Tyrell Jenkins and Will Rivera break into easy banter as they jog over to the cones, still laughing about something from their last lap. Both are built like boulders—linebackers who could probably flatten a truck if they hit it right.
“Save the jokes for after practice,” I snap, and they immediately sober, dropping into place without another word.
Colton Taylor’s already got a ball in hand, spinning it in practiced rhythm. He tosses a sharp spiral to Hudson Peoples, their backup QB, before catching it back with ease. There’s a natural leadership in Taylor—quiet, focused, efficient. I can see why he’s captain.
“Maddox,” I call out, loud enough to carry across the field. “You’re with Taylor. Shuttle sprints between cones, then catch on the cut. You drop a pass, you run it again.”
Luke jogs over, the only one who dares to smirk while doing it.
“Yes, Coach,” he says smoothly, like it’s a game, as if we’re still in last night’s afterglow.
I don’t acknowledge him.
Taylor flicks him a quick look, then nods once—his version ofLet’s get to work.
I focus on the rest of the groups, walking the perimeter of the drills like I don’t feel Luke’s eyes following me. I make a point of correcting Rivera’s foot placement, redirecting Jenkin’s body angle on the ladder steps, adjusting cone spacing for the cornerbacks.
“Again,” I bark to one group. “Explode off the line this time or don’t bother showing up on Saturday.”
They repeat the drill without complaint.
I move back toward the receivers just as Luke drops into a full sprint, cuts, and pivots perfectly on Taylor’s pass.
Of course he’s good. That’s part of the problem.
I glance at my watch and blow the whistle again. “Switch stations. Rivera, Jenkins—you’re on sled drills with Harper and Rojas. Taylor, Blackman, Peoples—deep pass tree. Maddox, cone weave sprints. Now.”
Luke jogs toward the next setup, tongue running over his bottom lip like he knows exactly how far he can push me.
He doesn’t. But he will. And by the time this practice is over, I’ll make damn sure he knows exactly where the lines are.
And what happens when he crosses them.
SEVEN
LUKE
Practice is pain.And not in a metaphoricalsweat is weakness leaving the bodykind of way. My thighs ache. My lower back twinges every time I push off the line. My entire ass feels like it’s filed a complaint with HR.
But do I show it?
Hell no.
I jog, I banter, I flirt, and I test every single nerve Silas Gray might have under that sculpted, bossy exterior.
“Damn, Luke,” Will calls as I drop into a cut and sprint back through the cones. “You’re running like you stole something.”
I flash a grin, breath catching just enough to make it sound dirty. “Stealing hearts left and right. Gotta stay in shape for the getaway.”
Will groans. “You’re such a slut.”
“And proud of it,” I shoot back, winking as I jog past.
Ty snorts and rolls his eyes. “You’re an idiot.”
But I don’t miss the sound that comes from Silas. A low, unmistakable growl in the back of his throat.
Barely audible.
