“You already have it,” I growl—too low for anyone else to hear.
He shivers.
I should walk away. I should put distance between us. I should stop letting him get inside my head. There are a lot of things Ishoulddo, and I do none of them.
His smirk fades just slightly when I don’t walk away.
Instead, I move closer—one step, then another—until my shadow falls across his feet. He straightens a little, chest rising, trying to play it off. But I see it. The hitch in his breath. The tension that coils through his shoulders when I reach out.
“Square up,” I say, voice low, clipped.
He obeys. Of course he does. That’s the part that kills me—how easily he follows orders, even now.
I step behind him, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin, but don’t touch him. Not yet. I watch the subtle shift of his stance, the angle of his feet, the coil of his legs.
His hips are turned out slightly—barely enough to notice. But it matters. Especially for a running back who relies on explosive cuts and sharp changes in direction. That’s where the power comes from. The hips.
“Lower,” I say, voice flat.
He sinks down a little more, weight shifting between his feet. And he wobbles.
That’s when I move. My hand lands on his left hip, firm and steady, while my other braces lightly against his oblique. I guide his hips inward, rotating them just a few degrees, locking them into alignment.
“Your turn’s breaking down here,” I say, low in his ear. “You’re opening too soon. Keep it tucked until your inside foot plants. Then drive.”
He doesn’t say anything for a beat. Just breathes, shallow and measured.
“You always get this handsy when someone’s a little off, Coach?”
I tighten my hold just slightly. Not enough to be inappropriate. But enough for him to feel the heat behind it. The intent.
“This isn’t about you,” I lie. “It’s about form.”
“Mmm,” he hums, letting the sound vibrate between us. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
I release him as though his skin burns, pulling back and letting my hands drop to my sides. I don’t meet his eyes.
“You’ve got the instinct,” I say. “But instincts can getsloppy if you don’t check the mechanics. If you’re going to own the title of the best Running Back in the league, you need to tighten it up.”
He looks over his shoulder, mouth curved in something that’s not quite a smile. “Yes, Sir.”
And the way he says it—breathy and cocky—it sparks low in my gut.
I turn away before I do something fucking stupid.
I’m playing with fire here. I know better. The team’s going to gossip like teenage girls in the locker room after practice—hell, they probably already are.
So, I straighten, tilt my head back toward the field, and say loud enough for everyone to hear, “Go run that again. Full speed this time.”
Then I raise a hand. “Peoples! Over here.”
He jogs over, sweat beading at his temple, face already flushed. I keep my tone neutral as I step in close and adjust his stance, pointing out the slight lag in his first step and the way he flares his elbow out when it should stay tight to his body.
“You’re dropping your shoulder before the cut,” I say. “That’s a tell. Keep it square until the break.”
He nods. “Yes, Coach.”
Good. Normal. Professional.
