Chapter 23 Sloane
Chapter twenty-three
Sloane
The arena doesn’t go quiet all at once.
It empties in layers.
First the music cuts. Then the crowd thins. Then the lights dim from spectacle to fluorescent reality
What’s left is the echo.
My ears ring as I walk down the corridor behind the stage, heels clicking too loud against concrete that still smells like fog machines and spilled beer. The adrenaline hasn’t drained yet. It’s reeling under my skin, sharp and restless, like my body doesn’t know the danger has passed.
I keep replaying the kiss.
The way he didn’t hesitate. The way his hand cupped my face, rough and unsteady. The way he looked at me before it happened, steady, certain, choosing.
And the part that won’t stop pressing in on me:
That kiss wasn’t forgiveness.
Maybe it was a door opening.
I don’t know if I’m even allowed to walk through it.
I slow near the end of the hallway where the noise finally drops off completely. No cheering. No announcements. Just the hum of electricity and the distant clatter of equipment being broken down.
This is usually where I’d leave.
That’s my instinct.
Retreat. Minimize. Don’t make things worse.
If I walk out now, I can tell myself the kiss was closure instead of invitation. I can file it under moment, not meaning. I can get home, send a few thank-you emails, and spin the night into a perfect highlight reel.
Clean. Controlled.
Safe.
I almost do it.
I almost leave.
Because I can already hear the rationalizations lining up in my head.
He was emotional. He just won a game. The crowd pushed him into that moment.
But I know better.
Colby Hayes doesn’t do anything he doesn’t mean.
That’s the problem.
That’s what scares me.
My phone vibrates in my hand.
A message from Annabelle.
He’s looking for you.
Four words.
My stomach drops like I'm on a rollercoaster.
This is the moment.
I tuck my phone away and keep walking before I can talk myself out of it.
The hallway opens into a quieter stretch near the equipment tunnel. The air is cooler here, sharper. My pulse starts to slow, not because I’m calm, but because my body knows what’s coming and I’m feeling numb.
He’s there.
Leaning against the wall, jersey already off, hair damp, shoulders loose in that post-game way that tells me the adrenaline has crashed and left everything exposed.
He looks tired.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
When he lifts his head and sees me, something changes in his expression. Not anger. Not relief.
Recognition.
Like he’s been bracing for this too.
For a second, neither of us speaks.
There’s no music anymore. No crowd. No cameras.
Just breathing.
“I didn’t expect you to do that,” I say.
My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
He huffs a quiet breath. “Neither did I.”
That’s it.
That’s all it takes to crack the night open.
We stand there, a few feet apart, the space between us filled with everything we haven’t said. His expression tightens like he’s holding something back. I recognize the restraint immediately.
It’s the same kind I use.
I step closer.
Not to touch him.
Just to stay.
“I’m not here to explain,” I say. “Or defend myself.”
His eyes lift to mine.
The silence lands harder than anger would have.
I swallow.
“I need to say this clearly,” I continue. “Without softening it. Without spinning it.”
He nods once.
So I do.
“I entered the contest intentionally,” I say. “I knew it would help Raina. I knew the exposure mattered. I didn’t anticipate you being part of it, and I definitely didn’t plan to fall for you.”
His breath shifts.
“But,” I say, forcing myself not to rush, “I did benefit from how it started. I didn’t stop it when it stopped being just business. And I understand why that feels horrible.”
The words sit between us.
Neither of us moves.
I don’t say but I didn’t mean it that way. I don’t say you have to understand.
Impact matters more than intent.
He looks down like he’s choosing restraint over reaction.
When he speaks, his voice is calm.
Too calm.
“I saw the post,” he says.
I draw a slow breath.
“The comments,” he continues. “People saying you planned it. That I was part of the rollout.”
I flinch.
“I felt stupid,” he says. “For believing it was real.”
My throat burns.
He finally looks at me again. “I don’t need to be first every time,” he says. “But I won’t stand in line for someone who doesn't choose me at all.”
The words hit like a punch I don’t brace for.
I don’t interrupt.
I don’t reach for him.
He exhales slowly.
“That’s what pisses me off,” he says. “Not the beginning. The wondering if the middle means anything to you.”
When he finishes, the quiet rushes back in.
I step closer again.
Close enough now that I can feel his warmth.
“You were chosen. Pretty quickly,” I say softly. “Just not the way you deserved.”
He opens his mouth, then closes it.
“What started as a strategy turned into something I didn’t know how to walk away from,” I continue. “And instead of telling you that, I tried to manage it. Control it. Like I do everything else when I’m scared.”
I shake my head once.
“I know how to handle narratives. I know how to protect optics. I didn’t know how to stop doing that when it stopped being work.”
He’s quiet for a long second.
Then, “I’m still pissed,” he says. “I don’t know how not to be yet.”
I nod. “That’s fair.”
“But,” he adds, voice rougher now, “I also know I didn’t kiss you out there because of the crowd.”
My heart stutters.
“That wasn’t for the cameras,” he says. “That was me.”
The simplicity of it steals my breath.
He exhales. “And I’m done guessing.”
I meet his gaze. “Then you don’t have to. I’m right here.”
We stand there, close and raw and real.
No promises. No declarations.
Just honesty.
He studies me like he’s deciding what to do with all of it.
“So,” he says quietly. “What are we doing?”
My pulse jumps.
The question isn’t about the hallway.
It’s about us.
I hold his gaze. “I’m in.”
He doesn’t react. Not yet.
“Okay,” he says. Not casual. Decisive. “Then we’re not dancing around it anymore.”
“I don’t want to,” I admit.
His eyes drop to my mouth and back up. “Good. Because I don’t do half-in.”
“I know.”
That earns me the smallest nod.
Approval.
Not praise, but recognition.
His hands settle on my hips. Grounding. Like he’s making sure I’m real.
A corner of his mouth lifts. “You always this quiet when you’re put on the spot?”
I swallow. “Only when I’m scared,” I admit. Then softer, truer, “Or when my heart’s on the line.”
“Damn, I kind of prefer when you make those little noises,” he chuckles.
I look at him. “Do you.”
He finally smiles. “Yeah. Very sexy.”
Heat slides through me, and my stomach does a fast flip.
“Careful,” I say, letting the word carry a warning and a dare.
The look he gives me after that isn’t teasing.
It’s promising.
He leans in, slow at first, like he’s giving me the chance to change my mind.
I don’t.
The kiss is deliberate.
Not like on the ice.
No roar. No adrenaline performance.
This one is quieter.
He pulls back just enough to breathe against my mouth.
“No more games,” he says.
“I’m done,” I whisper.
Something flashes in his eyes.
He doesn’t say anything else.
He just takes my hand and leads me down the corridor to a small office near the equipment tunnel.
The door shuts behind us.
The quiet becomes a blanket.
“Come here,” he says softly.
It isn’t a command.
It’s an invitation.
I take one step toward him, and that’s all it takes.
His hands lift to my face, slow and deliberate, hands warm against my jaw as his mouth finds mine. The kiss isn’t rushed or hungry. It’s deep. Measured. Like he’s grounding himself in the feel of me.
His lips move against mine with quiet certainty, a lingering press that steals my breath before it ever turns desperate. When I sigh into him, he answers with a low sound in his chest and pulls me closer, our bodies fitting together without thought.
The kiss deepens, not frantic or urgent, just full. Intentional. The kind that says I’m here without needing the words.
“What a night,” he murmurs.
I let out a breath that turns into a soft laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”
His mouth curves, tired and real.
“This feels like the exact moment Dex would kick the door in,” I say. “Usually with commentary.”
“Hang on,” he says quietly, and reaches back to lock the door. “Just so we don’t get interrupted.”
The click is soft.
Final.
When he turns back to me, everything slows. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t reach for me right away. He just looks, steady and intent, like he’s seeing me without the noise or the confusion.
“Come here,” he says.
This time it’s not an invitation.
It’s inevitability.
I move first.
The second my hands slide onto his shirt, his breath breaks. A quiet sound, rough and unguarded, like he didn’t mean to let it out.
“Jesus,” he murmurs against my mouth.
The kiss deepens instantly. Hungrier. Heavier. His hands slide down my sides, firm now, decisive, caressing the sides of my breasts on the way, moving in closer until there’s no space left to pretend we don’t want this.
My body reacts before my brain can catch up.
I make a sound.
His grip tightens.
“Yeah,” he groans. “There it is.”
The words go straight through me.
He kisses me again, slower this time, like he’s savoring it, like he plans to take his time. His mouth drifts to my jaw, my neck, his breath hot.
“Missed that,” he says quietly.
I tilt my head back without thinking, giving him access, and the sound he makes is low and wrecked.
His hands move with purpose, finding what he wants, keeping me close. When I press into him, he swears under his breath.
“Fuck, Sloane,” he says, voice tight.
Not a warning.
A need.
We end up on the office couch without announcing it, knees bumping, hands everywhere, my skirt riding up as his fingers grip my tights and start to pull them down.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he says, rough but controlled.
I don’t hesitate.
“Don’t stop.”
That’s all it takes.
The restraint cracks.
“God,” he growls. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
I manage a breathless little laugh. “Pretty sure I do.”
"Stand up," he says as he shifts to sitting on the edge of the couch.
I stand before him as he finishes taking off my tights and panties. One of his hands rubs my clit while two fingers from the other hand insert inside of me.
"You are so wet, I just want to taste you," he groans as he slides down so he's even with my pussy.
I can't help but widen my stance as he licks and teases my center while moving his fingers in deeper.
My head is back while I brace my hands on his shoulders, steadying myself as I start to lose control.
Within minutes, my legs are shaking and I almost lose my balance.
"God, Colby," I cry out, "this feels so good."
He already knows my body and now his fingers inside are fast and furious, while his tongue lightens to where I almost don't feel it. That alone, keeps me going for my second orgasm right then and there.
"Baby, you are so sexy. Look at you exploding all over me."
"Colby, please..."
"Please, what?"
"I need you inside," I say, trying to breathe normally.
I grab his hockey pants and pull them down quickly. He has a huge hard-on saluting me.
"Ride me hard," he says. "Look, this is just for you."
He sits back and I straddle him, placing his length inside of me slowly.
I am still so wet, that I immediately can start riding him fast and hard. Now, I'm in control and I'm going to have fun with it. After a bit, I slow down. Then speed up. Then slow down.
"Sloane, you're teasing me. Fucking hot."
"Good things CUM to those who wait." I giggle.
We both laugh and after I've teased him enough, I start to ramp it up again until we are moving in such a rhythm that he explodes over the edge.
For a minute or two, we just stay there, catching our breath in the quiet while the world slowly comes back into focus.
As I pull myself back together, I hike up my tights, smooth my skirt into place, and try to tame my hair with fingers that still won’t cooperate.
He watches me the whole time, not touching, not rushing. Just there.
When our eyes meet again, the tension finally eases into something solid.
Not heat.
Not doubt.
But certainty.
His arm comes around me, solid and sure, pulling me close.
The arena outside this room might as well not exist.
His mouth brushes my temple.
“Come on,” he breathes. “Let’s go home.”
Then, gentler, "Together.”
As we stand up together, I feel lighter than I have in weeks, like I’m not carrying this alone anymore.
“Yeah,” I say. “Together.”
We don’t rush.
We just stand there for another second, wrapped up in each other, before turning toward the door.
And for the first time since this all began, I’m not planning the next step.
I’m taking it with him.