We’re here because this is where all our cars are. Home base. The place we scatter from, back to our own corners of the city, until Harrow drags us back again.
The bus sighs to a stop. No one moves. Not until Coach flicks his hand once, dismissive.
Then the aisle clogs with bodies, gear clattering. Like we just survived something worse than the Phantoms.
Cole and I are mid-jab war by the time we hit the lot, both of us hauling bags, both of us running on plane sleep and way too much chaos.
“Face it, Hollywood,” I shoot, curls bouncing as I half-stumble over my gear. “You only scored that second-period breakaway because their goalie got distracted by your hair product blinding him.”
Cole clutches his chest like I just shot him, sunglasses slipping down his nose. “You wound me, rookie. This isall-natural shine.”
I bark a laugh, jogging to keep up with him as we cut toward his obnoxiously red convertible—the same one I’ve been hitching rides in since I landed here last week. “All-natural? Bro, you smell like an entire Sephora. If I lit a match near you, we’d all explode.”
He grins, sharp and smug, tossing his keys up in one hand. “Don’t act like you wouldn’t miss me if I went up in flames.”
“Miss the smell of burning hair gel?” I chirp, grinning. “Not a chance.”
We’re still bickering, still trading jabs, when it happens.
A weight. Heavy, deliberate.
A hand—massive, calloused—lands at the back of my neck. Not rough, not soft either. Just…final. Constant pressure that pulls me clean off course.
I jerk, stumbling sideways, my mouth still open around the taunt I was about to fling at Cole.
“Hey—what the—”
Cole’s grin widens instantly, wolf-bright. He throws me a two-finger salute as I’m redirected like a shopping cart. “See ya, curls! If youmake it.”
The words slice through me like a blade. My stomach drops. My eyes go wide, my neck craning back, up—because of course. Of course it’s him.
Damian.
Towering, silent, eyes unreadable under his hair. His grip is iron at the back of my neck, steering me without a word. My bag shifts awkwardly in my hands as I half-jog to keep from tripping, my heart banging loud in my ears.
My mouth goes dry.
“Captain—” My voice cracks.
But he doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to. Just angles me straight toward the hulking black SUV at the far end of the lot. His.
Cole’s laugh echoes behind us, high and smug and way too pleased.
And I’m vibrating.
Because suddenly I’m not headed for the obnoxious convertible I’ve been riding in all week.
Damian doesn’t even break stride. Doesn’t look at me, doesn’t acknowledge the fact that I’m tripping over my own skates and gear bag trying to keep up with the hand clamped on my neck.
He reaches the SUV, pops the trunk one-handed, and wrenches my bag clean out of my grip like I’m five years old. Mine and his both land in the back with a heavythunk.
The next sound is the door hinge creaking, the massive passenger-side door swung open like it weighs nothing.
“In.”
One word.
And my body betrays me. A sound rips out of my throat—half-breath, half-moan. Quiet, humiliating, automatic.
