Page 82 of Mending Hearts
Eight years in the League changes you. I’ve filled out. Thickened through the chest and thighs. My shoulders are wider. My waist tighter. Everything about me feels heavier. Stronger.
Rafe’s hands settle on my hips like he needs to confirm it’s real. “Jesus,” he murmurs.
“What?” I try for casual. Miss by a mile.
“You’re….” His hands slide up my sides, slow. Appreciative. “You were always strong. But now?—”
“Now I get paid a stupid amount of money for it,” I mutter.
He huffs a laugh, but his eyes are darker. Focused. “You’ve filled out,” he says quietly. “In a good way.”
Heat crawls up my neck. He drags his gaze lower—and then he goes still.
Dead still.
I knew this was coming.
His hand drops from my waist to my hip, thumb brushing just above the sharp jut of bone. “Ollie.”
It’s not a question.
Steam curls around us, water still running behind him, but everything feels suspended. On my left hip, just above the waistband line, is a small piece of ink. Clean. Black. Simple.
To anyone else, it looks like a stylized sound wave. Thin lines rising and falling in a narrow band. My teammates have seen it. No one’s ever asked.
Because unless you know?—
It’s the waveform of “Velocity.” The opening riff that used to blast through my headphones. One of the songs he wrote when we met.
He traces it lightly, reverently.
“That’s…” His voice goes rough. “That’s ‘Velocity.’”
I nod. “I got it the first offseason after.” My voice threatens to break. “When we—” I shrug once. “When we split.”
He looks up at me like I’ve just punched him. “You didn’t….”
“I did.”
The truth sits there between us, heavy and quiet.
“I didn’t think you’d ever see it,” I admit. “Didn’t think it mattered.”
His thumb drags over the ink again, slower this time. Like he’s memorizing it. “It matters,” he says.
The words hit harder than I expect.
Water splashes against the tile. Steam thickens. He steps closer, closing the small space between us, chest to chest now.
“You kept me,” he says quietly.
I swallow. “You kept me first.”
His breath catches at that.
For a moment, it feels like we’re balanced on the edge of something much bigger than sex. Something that could split us open. So I lean in, press my mouth to his shoulder, grounding myself in skin and heat instead of confession.
“This isn’t that conversation,” I murmur.
