Chapter Twenty-Seven
Emily
“People see the uniforms, the smiles, the performances — but what they don’t always see is the sisterhood. These women show up for each other in ways that go far beyond the field. And that kind of commitment deserves to be honored, not just applauded.”
“We couldn’t agree more. Ashley and I talk about this a lot on the pod, how it feels like as women in sports, we’re expected to just be like… happy to be here. Lucky, even. Like hey, you’re welcome, don’t expect more!”
“Exactly. And that’s the thing. We’re not just dancers. We’re athletes. We train year-round, we cross-train, we rehab injuries, we perform under pressure in front of tens of thousands of people — and we do it with precision. That’s not a hobby. That’s a profession.”
“You look like you want to say more on that…”
“Well… I guess it’s just become apparent to me that while we’re expected to perform as athletes, we’re not expected to be paid as such. And that doesn’t sit right with me. It never has. I mean, almost every member of my team has another job or a family member who financially supports them.”
“Which is insane.”
“I think so, yes. We love what we do. We audition against hundreds of other dancers because we want the chance to be on that field. We’re passionate as hell… but passion doesn’t pay rent — and it shouldn’t be used as an excuse not to pay women fairly.”
“I can’t think of a better note to end on. Emily, thank you so much for being here with us today. And folks listening, if you want to follow Emily and her road to recovery and back to the field, you can find her at…”
I reached over to hit the pause button, freezing my smile along with the two podcast hosts of The Fifth Quarter on Braden’s laptop screen. Silence stretched in his bedroom, which was currently bathed in a warm afternoon sunlight glow.
“Wow,” he said.
“Wow good, or wow you shouldn’t have said that?”
He chuckled, closing his laptop and moving it to his bedside table before he pulled me into him. I took the invitation willingly, bracing my palms and elbows on his chest as he slid one hand around the small of my back and propped the other arm behind his head.
“Wow, you’re beautiful and smart as hell, and I’m having a hard time not starting round three.”
My neck heated, and I buried my embarrassed smile in his chest. “Stop, it wasn’t that good. Besides, I don’t think you could handle round three after that ice play.”
“Try me,” he dared, nuzzling into my neck with a kiss that curled my toes.
I pressed against his chest so I could look at him fully. “You really think it was good?”
“I do,” he promised. “What I’m having trouble understanding is why you don’t. Emily, you were poised, professional, smart as a whip, charming. What are you worried about?”
I bit my lip. “I don’t know. The fact that I called out the people who pay me for not paying me more.”
“Maybe they need to be called out.”
“Oh, they do. But probably not by an injured cheerleader who is so old she likely only has a season or two left.”
“I hate when you do that.”
“What? Point out my injury?”
“Act like thirty is old.”
I sighed. “Sadly, it is in the world of professional dance.” I shook my head, flexing my fingers in the cast that was splayed on Braden’s chest. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter what I think now, I guess. What’s done is done.”
“I think it was amazing. I’m proud of you.”
Braden leaned up then, kissing me sweetly, that familiar mint and lavender scent brushing my nose as he did.
It was Tuesday, rest day, and I was curled up with Braden like a cat pretending nothing else in the world existed.
He was supposed to be resting, but rest was the last thing on either of our minds when I showed up at his door last night after we both finished up at the stadium — him with meetings, me with practice.
Because we had a list to check off, and we weren’t even halfway through it.
Ice play had been fun — the way he teased me by dragging the frigid cubes along my skin as they melted, the way I held a cube in my mouth as I tasted him, torturing him with the mixture of discomfort and pleasure.
Before that, we’d masturbated together — which was hotter than I ever imagined it could be. I’d been so wet just at the sight of Braden with his cock in his hand, with the hungry way he watched my hand moving between my thighs. I thought it would be kind of awkward, but nothing was with Braden now.
He was so fucking comfortable he might as well have been a La-Z-Boy.
Even now, I was fighting against this strange ache in my chest at the way he looked, the way he felt.
Thick navy sweatpants hugged his hips, and he was bare from the waist up, his ridiculous muscles like a million-dollar painting of mountains and valleys.
His mahogany hair was a tousled mess, the scruff on his jaw deliciously inviting, the permanent smirk on his lips lazy and carefree.
He was so different from the man I’d met that day at auditions. He’d been so buttoned up then, so scared of living.
I liked that he looked different now.
I liked to think I might be the reason for that devil-may-care vibe he wore so effortlessly.
“Thanks for watching that with me so I didn’t have to do it alone,” I said.
“Thanks for asking me to.” He thumbed my jaw, his eyes ping-ponging between mine. “Are you hungry?”
“A little.”
“Let me cook for you.”
It wasn’t a question, and my stomach flipped with the little demand of it, with the sure way he said it — as if he knew I wouldn’t say no.
“Okay,” I breathed, smiling. “I’m just going to do a little stretching and then I’ll join you out there.”
“You and your stretches in bed,” he growled. “Going to be the death of me.”
Braden covered my smile with another long, slow, lazy kiss, one that had us both moaning and inhaling deep before he rolled me off him and smacked my ass for good measure.
“Don’t, or we’ll starve.”
“We could just bring the food to bed? I do have that on my list,” I confessed.
He balked. “Eating while you fuck?”
“No,” I laughed. “Food play. You know, whipped cream, chocolate drizzle…”
Braden scrubbed a hand over his face, revealing his bottom lip pinned between his teeth when he let the hand fall against his thigh. “So what I’m hearing is Tuscan chicken for dinner and you for dessert.”
“If you insist.”
I smirked as he shook his head, pointing a finger at me as he made his way out of the bedroom. “Still Trouble. Capital fucking everything at this point.”
My smile climbed as he swung out of the room, and I took ten minutes to stretch, bending my body into every juicy and delicious yoga pose I felt like I needed until I reluctantly peeled myself from his bed for the first time in hours.
I was nude, my panties ruined from how he’d teased me when I first arrived, so I dug through his drawers until I found a pair of boxer briefs, rolling the band twice once I had them on.
I slipped on a shirt that said North Boston Rebels next, clutching the fabric to my nose and inhaling like a lunatic before I joined him in the kitchen.
Braden’s house was exactly as I expected it to be.
It was understated, warm, and quietly beautiful.
It wasn’t flashy in the way I imagined some pro athletes’ homes might be — no sterile expanses of white marble or furniture that looked too expensive to sit on. His place felt lived in. Every inch of it felt intentional.
It was a modest Green Lake home with clean, mid-century lines, warm wood tones, earthy textures, and oversized windows that pulled in soft afternoon light and a glimpse of the water beyond.
A leather sofa sat across from a stone fireplace, softened by a worn rug, a few leafy plants, and shelves lined with books, candles, and framed photos.
His family was everywhere. So were little pieces of his past — college teammates, game-day snapshots, and a display shelf with his championship ring resting in a glass box.
Even the home gym visible down the hall felt practical instead of showy — neat, high-end, and built for discipline rather than image.
The whole house felt like Braden: solid, calm, and more interested in meaning than appearance.
I padded into the kitchen just as Braden had gathered all his ingredients. He bent to retrieve a cutting board and plucked a knife from a block, smirking at me as I sidled up on one of the barstools at his kitchen island to watch the show.
And what a show it was.
Braden stood at the kitchen island barefoot and shirtless, those navy sweats hanging low on his hips, his hair still slightly disheveled from the hours we’d spent tangled up in his sheets.
There was something quietly devastating about the sight of him like this — not dressed for the field or the cameras, but simply at home, moving with calm efficiency through his own kitchen.
The flex of muscle in his arms as he chopped chicken, the relaxed set of his shoulders, the ease in his body — it all felt impossibly intimate.
I didn’t realize a man cooking in his own kitchen was a kink for me.
Apparently, it very much was.
“You’re drooling and I haven’t even started cooking,” he teased.
“Not going to lie, this is kind of doing it for me.”
“Me cutting chicken?”
“You being Braden At Home, all cozy and relaxed.”
That made him pause a moment, and then his eyes were on his hands again, his smile distant. “I’ll be honest… I can’t remember the last time I ever felt like this.” His smile faded then, brows furrowing. “It’s unsettling.”
I barked out a laugh. “It’s uncomfortable for you to relax? Why does this not surprise me.”
“It’s deeper than that,” he defended, moving on from preparing the chicken to the rice.
He let the amount he’d measured out slide into the boiling water before covering it and turning to me, his hip leaned against the stove, arms folded.
“It feels… risky. Like at any moment, the floor is going to fall out from under me because I wasn’t locked in and paying attention. ”
My heart squeezed. “That sounds like a shitty way to feel.”