She says my name like it’s the only word she has left, head tipping back again, and I push her over that edge. The moment she falls apart around me, I’m gone too—hips jerking, a low, ragged sound tearing out of my throat that no one else will ever hear.
She collapses against me, cheek to my shoulder, our breaths tangled and unsteady. Her lips brush my ear, soft and smug. “That’s how you worship me.”
And she’s right.
For a long minute, neither of us moves. Her weight is warm against me, the air thick with the scent of her skin and the faint sweetness of her perfume. My hands stay on her hips like I’m afraid she’ll slip away if I let go.
She’s the one who finally leans back, her palms sliding up my chest. “You missed me well, Donovan.” It’s soft, almost affectionate, but there’s still that glint in her eyes—the one that says she’s not done reminding me who’s in control.
I can’t help it. I cup the back of her neck, pull her in for a kiss that’s slow but heavy, the kind that leaves no room for doubt. She hums into it before pulling away, brushing her thumb over my jaw like she’s considering whether to let me stay like this.
“Shower,” she says finally, climbing off me. “You’re not getting back into bed like that.”
We spend the rest of the weekend in a rhythm that’s all ours. Early mornings tangled in sheets, the air still warm from the night before. Slow coffee in the kitchen, her bare feet paddingacross the tile, her hair messy from sleep. Afternoons where I drive us out past the edge of Agave Hills just to watch her smile at the open desert, sunlight painting her skin gold. Nights are for the cove—for stolen moments that leave me wrecked and her smug in that way I can’t resist.
Too soon, it’s over. At the airport, she kisses me like she’s memorizing the shape of my mouth, then turns away without looking back. I stand there until she’s gone, holding the echo of her lips like it’s the only proof the weekend was real.
The next two months blur together; the only thing that changes is the scenery—her city, one visit, mine the next.
Every trip is the same in the ways that matter. We worship each other in bed, chasing climax after climax until we’re wrung out, only to start again hours later. It’s never enough. No matter how much I take, or how much she gives, the craving doesn’t fade.
It’s my weekend to fly home. I clock out, send Stella a quick text that I’ll be home in a few hours.
“D’Angelo! My office, now!” Coach Headstrom’s voice carries down the hall, madder than a hornet in a Coke can. Maybe now isn’t the best time to remind him of my last name change—going by Carrington is the best thing I’ve ever done, but it’s still new enough to throw people off.
“Coach, you wanted to see me?” I step in and take a seat.
He tosses a paper down on the desk between us, the corner curling like it’s been gripped too tightly. “Got a situation I need you in on.”
That’s when I notice we’re not alone. A woman is perched in the chair beside the window, tablet balanced on one crossedknee. She’s dressed like she’s about to walk into a boardroom—blazer sharp enough to cut glass, heels that don’t belong in a gym. She glances up from whatever she’s typing, offers a polite smile, then looks right past me like she’s already filed me into whatever category I belong in.
“Donovan, this is our new PR consultant,” Headstrom says. “She’s with one of the most powerful firms in the country, headquartered out of Arizona, and she specializes in high-profile crisis management. She has an undefeated reputation; she’s handled bigger messes than ours. Media, scheduling, and keeping the program clean while we’re in the spotlight.”
She gives a small wave, her smile sharp. “Nice to meet you.”
I nod, barely glancing her way. My focus is on the sheet Headstrom just slapped down in front of me. It’s a printout from the(Virginia) Gazette, the headline bold enough to make my stomach drop:High School Athlete Involved in Late-Night Incident.
I skim the first paragraph. Noah Whitaker—JV sophomore. Fistfight behind a strip mall. Someone caught it on video.
“Kid’s fine,” Headstrom says, rubbing his temple, “but the story’s already spreading, and the district doesn’t want this touching varsity. Or the program’s image. That’s where she comes in.”
I glance toward the woman in the chair—she hasn’t said a word, just watching, her fingers moving over the tablet like she’s already drafting the spin.
“Elaine’s here to handle media, scheduling, and keep our name clean. She’s going to run point on the damage control, and we’re going to cooperate. That means player interviews, a couple of goodwill appearances, some volunteer work, and all eyes on us this weekend—not on that article.”
My chest tightens. “Starting this weekend?”
“Yeah.” He leans back, lacing his fingers over his stomach like the conversation’s already over. “Cancel your plans. We’re locking this down before it gets legs.”
The words land like a gut punch. Stella’s already counting down the hours until I’m home, and now I get to be the one who ruins it. I swallow it down, nod once, and slide the paper back across the desk, already dreading the text I’m going to have to send.
Me:Got roped into something for the team this weekend. Can’t get out of it.
Star:Define “something.”
Me:PR clean-up. Media stuff. Volunteer event. Headstrom’s orders.
Star:Mmm, so… instead of in my bed, you’ll be shaking hands and smiling for cameras?
