Chapter 23
TWENTY-THREE
Amelia
The conference room feels colder than it should.
Too bright. Too sterile. Too official.
League representatives sit on one side of the long table. Coach Carson beside them. Susan with her hands folded neatly in front of her tablet.
And across from them is Wilder and me.
He’s close enough that our knees brush under the table, but not touching otherwise. Professional. Controlled.
My pulse pounds anyway.
This isn’t a secret anymore.
This is us out loud.
The older league rep clears his throat. “We understand you both requested this meeting to clarify your positions.”
“Yes,” I say before Wilder can speak.
My voice is steady.
It surprises even me.
“We’re together,” I continue. “And we intend to stay together.”
Silence falls.
Coach Carson’s jaw tightens slightly, but he doesn’t interrupt.
The female league representative studies us carefully. “You understand the scrutiny that comes with that statement.”
“Yes,” Wilder says calmly beside me.
I glance at him.
He looks solid. Certain. Not reckless.
“I have already recused myself from Wilder’s sessions,” I say. “That arrangement will remain permanent.”
Susan nods once. “Another licensed professional has taken over his case.”
“And you will not attend any session involving Mr. Calloway,” the league rep confirms.
“I won’t,” I say firmly. “I will not evaluate him, document him, or participate in any confidential treatment involving him.”
“And if there is a concern involving him?”
“I will report it to Susan or another designated professional,” I reply without hesitation.
They exchange another look.
Coach Carson leans forward. “This can’t become a distraction.”
“It won’t,” Wilder says evenly.
The older rep turns to me. “Miss Bronwyn, you understand that if performance metrics decline, or if there are additional incidents, this decision will be revisited.”
“I understand,” I say. “But I would also like to note, like I previously said, that during the period in which Wilder and I were together, his performance improved. There were no behavioral violations. No missed obligations. No discipline issues.”
Wilder’s hand shifts slightly on the table, like he wants to reach for me but won’t.
“My personal relationship did not compromise my professional responsibilities,” I continue. “And I will not allow the narrative to imply that it did.”
The woman who sat in on my last meeting, tilts her head. “You are capable.”
“I am,” I reply. “Because I worked for this. I earned this internship. My career is not an accessory to his.”
Silence again.
Then Wilder speaks.
His voice is low but clear.
“I love her.”
Every head in the room turns toward him.
“This isn’t some fling,” he continues. “This isn’t reckless or impulsive. She makes me better. Not distracted. Better.”
I feel my throat tighten.
“If anyone thinks this is a liability,” he says, looking directly at the league rep, “then look at my numbers over the last month.”
Coach Carson’s brow furrows slightly.
“I’ve never been more focused,” Wilder says. “Never more disciplined. Because I have something real in my life.”
He turns slightly toward me, not fully, but enough that I feel the warmth of his conviction.
“I’m not choosing between baseball and Amelia,” he continues. “I’m choosing both. And I’m capable of doing that.”
The room goes quiet again.
“I will not jeopardize her career,” he says firmly. “If at any point you believe I am doing so, you can hold me accountable.”
My heart feels too big for my chest.
He’s not loud.
He’s not dramatic.
He’s steady.
Devoted.
The older rep exhales slowly.
“You are both aware that the optics remain sensitive.”
“Yes,” I say.
“And you are prepared to maintain strict separation between professional duties and private life.”
“Yes,” Wilder replies.
The female rep glances at Susan.
Susan nods carefully. “Amelia has demonstrated professionalism throughout this process. I have no concerns about her capability.”
Coach Carson leans back in his chair. “As long as the field stays clean, I don’t care what happens off it.”
A faint smile tugs at Wilder’s mouth.
The older rep closes his folder.
“Very well,” he says. “Conditional approval stands. Miss Bronwyn will remain with the Rebels in a modified capacity. Mr. Calloway will continue under alternative supervision. Any violation of separation terms will void this arrangement.”
I release a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
“Understood,” I say.
“Understood,” Wilder echoes.
The meeting adjourns.
Chairs scrape.
Papers shuffle.
As everyone begins to stand, Wilder finally turns fully toward me.
There’s pride in his eyes.
Not possessive.
Not territorial.
Proud.
“You were incredible in there,” he murmurs quietly.
“So were you,” I whisper back.
Coach Carson pauses at the door. “Keep it clean,” he says.
“Yes, Coach,” Wilder replies.
Susan lingers for just a second.
“I expect quarterly reports to remain impeccable,” she says to me.
“They will,” I assure her.
When the room finally empties, Wilder steps closer.
“We did it,” he says softly.
I nod.
“We fought.”
“And we won,” he adds.
Not because we broke rules.
Not because we demanded special treatment.
But because we stood up.
Together.
He brushes his knuckles lightly against mine.
No secrecy.
No shame.
Just us.
And for the first time since this began, loving him doesn’t feel like a risk or a curveball.
It feels like a choice.
One we’re both strong enough to stand behind.
The door to Wilder’s apartment barely closes before he has me against it.
It isn’t frantic.
It isn’t desperate.
It’s earned.
His mouth finds mine like he’s been holding back for days because he has. Because we both have. The kiss is deep and claiming, but not reckless. His hands slide to my waist, pulling me flush against him, and I feel everything.
Relief.
Desire.
Love.
“You were so damn strong today,” he murmurs against my lips.
“So were you,” I breathe.
He laughs softly, the sound vibrating through me, and then he kisses me again. Slower this time. Intentional. His fingers tangle in my hair as mine slip beneath the hem of his shirt, feeling the warm, solid planes of him beneath my palms.
This isn’t about hiding.
This isn’t about sneaking.
This is about choosing each other.
Over and over.
His hands slide down my hips, gripping firmly as he lifts me, and I wrap my legs around his waist instinctively. He carries me toward the couch, but we don’t make it. We barely make it to the wall before he presses me back against it again, kissing down my neck.
“I thought I lost you,” he admits against my skin.
“You didn’t,” I whisper, tilting my head to give him more access. “You never will.”
His breath catches at that.
His hands roam, exploring like he’s memorizing me all over again. When I tug his shirt over his head, he watches me with heat in his eyes like I’m the only thing in the world that exists.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he says, voice low.
“Show me,” I reply.
The air shifts.
Slower now.
More deliberate.
He walks us toward his bedroom, not breaking eye contact, not breaking the connection. There’s no rush to tear at clothing this time. Just hands sliding over skin, lips following the paths they’ve traced a hundred times before.
Every touch feels amplified.
Because we almost lost this.
When we finally reach the bed, he lowers me onto it gently like I’m something precious.
“You’re everything,” he says quietly.
My heart swells.
“I love you, Wilder.”
His mouth captures mine again, and the world narrows to heat and breath and skin and devotion. We move together with familiarity now, not just passion, but trust. His hands guide, but never control. My fingers grip, but never cling.
It’s intense.
It’s consuming.
It’s ours.
He murmurs my name like it’s sacred. Not “Doc.” Not teasing. Not playful.
Amelia.
And when we finally come undone together, it feels less like a collision and more like a promise.
Afterward, I lie curled against him, his chest rising steadily beneath my cheek. His fingers lazily trace circles on my back, and the quiet between us is peaceful.
No secrets.
No fear.
Just us.
“We fought,” he says softly into my hair.
“We won,” I reply.
He shifts slightly so he can look at me, his thumb brushing my jaw.
“I don’t ever want to go back to the version of me that would’ve let you walk away,” he says.
“You won’t,” I whisper. “Because I won’t let you.”
He smiles slow and sure.
“I’m going to marry you someday,” he says casually, like he’s commenting on the weather.
My breath catches.
“Is that right?” I tease.
“Yeah,” he says, kissing my forehead. “And when we do, it won’t be a secret.”
I laugh softly, pressing my lips to his chest.
“I’d expect nothing less.”
He tightens his arms around me.
Outside, the city hums quietly.
Inside, everything feels still.
Safe.
Certain.
I almost lost this.
We both did.
But love isn’t about perfection.
It’s about fighting.
And tonight, wrapped in his arms, heart steady against his, I know without a doubt we’re exactly where we’re meant to be.