I listen—for the most part. I run clean routes, catch every ball Colton throws my way, and even manage to keep my mouth shut during conditioning. Mostly.
By the time the final whistle blows, my muscles feel like overcooked spaghetti, but I’m still upright. Still keeping my grin firmly in place. You won’t catch me down.
Silas doesn’t dismiss us right away. He waits until everyone’s gathered at midfield, his arms crossed over his chest, sunglasses still on, jaw clenched in a way thatprobably scares freshmen and fuels my more questionable fantasies.
“That’s it for today,” he says. “Hit the locker room. Cold soak for anyone who wants to keep their legs from locking up.”
Everyone starts to break apart, a collective groan rising from the group. I move to follow?—
“Maddox,” he says. “Stay back.”
I freeze. A few heads turn. Will raises an eyebrow. Colton mouthsWhat the fuck did you do now,and I offer a one-shoulder shrug that doesn’t help.
Micah gives me a half-hearted pat on the back as he walks past. “Good luck, slut.”
“Thanks, babe,” I call after him, before turning back toward Silas.
The field empties quickly. Just me and him now. And the moment stretches. He hasn’t said a word.
Just stands there, whistle long forgotten, chest rising and falling in a slow, deliberate rhythm. Sunglasses still on. Still unreadable.
I cock an eyebrow, breaking the silence with a smirk that’s more defense mechanism than charm. “Need something, Coach? I’m pretty wiped from drills, but I might be able to?—”
“No.”
The word slices through my sentence, sharp and final.
He takes a step forward. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that I can smell the ghost of sweat and soap and something that might still bemeon his skin.
“You need to forget about last night,” he says. “It doesn’t matter now. Nothing can come of it.”
I blink.
Then I snort—loud and a little incredulous. “Wow. That’s dramatic.”
He doesn’t react.
So I lift one shoulder again, laughing under my breath. “Relax, Coach. That’s usually how a one-night stand works.”
A muscle ticks in his jaw, and I really would love nothing more than to lick it. Practice is going to be hard, pun intended, with him as my offensive coach. Because it was a one-night stand, but it’s one that I would repeat, which is saying something.
I half expect him to turn and walk away.
But he doesn’t.
He just stares, silent behind those sunglasses, as though he’s waiting for me to take my words back. Like he’s not convinced I’ll let this drop.
Which is probably fair.
Because I’m not sure I will.
He doesn’t move.
Just stands there like a statue sculpted out of tension and misplaced restraint, lips pressed tight, jaw clenched, arms crossed over that stupidly broad chest like he’s trying to hold himself together.
“Anything else, Coach?” I ask, tone sugar-sweet and shameless. “Or should I go hit the showers before the water runs cold?”
Still nothing.
