Chapter 11
ELEVEN
Amelia
I’m waiting by the window when his headlights cut across the street, my heart jumping like I wasn’t already wound tight.
This is a terrible idea.
I know that. I’ve known it all day. And yet, excitement hums through me anyway. It’s sharp and electric and impossible to ignore. I’ve been fantasizing about him far more than I should. About his hands. His voice. The way he looks at me like he’s trying not to touch.
I grab my jacket, forcing myself to breathe, and step outside.
Wilder is leaning against his truck when I reach the curb, dark jeans hugging his thighs, black T-shirt stretched across a chest that looks like it was made to ruin good decisions. He straightens when he sees me, eyes lighting in a way that makes my stomach flip.
“Doc,” he says, slow and appreciative. “You look…damn.”
I roll my eyes, even as heat creeps up my neck. “You clean up pretty well yourself.”
He grins, opening the passenger door for me. “Careful. You keep talking like that and I might get the wrong idea.”
We’re flirting. Openly. Boldly. And it feels dangerously good.
The drive is quiet at first, the city thinning as we get closer to the stadium. I can feel him working through something beside me. His tight jaw and grip firm on the wheel.
“You okay?” I ask softly.
He exhales. “Yeah. Just thinking.”
“You don’t have to do this tonight,” I remind him. “We can turn around.”
He shakes his head. “No. I need this. I just—” He swallows. “I don’t want to lose it once I’m out there.”
“You won’t,” I say, reaching over without thinking.
My hand lands on his forearm.
He stills.
Then he covers my hand with his own, squeezing gently. “Thank you.”
The simple touch sends a rush through me I have no business feeling.
We park far from the main entrance and slip out quietly, moving through shadows and side gates like kids sneaking out after curfew. When we finally step onto the field, he lets out a breath that sounds like it’s been trapped in his chest for years.
“This place…” he murmurs.
I smile softly. “I’ll give you a minute.”
I start to step back, but his hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around mine.
“Stay,” he says. Not commanding. Not pleading. Just honest.
I stay.
We walk together toward the pitcher’s mound, the grass cool beneath our feet. He stops, shoulders squaring, eyes glossy under the stadium lights.
“He was a son of a bitch,” Wilder says suddenly. “Drank too much. Didn’t give a shit about me. He mourned my mother instead of living with me.” His jaw tightens. “Everything good I am is despite him.”
I squeeze his hand, my chest aching.
“He taught me how to play ball,” he continues. “It was the only time he spent with me, and I fucking reveled in it. I always wanted more. I hated him.” His voice breaks. “But I love that because of him, I’m doing what I love.”
Tears blur my vision.
“I hope he’s at peace with my mom,” he finishes. “And I hope he knows I loved him, even when he treated me like shit.”
I wipe at my cheeks, then lace my fingers tighter with his. “He knows, Wilder. He might not have been able to say it but he knew.”
He nods once, stepping forward, letting go of my hand only long enough to open the container. The ashes scatter gently over the mound, carried by a quiet breeze.
When he turns back to me, there’s relief in his eyes and something else. Something deep. Intimate.
He steps close, close enough that I can feel his warmth, his breath.
For a moment, the world holds still.
The stadium feels different now. It’s quiet, reverent, like it’s holding its breath with us.
Wilder doesn’t take me back the way we came.
Instead, he leads me through a narrow corridor tucked behind the dugout, then up a short flight of stairs most people would never notice.
A door creaks open, and suddenly we’re standing in a small, glass-fronted room that overlooks the field from an angle few ever see.
“This,” he says softly, “is my place.”
It’s simple. A couple of chairs. Old photos taped to the wall. A view of the diamond that makes my chest tighten.
“Not many people know about it,” he adds. “I come here when I need to think. Or not think.”
I turn to him. He’s watching me, not the field. Me.
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he says, the words raw, unpolished. “I’ve tried.”
I shake my head slightly, grounding myself. “Wilder.”
He nods once. “I know, but I don’t think it’s possible to stop.”
I draw in a slow breath. “You feel connected because I help you talk. Because I help you feel. That happens. It’s normal.”
He lets out a quiet laugh, the sound edged with disbelief. “I’ve never wanted to push Susan against a wall and kiss her breathless.”
My heart kicks hard against my ribs.
His eyes lock with mine as he takes a step closer. Then another. The space between us disappears, charged and humming, every nerve ending awake.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispers.
I want to. I need to. Every rule I’ve ever learned is screaming at me.
But the words won’t come.
His mouth crashes into mine.
The kiss is everything. It’s deep, urgent, consuming. Not careful. Not restrained. His hands grip me tight like he’s afraid I’ll vanish, and I cling to him just as fiercely, lost in the intensity of it. It’s exciting and terrifying and achingly real.
When he pulls back, his breath is ragged. He shakes his head once, like he’s trying to regain control.
“You should’ve stopped me, Doc,” he says quietly. “Because now I’m going to want more.”
My heart is pounding so hard I’m afraid he can hear it.
The echo of his words, I’m going to want more, reverberates through me, tangling with everything I know I should do and everything my body is screaming for me not to.
I step back, just enough to breathe.
Just enough to think.
“This is a terrible idea,” I say, forcing the words out even as my hands curl into fists at my sides. “We can’t do this.”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt.
“If things were different,” I continue, my voice shaking despite my effort to steady it, “maybe this could be something. But they’re not. I’m an intern, Wilder. I’m here to prove myself. To build a career.” I swallow. “And you’re Kamden’s best friend for fuck’s sake.”
The words hurt coming out of my mouth, but they’re true.
“You think I don’t know all that?” he fires back quietly. “You think I haven’t told myself over and over what a horrible idea this is?” His eyes burn into mine. “I can’t stop it, Amelia. I can’t help how I feel about you.”
My chest tightens. “Wilder, stop. That fight would cost us everything. My internship. Your friendship with Kamden. Your career. My future.”
“Then we don’t tell anyone,” he says instantly. “Not until we know what this is.”
He reaches for me, pulling me against him, his arms strong and certain around my back. The contact sends heat racing through me, betraying every ounce of logic I have left.
“Some things are worth the risk,” he murmurs.
I shake my head, even as my body leans into his. “It’s a dangerous game. Sneaking around never ends well. Someone always gets hurt. You always get caught.”
A slow, knowing smile curves his mouth. “That’s because you haven’t done it right.”
The way he says it, with confidence makes it painfully clear he isn’t only talking about secrecy.
My breath catches.
His lips brush against mine, barely there, and my entire body lights up like it’s been waiting for this moment.
“Tell me you don’t feel what I feel,” he whispers, forehead resting against mine, “and I’ll walk away.”
I open my mouth.
Nothing comes out.
I bite my lip, my pulse roaring in my ears, every scar and every promise I ever made to myself screaming at once.
He exhales softly. “That’s what I thought.”
Then he kisses me again. Slower this time, devastating, like he knows exactly what it costs me to stay. I melt into him, my resistance crumbling under the weight of everything I feel for him.
I give in.
Fully aware that whatever this becomes, whatever we’re risking, keeping it a secret is almost guaranteed to end badly.
And yet, I don’t pull away.
Because sometimes knowing the ending doesn’t stop you from wanting the story.