Before I let myself wantmore.
I fix my joggers and rake a hand through my hair and mutter under my breath, “No.Esto no puede volver a pasar.”
This can’t happen again.
I don’t look at him when I say it. Can’t. If I do, I’ll break whatever fragile wall I’ve managed to throw back up.
There’s a pause.
Then Luke shifts, slow and deliberate. He glances back over his shoulder, blue eyes perceptive, catching the tone if not the words. Amusement flickers there—soft and dangerous.
“Oh,” he says lightly. “That sounded serious.”
I grit my teeth.
He turns just enough to face me, expression all lazy confidence. “Let me guess,” he adds, tilting his head. “You’re regretting fucking your player against a locker?”
The words land clean. Precise. As though he knows exactly where to hit.
“That’s not funny,” I snap.
He shrugs, unapologetic. “Didn’t say it was. Your Spanish sounded like regret.”
I force myself to breathe. Slow. Controlled. Professional.
“This ends here,” I say flatly. “What happened stays here. You don’t bring it onto the field. You don’t bring it into practice. And you don’t—” My jaw tightens. “—look at me like that again.”
Luke studies me for a long moment.
Then he smiles.
“Sure, Coach,” he says easily. “Whatever you need to tell yourself. You’re not going to get strings attached to physical acts from me. I’m not the type for commitment.”
And with that, he turns away to finish getting dressed, as though he hasn’t just detonated something inside my chest. I want to grab him and stop him, tell him I don’t regret what we did, I regret we can’t have more, but I’m pretty sure he doesn’t want more.
I stand there long after he leaves, the locker room echoing and empty, my control rebuilt brick by brick—but cracked all the same.
Because I don’t regret it. And that’s how I know I’m already fucked.
NINE
LUKE
I don’t slamthe door behind me.
Icould. I want to. But that would give him the satisfaction of knowing he got to me.
So I walk. Smooth. Steady. As though my knees aren’t still shaking and my throat isn’t tight and there isn’tsomething—some ache or burn or bruise—lodged right under my ribs, raw and painful and refusing to fade.
The sun’s still high, bright enough to sting my eyes as I step into the thick midday heat. Everything around me feelsloud—the buzz of lawnmowers in the distance, a basketball hitting pavement, birds shrieking from a rooftop as if they’ve never known heartbreak.
I make it halfway across the parking lot before I stop, blinking hard against the glare. Because I’ve hooked up before. I’ve had sex that was rough, breathless, fast and filthy. I’ve chased it, reveled in it, used it like armor. Idon’tget emotional about it.
So what the hell is this? Why does it feel like I just gotkissed and shoved in the same breath? Why does it feel like he stripped more than just my clothes?
“Luke?”
I blink again.
