An Impossible, Infuriating Tightness in My Chest
Sloane
I mentally prepped for this session.
Breathe. Stay neutral. Be professional.
Easy.
I inhale.
One. Two. Three.
Everything’s fine.
I’m a CEO.
I run a matchmaking agency.
I handle difficult clients every single day.
One soccer player cannot throw me off my game.
Until Cohen Becker opens the door.
His scent hits me a second before he does.
Then he appears—dark sweater, hair in that “I ran my hand through it five times to look casual” state, and a smile that says I’m not here to cause trouble, but I will anyway.
Great. Fantastic. Perfect.
The last time he walked into this office he—
No.
Stop.
Mentally file that under “forbidden memories.”
New mantra: Don’t look at him. Don’t think about it. Don’t give in.
“Becker,” I say in the most neutral, professional, unshakable tone I can manage. “Welcome back.”
He straightens and looks at me like I’m glowing.
Why? Why does he always look at me like that?
Someone should revoke his right to use that expression. It’s a weapon.
“Angel,” he says, way too pleased, as if we’re best friends. He takes the seat across from me. “Happy to see me?”
Smirk. Of course.
I ignore the bait and sit behind my desk.
If I look at him as little as humanly possible, I won’t be tempted.
If I don’t breathe too deeply, I won’t smell him.
If I don’t think about his tongue—
Okay. Enough.
“Congrats on the three wins,” I say, opening my tablet just to have something—anything—to focus on that isn’t him.
He lights up.
It’s… cute, when he lights up.
Damn it.
“You watched?” he asks, like a kid on Christmas morning.
I try to stay indifferent.
“Of course I watched. My father is the coach, remember?”
He doesn’t get discouraged. Obviously. The man doesn’t even understand the concept of giving up.
“I saw you in the stadium.”
My heart skips.
No. He didn’t notice me. Impossible. Too many people.
“I even winked at you. It was my goal dedication.”
And then—without needing to check—I know he’s winking again.
I don’t look up.
I don’t look up.
I DO NOT look up.
…I look up.
Dammit.
He’s sitting there, beautiful and infuriating, with that half-smirk that screams I bet you’re losing your mind right now.
My brain short-circuits.
Part of me wants to grab him by the collar and kiss him until he forgets his own name.
The other part wants to strangle him with the tie he’s not even wearing.
“The goal wasn’t for me,” I say sharply, opening some random file just to avoid his face.
“I literally just told you it was, Angel.”
The smirk is torture.
I focus on the tablet.
Yes, tablet, save me.
I sit straighter, cross my legs the way women do when they’re totally in control.
(Spoiler: I am not.)
“Anyway,” I begin, cool as an iceberg, “I prepared an updated list of candidates. I believe that—”
The shift on his face is immediate.
“I still have to meet other candidates?” he asks quietly. “I thought… after the simulation, after… everything…”
He stops.
He doesn’t need to finish the sentence.
I know exactly what he isn’t saying.
After what we did.
I feel that invisible thread between us pull tight.
I force myself to cut it with professionalism.
“It’s November, Cohen. The Valentine’s competition is in full swing. We can’t slow down. For the next ten days you’ll talk to the candidates. Not real dates—just conversations. We’ll see if someone sparks your interest.”
“I’m not interested in anyone.”
Immediate. Firm.
Not arrogant—
More like admitting an uncomfortable truth.
My throat tightens without permission.
“We can’t rely on your assumptions. You need to meet them before—”
“Sloane,” he interrupts. “I don’t want to go out with anyone.”
Silence.
If I look at him, he wins.
If I look at him, I crack.
If I look at him, I remember his mouth between my—
So I don’t look at him.
“This isn’t optional, Becker. It’s part of the program.”
He drags a hand through his hair, frustrated.
“And if I don’t want to?”
“Then you withdraw from the Valentine reality show, lose the sponsor, and also lose your chance at a stable return to the team. Is that what you want?”
This time I’m the one hitting where it hurts.
I hate it.
But I know how to do my job.
Cohen goes quiet.
He stares at me.
And there’s something burning in his eyes—not anger, not desire.
Something rawer.
Disappointment.
But he nods.
Just once.
Like he’s accepting a defeat.
“Okay,” he says quietly. “I’ll meet them.”
He doesn’t smile.
The light in his face is gone.
And for some reason…
I don’t like that at all.