Chapter 7
SEVEN
Amelia
By the time Friday night rolls around, I feel like I’ve lived a hundred hours in five days.
My apartment is quiet when I get ready, music playing softly while I trade buttoned blouses for something that actually makes me feel like me.
A black sexy dress that cuts low in the back and shows just enough cleavage to feel sexy.
I let my hair fall loose down my back, the weight of the week finally lifting as I swipe on lipstick and slip into heels.
One week.
My first full week as an intern.
And I survived it.
“Drink,” my friend Roxy says the second I slide into a booth at the bar, already pushing a cocktail toward me. “You look like you’ve been carrying the weight of the world.”
I laugh, lifting the glass. “I kind of have.”
We clink drinks, the first sip cold and sharp, loosening something tight in my chest. The bar is packed. Friday-night energy buzzing through the room, music thumping, bodies pressed together on the dance floor.
After that first session with Wilder, he never came back.
Susan tried. I tried. Texts went unanswered or answered with excuses like practice running late, family in town, or schedule conflicts. Always something. I told myself not to take it personally, that grief doesn’t move on a timeline.
Still, it lingered.
But the rest of the week? It was good. More than good.
I sat in on sessions. Led a few myself. Helped Wrangler Woodard, the rookie, talk through pregame anxiety. Watched Asher Collins, a veteran second baseman, leave my office standing taller than when he walked in.
I belonged here.
And I was exhausted.
“So,” Roxy says, leaning in close so I can hear her over the music, “are there any hot athletes involved in this new job of yours?”
I groan. “Don’t.”
She grins wickedly. “Oh, there are.”
I shake my head, laughing despite myself. “It’s complicated.”
“It always is.”
A couple more drinks in, and the dance floor is calling. We let the music pull us in, moving with the crowd, laughter spilling out of me in a way it hasn’t in months.
It feels good to let my hair down.
To stop being careful.
To just exist without thinking three steps ahead.
Roxy spins me around, shouting, “See? You needed this!”
She’s right.
For the first time all week, I’m not thinking about locker rooms or therapy sessions or a grieving pitcher who vanished as soon as he cracked open.
I’m just having fun.
And I didn’t realize how badly I needed that until now.
The music is loud enough that I feel it in my ribs, the bass matching the rhythm of my heartbeat. Roxy and I are laughing, moving together, sweat and lights and noise blending into something reckless and freeing.
Then I feel it.
Warmth at my back. Solid. Male.
A voice drops low near my ear.
“Damn, Doc, you look hot.”
My breath stutters before I can stop it.
I know that voice.
I know it too well.
The compliment hits me right in the chest. Unwanted and intoxicating all at once, and my first instinct is to pull away. Instead, I spin around, the hem of my dress flaring just enough to remind me I’m not wearing my usual armor tonight.
“Wilder,” I say, trying and failing to sound unaffected. “I see you have time to go out.”
His eyes flick over me, slow and unapologetic, before he lifts his beer and takes a long pull. When he grins, it’s lazy. Dangerous.
“Come on, Doc,” he says. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” I ask, though I already know.
I’ve stopped dancing now. Roxy is closer to my side, her presence grounding but watchful, like she senses the shift.
“Slip right back into thinking we’re sitting in a stuffy office,” he says. “We’re out having fun.” His grin widens. “You do know what fun is, don’t you?”
He laughs, and something in me bristles.
Part embarrassment.
Part irritation.
I straighten, lifting my chin. “Of course I do.”
“Good,” he murmurs.
He steps too close and suddenly I’m acutely aware of everything. The heat of his body. The faint scent of beer and something distinctly him. Clean. Warm. Familiar in a way it shouldn’t be.
“Dance with me, Doc,” he whispers.
His hands settle on my hips before I can stop him.
It’s wrong.
So wrong.
Every ethical line I’ve ever been taught is flashing red in my head. This is my patient. A man I’m supposed to help. Not want. Not crave. Not let touch me like this.
But it’s been so long since I’ve felt strong, steady, certain hands like these. Hands that make the rest of the world blur at the edges.
I hate myself for it, but my body betrays me.
I step into him.
His fingers tighten instantly, grip firm like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he loosens it.
“Fuck, Doc,” he hisses against my ear.
My heart is racing. My head is screaming. And somewhere beneath all of it, this dangerous game feels like something I want to play.
The music wraps around us, heavy and slow now, the lights dimmer, the crowd tighter. Wilder’s body moves with mine like it’s instinct. Like he’s done this a thousand times, like he knows exactly where to touch without asking.
His hands slide at my hips, not crude, not rushed. Possessive. Familiar in a way that makes my stomach flip. My fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt at his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath.
“This isn’t very professional, Doc,” he murmurs, lips close enough that I feel the words more than hear them.
“You started it,” I shoot back, though there’s no real bite behind it.
His laugh is low, rough. “You didn’t stop me.”
He’s right, and that truth burns.
I tilt my head, meeting his gaze. His eyes are glassed over, dark and heavy with alcohol and something else. Something raw. Unfiltered. The mask he wears so easily is cracked wide open, and I see too much of him in that moment.
This is wrong.
I know it.
I feel it.
I open my mouth to say something, to pull away, to be the responsible one.
But he lets go first.
It’s sudden. Sharp. Like I’ve burned him.
His hands drop from my hips, and he takes a step back, dragging a hand through his hair like he needs distance to breathe.
Before I can even process it, he’s staring off behind me.
“Wild! I’ve been looking for you.”
The voice is female. Bright. Familiar in a way that tells me this isn’t new.
The spell shatters.
I step back instinctively, heat flooding my face. Humiliation crashing into anger so fast it makes my head spin. How could I let myself forget who he is? What he does? How easily this comes to him?
I should know better.
I do know better.
The woman slides up beside him, hand curling into his arm like it belongs there. Wilder’s eyes flick from her back to me.
And there it is.
Sadness.
I don’t know if it’s grief. Or regret. Or alcohol-fueled confusion. Maybe all three.
I don’t care.
I cross my arms over my chest, armor snapping back into place.
“Good night, Wilder,” I say coolly. “See you Monday morning.”
His jaw tightens.
“First fucking thing,” I add.
Then I turn and walk away with my heels steady and spine straight. My heart pounding with everything I shouldn’t be feeling.
Anger.
Disappointment.
And a pull I don’t want to name.
Because no matter how good it felt, no matter how real it seemed for a few dangerous minutes, this is a game I can’t afford to play.
Not ethically or emotionally.
My scars might not be as visible as his, but they can be ripped wide open easily.