But I am.
His head turns just slightly—enough to scan the field, not enough to be intentional. Still, our eyes catch for a fraction of a second. No smirk. No wink. Just that unreadable look.
But I feel it. That same fucking pull, that hum under my skin that hasn’t shut up since I put my hands on him in the locker room. Since I touched him as though I didn’t know better.
Since Ifuckedhim like I didn’t care.
Then he’s gone, swallowed up by the tunnel.
I close the clipboard and hand it to Harris.
“I’ve got somewhere to be,” I say. “Are you okay with locking up today?”
He doesn’t question it. Just nods.
I don’t usually leave early, so he doesn’t even question me.
Which is good—because I don’t think I could explain it if he did.
I head straight to the parking lot, peeling off my shirt once I’m behind the wheel. The heat has sunk into my bones, but it’s not the weather that’s making me itch.
It’s Luke.
Or more specifically, it’s the ghost of Luke in my hands. His voice in my ear. That lace between his cheeks. That goddamn moan.
I scrub a hand over my face and curse under my breath.
I should’ve known better. Ididknow better. But knowing and stopping are two different things. Especially when it comes to him.
I take the longer route out of town. Windows down. Music low. Just enough time to convince myself this detour makes sense. That this visit isn’t a reaction to that look on the field. That it’s not because I’m slipping. Again.
It’s nearly silent when I pull into the lot—only the chirp of birds and the slow whir of a lawn crew in the distance. It’s always quiet here, like the world’s been padded in cotton and grief. I pull my shirt back on and climb out of the car.
I don’t bother with the front desk. They know me by now. I sign the clipboard and head down the familiar hall, past pastel walls and patient doors, until I reach the one that still matters.
Xavier Morales. Room 314.
It’s strange how seeing his name in print still makes something twist in my gut.
I push the door open slowly.
He’s in the window seat again, same as always. Posture loose, gaze unfocused. The TV plays softly in the background—some old college game rerun, a decade out of sync with the present.
His hands rest on the blanket folded across his lap. One of his knees bounces faintly—an echo of the energy that used to live inside him. That fire. Thatdrive.
“Hey, X,” I say softly, stepping inside.
No answer. No shift in his eyes. No sign he knows I’m here.
Still, I pull the plastic chair closer and drop into it with a sigh.
“I had to get out of there,” I admit, elbows on my knees. “Practice ended early. One of my players… he—” I break off. “Doesn’t matter.”
Because it’s not like Xavier can respond.
Not like he can call me a goddamn hypocrite. Not like he can remind me howhetrusted me once—how he took the hits I let him play through. How I was supposed to protect him, and instead, I missed the signs until it was too late.
“You’d hate him,” I say, lying through my teeth. “Too cocky. Too pretty. Thinks the world should spin around him.” I smile without humor. “No. You’d love him.”
