Chloe moans again, this time louder, and something inside me breaks.
“Shut the fuck up,” I growl.
I grasp her hair and pull her head back firmly enough to make the point clear.She gasps, startled, but she doesn’t resist.I don’t want her voice or reactions.I want complete silence.
I close my eyes and fuck her like I’m losing my mind.My hips snap against her ass, rough and relentless.My grip tightens, and in my mind, the blonde hair in my fist darkens.Softer.Red.Not stiff with product.Not fake.
Sam.
I picture how she froze when I touched her.The way her breath caught.How her mouth opened just a little, like she didn’t know what was about to happen next.I imagine sliding my cock between those parted lips, that pause between us, her hesitation before she finally gives in.
The heat rises quickly.Too quickly.
My abs lock up, my balls draw tight as I chase it, pounding into Chloe with no rhythm, no care.I spill into the condom with a low curse, still fucking her through it until there’s nothing left in me.Until I’m empty, pissed off, and breathing hard.
I slow down before coming to a stop.
When I open my eyes, the fantasy vanishes immediately.Blonde hair slips through my fingers.Not red.She’s not Sam.
I let go of Chloe’s hair and pull out my cock, not caring that she didn’t finish.She probably fakes it anyway.The loud moans and breathless gasps—all fake to make herself feel wanted.
I walk to the trash can and throw away the condom.
Chloe adjusts her hair and waddles over with her underwear still bunched around her knees, completely unbothered.
“What’s the matter, baby?”she asks.“You don’t seem like yourself.”
That word “baby” makes my blood boil.
After I tuck my cock back into my pants, I grab my bag from the floor and walk past her.
“You don’t get to call me that fucking name, for starters,” I tell her.
I ignore the hurt on her face, push the door open, and leave, ignoring the way she snaps my name behind me, pissed off and sharp.
All I can think about is Sam.
And the fucked-up truth is, Chloe, didn’t help at all.
The bell rings, so I head to practice with my jaw clenched and chest buzzing, anger and desire tangled so tightly I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
Every step toward the building feels heavy.I keep wondering whether the team already knows I’m back or if I’ll get to walk in and see it register on their faces in real time.
The locker room provides that answer for me.
The second I walk in, a few heads turn.
A brief moment of silence, then it shatters.
“Wilson.”
Someone grins.A couple of guys I used to line up beside get to their feet without saying a word, fists already raised.I tap them back; the contact sends a jolt through my arm.Welcome back.No speeches or bullshit.Just acknowledgment.
Some guys stay on the bench.The ones who aren’t too happy about my return.A few guys I’ve put in place outside these walls watch me with flat expressions.I can tell by the way they don’t move that they would rather watch me die than rejoin the team.
Good.
I don’t need their fucking permission.
