Chapter 9
NINE
Amelia
My phone buzzes on the coffee table, the sound sharp in the quiet of my apartment.
I glance at the screen and my stomach flips.
Wilder.
For a second, I just stare at it. I tell myself it’s nothing. That I’m calm. That this doesn’t matter.
I answer anyway.
“Hello?”
Silence.
“Wilder?” I say, sitting up straighter.
He breathes out slowly, then clears his throat. “This was a mistake.”
My heart stutters. “Calling me?”
He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t hang up either.
Something tightens in my chest.
“Is something wrong?” I ask gently.
I already know the answer is yes. I just don’t know what yet.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “Can we talk somewhere?”
The desperation in his voice wipes away every ethical reminder I’ve been clinging to.
“Absolutely,” I say without hesitation. “Where?”
A pause. Then, quieter, “Look, I don’t need everyone knowing, so, I could come to your place? If that’s cool?”
It’s not.
Not ethically. Not emotionally. Not in any way that ends cleanly.
But I hear how raw he sounds. How close to the edge.
“Okay,” I say. “Yeah. That’s fine.”
I text him my address and immediately regret how fast my pulse is racing.
The second I hang up, I’m moving. Kicking off my sweats, pulling on jeans and a soft sweater, fixing my hair, dabbing on makeup like it matters. Like he matters.
This is stupid, I tell myself.
So stupid.
And yet, ten minutes later, I’m smoothing my sweater again when there’s a knock at the door.
I open it.
He steps inside, broad shoulders filling my doorway, eyes scanning the space like he’s trying to get familiar with my apartment.
“This is a really nice place,” he says quietly.
I glance around at the neutral walls broken up by framed photos full of color, bookshelves that sag under too many paperbacks, my navy couch worn soft from years of curling up on it after long days.
“I didn’t expect this,” he adds.
“What did you expect?” I ask.
He shrugs, walking farther in. “I don’t know. Something more clinical. Cold, I guess.”
The words sting more than they should.
“Is that how you see me?” I ask. “Clinical and cold?”
He spins around instantly. “No. Hell no.”
He drags a hand through his hair, frustration etched into every line of his face. “It’s just I don’t know anything about you. You’re as good at locking yourself up as I am.”
The irony nearly takes my breath away.
“You have no idea how right you are,” I murmur.
I gesture toward the couch. “But we aren’t here to talk about me. What’s wrong?”
He sits heavily, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it might crack open and swallow him.
“The ashes,” he says quietly.
I sit beside him, close but not touching.
“They’re in my closet,” he continues. “I thought I could just deal with it later. But it feels like they’re everywhere now. Like I can’t breathe around them.”
His voice roughens. “I’m pissed. And I don’t even know who I’m pissed at.”
I listen. Really listen. No interruptions. No fixing.
When he finally trails off, I’m still there. Steady, present.
And for the first time since he walked in, his shoulders drop just a little.
Whatever line I crossed by letting him into my home, it doesn’t feel like a mistake.
It feels like exactly where he needed to be.
I shift slightly on the couch, angling my body toward him without really meaning to. He’s close enough now that I can feel the heat rolling off him, the tension vibrating just under his skin.
“When you think about the ashes,” I ask gently, “what do you want to do with them?”
He doesn’t answer right away. His jaw works, eyes fixed on some invisible point ahead of us.
“I want to scatter them,” he finally says. “At Rebel Field.”
My brows lift before I can stop myself. “That’s definitely not allowed.”
“I know,” he says quickly, like he’s braced for judgment. “It’s stupid. Risky. But it’s where he watched me play. Where he was proud of me, even if he didn’t say it.”
The desperation in his voice cracks something open in my chest.
I don’t tell him it’s impractical. Or unethical. Or that there are rules for a reason.
Instead, I smile.
“I’ll help you,” I say simply.
He blinks. Then lets out a surprised laugh. “I didn’t take you for a rule breaker, Doc.”
I shrug, laughing softly. “You’re only breaking the rules if you get caught.”
He shakes his head, amusement flickering across his grief. “Well damn. I’m liking you more and more.”
The heaviness eases after that, like we’ve shifted into a different gear without acknowledging it. We start talking. Not therapist and patient, not intern and player, just two people sitting on a couch late at night.
“What was it like for you growing up?” he asks.
“Boring and safe to anyone who wasn’t really paying attention. I had my fun. Got into things I shouldn’t have. Probably not the version Kamden told you.”
He laughs. “His stories make it sound like you were a saint.”
I snort. “Kamden didn’t always know what I was up to.”
His brow arches. “So you liked the feeling of something dangerous? Something exciting?”
The word dangerous tightens my chest.
For a split second, I’m sixteen again. Dark field. Screaming.
“I was a kid,” I say evenly. “I’m not a kid anymore.”
He studies me, something thoughtful passing through his eyes. “Doing something that gets your blood pumping, gets you excited, that doesn’t stop when you grow up,” he says quietly. “I feel it every time I step onto the mound.”
I swallow. “Is that the only time?”
His gaze drops. Slow. Intentional.
No shame. No apology.
Heat floods my body.
“No,” he says. “It’s definitely not.”
I know I shouldn’t ask. I know exactly how thin the ice is beneath us.
But my heart is racing, my pulse loud in my ears, and I don’t look away.
“What else gets you excited, Wilder?” I ask.
He shifts closer, voice low, unguarded. “Being with a beautiful woman. Touching her. Tasting her. Making her moan my name.”
My breath stutters. My body reacts before my brain can catch up, awareness pooling low and dangerous.
He holds my gaze, unwavering.
“What about you, Doc?” he asks softly. “What gets you excited?”
And suddenly, the room feels very, very small.
I swallow, my pulse loud in my ears, the question hanging between us like a challenge I’m not sure I should accept.
But I answer anyway.
“Being seen,” I say quietly. “Not for what I do. Not for what I’m supposed to be. Just me.”
His expression softens instantly, something raw and reverent flickering across his face.
“And being wanted,” I add before I can stop myself. “By someone who knows they shouldn’t, but does anyway.”
The air thickens.
Neither of us moves. Neither of us breathes quite right.
He leans in just enough that I can feel him. Heat, gravity, restraint pulled tight like a wire. His hand lifts, stopping just short of touching my arm, like he’s testing himself.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, low and sincere. No swagger. No game.
The word lands deep, dangerous in the way it makes my chest ache.
I stand abruptly, needing distance before I do something I won’t be able to undo. “Wilder,” I say softly, steadying myself, “you need to go.”
His jaw tightens. Not angry, just controlled. “Yeah,” he agrees. “I know.”
He rises too, the space between us suddenly charged with everything we’re not doing. He reaches for his jacket, then pauses.
“We’ll make plans for the ashes,” he says.
I nod. “We will.”
At the door, he hesitates, then steps closer. His hand comes up, warm and careful, and he presses a kiss to my cheek. It lingers, longer than it should. His breath brushing my skin as he pulls back.
“Thank you,” he murmurs. “For being here.”
The door closes behind him, leaving my apartment impossibly quiet.
I stand there for a long moment, heart racing, knowing just how close I came to inviting him into my bedroom.
And knowing, without a doubt, that this is only the beginning.