17. Sloane
Chapter seventeen
Sloane
"You’re stealing the blankets again."
I say it without opening my eyes.
He makes a low sound beside me, half asleep, unapologetic. “They migrated.”
“They didn’t migrate,” I mumble. “You abducted them.”
A corner of the comforter tugs back in my direction. His arm follows, warm and heavy as it drapes over my shoulders. I inhale, then freeze.
This is the part that gets me.
Not the sex. Not the kissing. Not even waking up next to him.
It’s how easy it feels.
I blink awake in my own bed, in my own apartment, and that alone should make this feel grounded. Familiar. My place. My space. And somehow, he fits in it too well.
Colby breathes slow and deep behind me, still resting. No guard. No awareness.
That’s what unsettles me.
This is intimacy without effort.
I tell myself it doesn’t mean anything yet.
I tell myself that twice, just to be sure.
He shifts, pressing closer.
I stare at the ceiling.
Last night was incredible.
This morning feels… complicated.
“Good, you're awake,” I say.
“Barely.” A pause. “You’re thinking too loud.”
I snort. “That’s not a thing.”
“It is when you stop breathing for five seconds,” he says, cracking one eye. “What’s going on in that head?”
I turn onto my side to face him. “You stole my blankets.”
He grins. Full. Lazy. Dangerous. “I already admitted that. And, gave some back to you.”
“Not enough.”
He tugs me closer instead. “Counter offer.”
I laugh despite myself, the sound surprising me with how real it is. His arm tightens briefly like he’s pleased he earned it.
We lie there for a moment, not rushing. No awkward scramble. No post-night explanations.
Domestic.
I clock it immediately and push it away.
“Coffee and bagel?” I ask.
“Please,” he says. “Before I say something stupid.”
“That’s optimistic.”
He laughs and rolls out of bed, completely unconcerned with his lack of clothing. He reaches for his jeans and shirt from the floor and heads to the bathroom. I grab my sweats from the chair and pull them on, wrap my robe around me, and head for the kitchen.
I don’t think about that either.
In the kitchen, I move on autopilot, muscle memory taking over as I slice a bagel and start the coffee. The routine steadies me. Grounds. Water. Button.
Colby wanders in a moment later, shirt half tucked like he didn’t bother fighting with it too hard. He pauses in the doorway like he’s taking in the fact that this is my kitchen, my space.
I pour the coffee into two mugs before he even asks, setting one on the counter in front of him.
“I wouldn’t have guessed that you drink your coffee black,” he says.
“Whatever that means. You’re in my apartment,” I remind him sweetly. “Bold stance making that kind of comment.”
He smirks. “I live dangerously.”
We sit at the counter, legs brushing. Sunlight creeps farther across the floor. It feels… normal.
That’s the problem.
“So,” I say lightly. “You survived a concert.”
He takes a sip and winces. “Barely. I’m pretty sure Dex tried to start a chant during her acoustic set.”
“He did,” I say. “I saw it.”
“Mortifying.”
“Raina thought it was hilarious.”
He smiles at that. “She was incredible.”
Pride warms my chest. “She really was.”
A quiet settles between us, not uncomfortable. Just… open.
He studies his coffee like he’s deciding something.
“Can I tell you something?” he asks.
I nod. “Yeah.”
“I had a serious girlfriend after college,” he says. “Right after I got drafted.”
I go still.
Not because I’m threatened. Because he’s choosing honesty.
“It was real,” he continues. “We talked about the future. Marriage. Kids. All of it.”
I keep my expression neutral.
“She was close with her family. Like, Sunday dinners, cousins live down the street kind of close.” He smiles faintly. “She wanted roots.”
“And you couldn’t promise that.”
He nods. “Trades happen. Seasons change. You don’t always get a say.”
There’s no bitterness in his voice. Just acceptance.
“I didn’t blame her,” he says. “We just wanted different lives at the time.”
That maturity lands harder than jealousy ever could.
“After that… a couple longer things. Some flings. Mostly hockey.” He shrugs. “I wasn’t closed off. Just selective.”
Then he looks at me.
Really looks.
“I haven’t liked someone this much in a long time,” he says quietly. “I like you, Sloane.”
My stomach flips, quick and unwelcome, like my body reacted before I could stop it.
I love hearing it, though.
But that realization scares me immediately.
So I do what I always do.
I smile.
“Well,” I say lightly. “I’m extremely likable.”
He laughs. The moment loosens.
“Yeah, you are,” he says, a slow smile forming at his mouth. “Got a little spark to you. I like that.”
"Thanks."
I take a sip of coffee I don’t need and pivot before my feelings can catch up.
“You should see Raina’s numbers this morning,” I say, already reaching for my phone. “They’re insane.”
I slide it across to him.
New follows. New tags. Clips from last night.
Comments everywhere.
Who is this artist?
Wait, are those NHL players in the front row?
I’m obsessed with this crossover.
My excitement is real. Bright. Electric.
“This is exactly what she needed,” I say. “Visibility. Credibility. Conversation.”
He nods slowly. “That’s amazing.”
“And you benefited too,” I add quickly. “Fans loved it. Your mentions were all positive.”
I tell myself that matters.
Mutual exposure.
Everyone wins.
Colby lifts one shoulder. “For what it’s worth, I don’t really need the publicity. The Outlaws get enough of it. Sometimes too much, especially for a few of the guys.”
Our phones buzz almost simultaneously.
He checks his.
"Shit, more PR crap," he complains.
I check mine.
Mine is from a number I recognize immediately.
PR: Hey Sloane, great energy last night. Social is popping. Seeing Colby Hayes at Raina’s show is getting traction. Any chance you’d both be open to a quick follow-up interview? Fans are already asking questions.
I stare at the screen a second too long.
He notices. “You, too?”
“Apparently,” I say, turning the phone so he can see.
He exhales through his nose. “Figures.”
“I’m not uncomfortable,” he adds quickly. “Just… not wild about the spotlight when it’s personal.”
That word lands.
Personal.
“I know,” I say. “And I don’t want it to be weird.”
He leans back against the counter. “For the record, I don’t mind people thinking we had fun together. We did.”
My stomach flips again.
He hesitates, then says it anyway. “And I’d like to see where this goes. With you.”
Honest. Direct. No pressure.
A pulse of anxiety hits me out of nowhere, sharp and immediate, like my body knows this matters before I’m ready to admit it.
I force a small breath out first. “I like you too,” I say honestly. “I’m just not looking for something defined right now. My work takes a lot out of me, and I’m still figuring out what I can actually give.”
His expression doesn’t change, but something stills behind his eyes.
“You’ve mentioned that,” he says gently. “A few times.”
I rush on. “What if we don’t correct anything publicly? Let people assume if they want. Optics only.”
He studies me. “So… lying.”
“No,” I say quickly. “Not like that.”
I rub my thumb along the edge of the mug, choosing my words carefully. “More like… not feeding it. Not letting the media define something before we do.”
He watches me.
“I’ve seen what happens when people decide the story for you,” I add. “When every moment gets picked apart before it even has a chance to be real.”
A silent moment.
“I don’t want that,” I say honestly. “Not for you. Not for this.”
He studies me for a long moment.
“I don’t love the idea,” he says finally. “But… I trust you.”
Relief loosens my shoulders.
“But,” he adds, calm but firm, “I don’t want to pretend forever.”
“I wouldn’t ask that,” I say quickly.
Silence settles again.
Not tense.
Just thoughtful.
Something nudges at the back of my mind. A warning. A question I don’t want to answer yet.
I push it aside.
Momentum is already moving.
And momentum is something I know how to handle.
***
I close the door behind him and lean back against it, my phone lighting up in my hand before I can even set it down. Work never waits.
I let out a long breath I didn’t realize I’m holding.
This isn’t manipulation.
It’s opportunity.
And opportunity is my job.
I just don’t look at the line I’m standing next to, but afraid to cross.
Not yet.