“You think I want to be in this position, Luke?” he says, voice low now. “You think I’m enjoying pretending that what happened in that locker room never happened?”
The air thickens. I swallow hard.
Silas steps around the desk but keeps his distance. “You think I don’t notice every time you look at me like you want to burn the whole place down?”
“I’m not the only one looking,” I say, just to push him. “You could’ve put anyone else on the bench today. Peoples tweaked his shoulder on a pass, even. But you didn’t.”
He holds my gaze, unreadable.
“I’m not fragile,” I say again, quieter now. “You’re just scared.”
His lips part like he’s about to say something—deny it, argue, throw it back in my face—but then he stops. And that silence says everything. I nod once.
“Thanks for the trust, Coach,” I mutter, voice flat as I turn to go. “Glad to know you’ve got my back. From the bench.”
And I walk out before he can answer.
Because if I stay—if I let him look at me like that again—I’m not sure I’ll be able to pretend I’m fine either.
TWELVE
LUKE
Riot’s packed.
The kind of packed that makes your shirt stick to your back and your drink vanish in seconds because you’re either dancing and need something to quench your thirst or dodging elbows and spilling it all over. Lights flash, bass thumps, and the air smells like sweat, vodka, and every type of bad decision imaginable.
Perfect.
Daniel laughs as I spin him, both of us stupid with adrenaline and zero rhythm. We’ve been out here for two songs already, and I’m finally starting to feel the static in my chest burn off.
“Are we already pretending I’m your fake boyfriend or what?” he yells over the music, grinning.
“Obviously,” I shout back, rolling my hips with extra flair. “Gotta make them believe you’re obsessed with me. If we can pull it off here, my parents are a piece of cake.”
“Pretty sure half the room already does.”
I smirk, leaning in just enough to press my foreheadagainst his, laughing breathlessly. We’re close. Flushed. From the outside, it probably looks real.
It’s not.
And that’s what makes it easy.
Daniel’s not looking at me like I’m glass. He’s not trying to fix me or figure me out. We’re just… two guys burning off the week. No strings or emotional subtext, just the beat between us and the strobe lights overhead.
But then a prickle down my spine has me glancing around. I stiffen. My gaze lifts, as if it knows, and finds exactly what—who—I hoped wouldn’t be here tonight. Across the room, a pair of whiskey brown eyes pin me in place.
Silas Gray, my fucking obsession.
He’s standing off to the side, his shirt tight across his chest, sleeves rolled up—similar to how I first saw him. Except his expression is unreadable. The drink in his grip he clearly isn’t drinking. And to top it all off, his eyes are locked on me as though I just kicked his puppy and smiled.
Daniel follows my stare, then whistles low. “Uh-oh.”
I snap my attention back to him, heart hammering and those irritating fucking butterflies resurrecting themselves because they also have stupid instincts when it comes to him.
“It’s fine,” I lie. “Let him watch, maybe then he’ll understand what he’s missing.”
“Jesus,” Daniel mutters. “You really have a death wish. Only I’m pretty sure I’m the one in the cross-hairs of this one. Shit, you didn’t say he was possessive."
