Hermoso desastre.
That’s what he is. A beautiful fucking mess.
And this—this—is why I don’t bend my rules. Why I don’t fuck near home. Why I don’t bring anyone back to my own goddamn bed.
If I hadn’t made that mistake, I wouldn’t be standing here now, fighting the urge to call him into the coaches’ office after practice.
Not for discipline.
Not for punishment.
But because I want his smart mouth wrapped around something else entirely.
And that is exactly the problem.
Coach Harris checks his watch, then hands off the clipboard I’ve already memorized.
“I’ve got some paperwork to handle with Admin. New scholarship stuff, incoming transfers, that kind of crap. You good to run the rest of practice?”
“Yeah,” I say, eyes still on the field. “I’ve got it.”
He grunts his approval. “Don’t go easy on them. Especially Maddox—kid’s got too much natural talent and not enough sense.”
“He’ll get sense,” I mutter, more to myself than to Harris.
The older coach claps my shoulder once—too hard, butnot unkind—before heading off toward the main building, leaving me with the field and thirty-something athletes in various stages of warm-up.
And one smug little bastard jogging straight toward me.
Luke slows just enough to look casual, not enough to be called out. He shouldn’t be able to talk at this pace, but of course he does. He flashes me a grin like he’s still in my bedroom, not my training ground.
“Coach Gray,” he says, voice too damn bright, “you always keep such a close eye on your players?”
My teeth grind.
“I mean, don’t get me wrong,” he adds, a little breathless now. “Kinda hot, the whole silent authority thing. Very headmaster meets halftime fantasy.”
I step forward—just one—watching the way his eyes flick down, the faintest twitch of awareness that he’s pushing too far.
Good.
He should know what happens when you poke a lion.
“You’ve got one more lap, Maddox,” I say. “And I expect you to run it without your mouth moving.”
He grins wider, but he picks up his pace. Only now, I know what he’s doing. He’s not just pushing my buttons. He’s daring me to push back.
And I will. Later.
I turn away before I do something stupid.
Like drag him into the nearest building and remind him exactly how last night ended—with his fingers clutching my sheets and my name a broken sound on his lips.
Instead, I blow the whistle and bark the first set of drills.
“Pair off! Cone ladders and lateral shuffles—full speed!Linemen group to the left, receivers and backs to the right. Quarterbacks, warm-up passes. Go!”
Movement explodes across the field as players scramble into action.
