I press my forehead against the door, breathing in the lingering scent of her. My cock is already hardening again at the thought of her on the other side, still filled with me. Marked. Claimed.
“Fuck,” I mutter, pushing away from the door.
I need to get back to my room before I do something even stupider, like knock on her door and beg to be let in. The hallway stretches before me, empty and quiet except for the sound of my own footsteps and the thundering of my pulse in my ears.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, but I ignore it. It's probably Roman wanting to know where I disappeared to again. Or worse, Morrison with some new bullshit task forme to handle. Either way, it can wait until I'm back in my room with a drink in my hand.
The elevator ride is mercifully empty. I catch my reflection in the mirrored walls and barely recognize myself. My hair is disheveled, my shirt wrinkled where she gripped it. There's a faint smudge of her lipstick on my collar.
I look like a man who's lost control. And I fucking hate it. But I also fucking love it. The hypocrisy of it is not lost on me.
The doors open on my floor, and I step out, already fishing for my key card. I'm halfway down the hall when I hear it laughter, male voices, and the unmistakable sound of glass clinking against glass.
Three of my players—Smith, Avila, and Reid—are stumbling down the hallway toward the elevators, arms slung around each other's shoulders. Thompson's carrying what looks like a bottle wrapped in a paper bag.
“Hey, it's Coach!” Smith slurs, his face lighting up like he's spotted his best friend instead of the man about to make his life a living hell.
I step out of the elevator, my earlier frustration finding a perfect target. “What the fuck do you think you're doing?”
The smiles drop from their faces as I advance on them. Reid tries to hide the bottle behind his back, which only pisses me off more.
“We were just—” Avila starts.
“Save it,” I snap, snatching the bottle from Reid’s hand. Jack Daniel's and it’s half empty. “Did I or did I not make myself perfectly fucking clear at practice yesterday?”
They exchange nervous glances, suddenly looking a lot more sober.
“No drinking at the conference,” Smith mumbles, staring at his shoes.
“No drinking at the conference,” I repeat, my voice dangerously low. “And yet here you are, wasted in the hallway of a hotel full of NCAA officials, opposing coaches, and media personnel. Are you trying to get suspended? Or maybe you just want to run suicides until you puke for the rest of the season?”
Avila winces. “Coach, we just?—”
“I don't want to hear it,” I cut him off. “Room. Now. All of you.”
They shuffle down the hallway like scolded puppies, Avila fumbling with the key card three times before the door finally opens. I follow them inside, slamming the door behind me. The room reeks of cheap cologne and cheaper booze.
“Sit,” I order, pointing to the edge of the beds. They drop like stones, shoulders slumped. “What part of 'no drinking' was fucking unclear to you? You're representing St. Charles. You're representing me.”
I pace in front of them, the bottle still gripped in my hand. Reid’s eyes are fixed on it like he's mourning a lost friend.
Smith opens his mouth, probably to offer some half-assed excuse, but I cut him off with a glare that could freeze hell.
“Where the fuck are Blackwood and Astor?” I demand suddenly realizing two of my biggest troublemakers are missing from this little drinking party.
The three exchange glances, a silent conversation passing between them. Reid clears his throat.
“Stalking girls and causing general fucking mayhem, probably, Coach,” he mutters, not meeting my eyes.
My blood pressure spikes.
“You're telling me those two fucking idiots are out there right now?” I roar, making all three of them flinch. “While you're in here getting shitfaced, they're out there making my life even more difficult?”
I grab Avila by the front of his shirt, yanking him to his feet. “Call them. Now. Get their asses back here immediately.”
He fumbles for his phone, hands shaking as he scrolls through his contacts.
“Tell them I said their asses better be back in this fucking room when I come get you all at five a.m. for suicides.” I check my watch. It's just past midnight. “That gives them less than five hours to sober the fuck up and prepare for the worst morning of their lives.”
