea was genius, by the way,” I say.
“Which one?”
“‘I Survived Dinner With the Outlaws.’”
He laughs. “Mason’s already planning merch.”
“I would absolutely wear it.”
“Careful,” he says. “They’ll take that as encouragement.”
“I think they already have.”
Silence settles again. Not awkward. Weighted.
He shifts slightly behind me, his voice quieter when he speaks again.
“You don’t let people see much.”
Not a question.
Not an accusation.
Just an observation.
My instinct is to deflect.
Make a joke.
Say something clever.
Instead, I stare at the wall and say nothing.
For a second.
Then another.
“I let them see what’s useful,” I say finally.
He doesn’t push.
Doesn’t say a word.
So I keep going.
“I used to think being open meant being honest,” I say. “Turns out, it mostly just meant being available for commentary.”
He exhales slowly behind me.
“I dated someone once, a professional hockey player, actually,” I continue, choosing my words carefully. “Public-facing. Talented. Charismatic. Everyone loved him.”
I swallow.
“And somewhere along the way, I stopped being a person and started being… a storyline.”
He stays still.
Listening.
“Everyone had opinions,” I say. “What I should do. Who I should be. How I should react. I lost control of my own narrative.”
My throat tightens, but I keep my voice even.
“So I learned control is the only thing that keeps me steady.”
He doesn’t rush in with reassurance.
Doesn’t curse the guy.
Doesn’t tell me I deserved better.
He just says, quietly, “That makes sense.”
The simplicity of it hits harder than sympathy ever could.
I blink.
“That’s it?” I ask.
“That’s it,” he says. “You figured out how to protect yourself. Seems smart to me.”
My upper body feels strange. Full. Tight.
We lie there in this moment of honesty.
Then I clear my throat.
“There’s more,” I say quietly. “About him.”
Colby doesn’t rush me. Doesn’t say anything. Just waits.
“He was really good at compartmentalizing,” I continue. “At least, that’s what I told myself at first. Missed calls had explanations. Late nights had reasons. I kept believing the version of him he showed me when cameras were around.”
I swallow.
“But the lies stacked up. Little ones first. Then bigger ones. Stories that didn’t quite line up. Teammates who suddenly wouldn’t meet my eyes.”
My fingers curl into the sheet.
“And when I finally found out about the cheating, it wasn’t even from him. It was a headline. A blurry photo. Someone else tagging me in it like they were doing me a favor.”
Colby lets out a quiet breath.
“That’s brutal,” he says.
“I kept waiting for him to be honest,” I admit. “To choose me privately the way he always did publicly. Instead, he apologized in statements. Through his agent. Through PR.”
I shake my head. “I realized I’d been dating a brand, not a person.”
Colby is quiet for a moment, then asks gently, “Did he ever actually own it?”
I give a small, humorless laugh. “Only when it benefited him.”
His jaw tightens.
“And that’s when I decided I wouldn’t let anyone else tell my story for me again,” I say. “No more surprises. No more finding out who I am through someone else’s mess.”
He’s silent for a little longer.
Then he says, flat and certain, “That guy was an idiot.”
The way he says it, simple and unquestioning, makes my chest ache.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
Colby shifts behind me, then clears his throat. “For the record,” he says carefully, “if I ever apologize through an agent, you have full permission to throw something at me.”
I snort before I can stop myself.
“Noted,” I say. “What if it’s a strongly worded email?”
“Worse,” he says solemnly. “Definitely throw something then.”
He shifts behind me and adds, lighter now, “You want coffee? I make a decent cup. Nothing fancy, but it’s reliable.”
I smile despite myself. “I could definitely use coffee after last night interfering with my ability to sleep.”
He nudges my hip gently. “Worth it, though,” he adds, voice low and amused. “Lack of sleep and all.”
“Definitely worth it,” I say, glancing pointedly at the bed. “And I’m pretty sure caffeine is now medically necessary to function today.”
“Kitchen’s this way. Let’s get up before Dex texts me something unhinged. How do you like your coffee?”
"Black."
"Got it."
I slide out from under the covers and reach for the shirt on the floor beside the bed. His shirt. The one he peeled off without thinking hours ago.
It’s soft from wear and smells faintly like him when I pull it over my head. It hangs loose on me, brushing my thighs, comfortable in a way that feels far too intimate for someone who keeps insisting this was just one night.
Colby watches me with an expression I can’t quite read.
I pretend not to notice and follow him toward the kitchen.
“By the way, my artist, Raina, has a concert coming up,” I say.
He shifts slightly so he can see my face. “Yeah?”
“Big one, in Nashville” I admit. “High visibility. If it goes well, it could change everything for her.”
I hear the pride in my own voice and don’t bother hiding it.
“I’ve planned every detail,” I continue. “Timing. Lighting. Crowd energy. I even have contingency schedules for the contingencies.”
He smiles. “Of course you do.”
“I have tickets for you,” I add quickly. Then, too quickly, "You don’t have to come. It’s probably not your scene.”
He doesn’t even pause.
“Are you kidding?” he says. “Who doesn’t like music, especially in this town? As long as it’s a night we don’t have a game and I’m in town, I’m there.”
I blink.
I hesitate, then add, “You should bring the guys too. I can get as many tickets as you need.”
He smiles instantly. “Careful,” he says. “That’s how you end up with eight large hockey players screaming lyrics they don’t know.”
“Honestly,” I say, deadpan, “that just sounds like excellent crowd engagement.”
“Cool, they’ll definitely be up for it.”
Warmth spreads through me.
Not butterflies.
Something steadier.
More dangerous.
Because this, him choosing my world without hesitation, feels like how things really start to matter.
Again, I have to tell myself this was one night.
That I’m still in control.
I sip my coffee, letting the warmth fill me, and try to ignore the quiet truth forming beneath it.
Control has never been the problem.
It’s what happens when I start wanting more.