“Gross.”
“What?” Luke shrugs, completely unbothered. “Multi-talented. Some of us give 110% on and off the field.”
“Off which field?” Peoples calls.
Luke smirks. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
I grind my teeth.
It’s not the flirting. Not really. Most of these guys are walking hormone bombs, and half of them flirt just to see what sticks. But Luke’s different. Calculated. His words are flippant, but his eyes flick over to me.
Just for a second. Just long enough to let me know the comment was for me.
And maybe for someone else too.
Because earlier today, I heard him mention Prism. Just casually. Like he was still on it. Still swiping. Still?—
Fuck.
I pace down the sideline, barking instructions as the guys switch drills. A few groan, but they move. Even Luke. He always does, eventually.
That’s the problem.
He listens. Just enough.
Pushes. Just enough.
And every time I think he’s done testing limits, he finds a new one. A new way to remind me of that night—of how I lethermososlip out before I knew who he was. Before I knew I’d be coaching him. Before I knew the cost.
I haven’t so much as looked at anyone else since.
But Luke’s out here dragging every pair of eyes in his direction, as if attention is oxygen and he’ll die without it.
Worse—heknowsI’m watching. And he fucking likes it.
I snap my clipboard closed with a little more force than necessary and call the group back in for rotations.
Control is supposed to be mine.
But around Luke Maddox? It’s slipping.
And I know exactly what it’s going to cost me if I don’t get it back.
The field finally clears.
Pads hit the turf with dull thuds, cleats scuff pavement, and voices fade to the low hum of end-of-day exhaustion. I take a long breath, roll out the tension in my shoulders, and remind myself that I survived another practice without throttling my star running back.
Barely.
Harris claps me on the shoulder as he passes, already scrolling through something on his phone. “Got a meeting across campus. You good to lock up?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“Appreciate it.” He doesn’t look up. “Try not to murder Maddox. We need him Saturday.”
I don’t dignify that with a response. It’s bad enough that my technical boss has seemed to pick up on whatever this is that’s between us.
The locker room is half-empty when I step in, steam clinging to the mirrors and the heavy scent of sweat, deodorant,and that God-awful body spray someone’s still using like they’re in high school.
