Chapter 8
EIGHT
Wild
Monday morning feels like punishment.
The stadium is quieter than usual, the kind of calm that crawls under your skin and leaves too much room to think. My head’s painfully clear, and that somehow makes everything worse. No haze. No buffer. Just memory.
Her dress.
Her voice.
The way she looked at me like I disappointed her.
Regret sits heavy in my chest as I head down the hallway toward Susan’s office. I expect to see her door open, to hear her calm voice already mid-sentence, grounding the space like she always does.
Instead, when I step inside, it’s just Amelia.
She’s seated at the small table, tablet in front of her, coffee untouched at her side. Hair pulled back. Blazer on. All sharp edges and professionalism. If Friday night was temptation, this is the consequence.
She looks up when she hears me.
No smile.
No warmth.
Just steady eyes and composure that makes my stomach drop.
“Morning,” she says evenly.
I stop short. “Uh, where’s Susan?”
“She’s running late,” Amelia replies. “She asked me to start with you.”
Fuck.
Every instinct in me screams to turn around, to make some excuse, to claim practice or a meeting, or literally anything. But I don’t. I stay planted in the doorway like an idiot because running has been my go-to lately, and it hasn’t gotten me anywhere.
“Amelia,” I say, clearing my throat. “About Friday—”
She lifts a hand. Not harsh. Just firm. “We’re not talking about that right now.”
That hurts more than if she’d snapped at me.
I step fully into the room, the door clicking shut behind me, and the sound feels final. “I didn’t mean to put you in that position.”
“I know,” she says.
“You shouldn’t have had to deal with that,” I add, the words rough. “I crossed a line.”
She studies me for a long second, like she’s deciding how much of me she can handle today.
“Yes,” she says simply. “You did.”
No anger.
No dramatics.
Just truth.
My jaw tightens. “I’m sorry.”
She nods once, accepting it without comment, then gestures to the chair across from her. “Sit.”
I do.
The silence stretches, thick with everything we’re not saying. She taps her tablet, professional again, controlled, and I hate that I’m the reason she has to be.
“How have you been sleeping?” she asks.
I huff a quiet laugh. “You already know the answer to that.”
“Humor me.”
“Like shit,” I admit. “Couple hours a night. If that.”
She nods, making a note. “Drinking?”
“Not since Friday.”
Her eyes flick up briefly, assessing. “And how are you feeling about Friday?”
There it is.
I swallow hard. “Ashamed,” I say honestly. “Angry at myself. And—” I hesitate. “Worried I screwed this up.”
“This?” she asks.
I meet her gaze. “You. The work. Whatever this is supposed to be.”
Something soft flickers across her face, but is gone almost as fast as it appears.
“Wilder,” she says quietly, “I need to be very clear.”
I brace myself.
“What happened Friday doesn’t define you,” she continues. “But it does mean we need boundaries. Clear ones.”
“I get that,” I say quickly. “I won’t put you in that position again.”
“I believe you,” she replies.
That shouldn’t feel like a gift but it does.
She leans back slightly, professional mask firmly in place. “We can still work together. If, and only if, you’re willing to actually show up.”
I nod. “I am.”
And I mean it.
She holds my gaze for another moment, like she’s weighing something internal, then nods once. “Okay. Then let’s get to work.”
As she begins asking measured, steady questions again, I feel the regret settle into something else.
Resolve.
Because whatever happened Friday night doesn’t erase the fact that when I walked into this room, she didn’t turn me away.
And that makes me want to be better, whether I deserve it or not.
The session winds down quietly.
Not awkward. Not tense. Just solid. The kind of solid that leaves me feeling wrung out but steadier, like something finally shifted into place instead of cracking open.
Amelia sets her tablet aside. “That’s good for today.”
I nod, standing a little slower than usual, the chair scraping softly against the floor. My chest feels lighter than it has in days and heavier too, because awareness is a bitch.
Awareness of her.
Of Friday.
Of the line I crossed and the one she just redrew in ink.
I don’t want to walk out without saying something. Doing something. The apology sitting in my chest feels unfinished.
“Amelia,” I say, stopping near the door.
She looks up, already guarded. Professional.
“I owe you,” I say. “For Friday. For putting you in that position.”
“You apologized,” she replies calmly. “And I accepted it.”
“I know,” I say. “But I’d like to do more than that.”
Her brows knit slightly. “Like what?”
My pulse kicks up. I know exactly what I’m about to say, and I know it’s crossing the line she just drew. I say it anyway.
“Let me take you to dinner,” I say. “One night. As an apology.”
Silence.
Her expression shifts. Not angry. Not flattered. Careful.
“Wilder,” she says slowly, “we just discussed this. That’s crossing the line.”
I exhale, rubbing the back of my neck. “We can’t just be friends?” I ask, hating how hopeful I sound. “You know, give me a chance to prove I’m not always an asshole.”
For a split second, I see it.
A small smile tugs at her lips.
Then it’s gone.
“I’m sorry,” she says gently. “No.”
The rejection lands clean and sharp. I don’t love it, but I get it. Hell, I respect it.
I nod once. “Okay.”
I don’t argue. Don’t push. That wouldn’t be fair to her or smart.
“Thank you,” she adds quietly. “For understanding.”
I give her a crooked smile. “I’m learning.”
As I walk out, disappointment follows me, but so does something else.
Determination.
Because if there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that Amelia Bronwyn is already under my skin and getting her out won’t be easy.
Practice runs long, the sun dipping low by the time we finally jog off the field.
Sweat clings to my skin, my arm pleasantly sore, the familiar exhaustion settling into my bones.
The guys are loud around me, joking, shoving, reliving plays like we didn’t just spend three hours grinding them into muscle memory.
I walk beside Kamden, mits tucked under our arms.
“So,” he says casually, like he’s asking about the weather. “How you doing?”
I shrug. “I’m good.”
It’s automatic. Easy. The answer everyone expects.
He gives me a sideways look but doesn’t push. Kamden knows when to read the room. Evan and a couple of the guys peel off ahead of us, still arguing about who owes who dinner.
We hit the tunnel, our footsteps echoing.
“You ever spread the ashes?” Kamden asks, just as casually as before.
The question punches the air out of my chest.
I keep walking. Keep my pace steady.
Ashes.
My mind flashes back to the funeral parlor, sterile, too quiet. The director asking me questions I wasn’t ready to answer. Burial or cremation? Service or private viewing?
My mom died when I was a kid. No siblings. No one to lean on. It was all on me.
So I made the decision.
Cremation.
I signed the papers. Took the urn. Brought it home like it was just another box.
And then I shoved it in my closet.
Buried.
Hidden.
Like if I didn’t look at it, it wouldn’t be real.
Reality snaps back into focus as Kamden waits for my answer.
“I’ll take care of it,” I say. “Eventually.”
He nods, accepting it without judgment. “Whenever you’re ready.”
That night, my apartment feels too quiet.
I sit on the couch with a beer I don’t want, TV on but muted, the glow from the screen doing nothing to drown out the weight pressing in from all sides.
My eyes drift to the hallway.
To the closet door.
It feels like the ashes are everywhere suddenly. Filling the room. Sitting on my chest. I can’t breathe around them. Around what they represent.
Anger flares, sharp and sudden. At him. At myself. At the fact that the world didn’t stop when mine did.
Before I can think better of it, I grab my phone.
Scroll.
There.
Amelia.
My thumb hovers for half a second.
Then I hit call.