Page 125 of Mending Hearts
A faint flicker of approval crosses his expression.
Miles moves in then, hugging Ollie briefly before introducing himself to Eric. There’s a subtle current in that exchange—not hostile, not territorial, but assessing. Two men used to steering crises measuring each other’s competence.
Cassius clears his throat. “I’m gonna head out.”
Ollie looks at him immediately. “You sure?”
“Yeah. You’ve got backup now.” He glances at me. “Training tomorrow. Don’t ghost.”
“I won’t.”
“And home game the night after. So maybe no more international-level bombshells before tip-off?”
Ollie huffs a quiet laugh, and Cassius’s expression softens. He grips Ollie’s shoulder once, grounding, and then he leaves.
The door closes, and the energy shifts.
“Can we get a minute?” I ask.
Ollie nods and leads me down the hallway.
The bedroom is warm tones and spacious. The bed’s made. The whole space feels very much like Ollie. The door shuts behind us.
For a moment, neither of us speaks. Then he steps forward and kisses me. Our lips touch, the press gentle. His mouth is warm against mine, his hands bracing at my sides as if confirming that this isn’t some stress-fueled hallucination.
When we separate, I guide him toward the bed and sit, pulling him down with me. He lands half across my torso and lets out a quiet sound of amusement.
“You realize I’m not exactly light,” he says.
“I can manage,” I reply.
He settles more fully against me, head resting over my heart. The weight of him feels grounding.
“What are you thinking?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer immediately. His fingers trace absent patterns against my side.
“I’m angry,” he says at last.
Relief threads through me. “Good,” I say.
He lifts his head slightly. “Good?”
“I understand angry,” I explain. “Angry has edges. It’s solid. I don’t know what to do with numb.”
He considers that and nods. “I wanted the choice,” he continues. “For us to make it together when—if,” he says, as if catching himself, “we were ready to be a married couple.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to correct him withwhen, but I don’t. I respect that he’s not assuming, even now.
“I wanted to tell the team first. The fans. I didn’t want it ripped out of our hands.”
“They don’t get to decide what happens next,” I say.
He exhales slowly. “We’ll need a statement.”
“Yes.” That’s exactly the plan with Rachael on her way here. We’re tackling this together, as a unit.
“I don’t want it to be defensive or apologetic.”
