Whistle around his neck, barking orders like it’s his job.
Because apparently, itis.
I stop walking.
Dead stop.
That’s the man who had me flat on my back less than three hours ago, voice low and steady while I completelyforgot my own name. The man whose hands I can still feel. The same man I did not get a last name from because this was supposed to be easy.
Anonymous.
Ty bumps into me with a grunt, and Will crashes into both of us.
“What the hell, dude?—?”
“Holy shit,” I whisper.
Because Silas is standing at midfield in black athletic joggers, fitted team shirt stretched across his chest, tatted and tanned arms and flexed as he points out the next station for warmups. His hair’s pushed back, sunglasses on, whistle hanging loose around his neck. His voice carries—calm, clipped, authoritative.
Coach mode.
There’s no trace of the man who made me beg last night. No trace of the mouth that learned exactly where my pulse jumps. No trace of the voice that murmuredhermosolike it belonged to me.
I could almost convince myself I imagined it—if not for the dull ache still humming between my legs, if not for the way my body reacts just looking at him.
And he still doesn’t see me.
Not because he’s pretending. Because he genuinely hasn’t noticed yet.
My gaze drifts to the other man standing near the sideline, clipboard tucked under his arm, posture rigid as ever. Coach Harris. Same thick neck, same permanent scowl, same air of someone who believes punctuality is a moral virtue. I’ve known him since freshman year. He hasn’t changed a bit.
He glances up, spots us approaching late, and his expression darkens.
“You three want to join us,” he calls across the field, voice booming, “or should we hold practice until your social calendar clears up?”
Every head turns.
Including Silas’s.
And that’s when his gaze locks onto mine. Immediate. Unmistakable.
The smallest pause—barely a hitch in his posture, barely enough to notice if you weren’t looking for it.
But I am.
Then his jaw sets, professionalism snapping back into place like armor.
Coach Harris barely gives it a beat before barking, “Laps. Now. All three of you.”
Ty groans under his breath. Will mutters something about regretting every life choice that led him to this moment. I just lift my brows and throw a glance toward the man in joggers with the jaw of death and the voice that once saidmíramelike it meant everything.
We all start jogging, but I slow my pace a little—just enough to turn my head toward Harris and ask, all innocent, “So, who’s the new guy?”
That earns me a sharp look from both coaches, but I keep my expression neutral, maybe even a little bored. Ty side-eyes me with a silentwhat the hell are you doingexpression, but I ignore it. I’ve already committed to the bit.
Harris grunts. “Coach Gray. Assistant head coach. He’ll be leading drills this year.”
“Coach Gray,” I echo, loud enough that it carries. “Looks strict with that whistle around his neck.”
