I move on. Quick, clinical corrections with Taylor on his pocket reads. A talk with Blackman about keeping his hands tighter on press coverage. I even make a point to pull Rivera and Jenkins aside during water break and ask them about footwork drills, ignoring the way they both grin like they’ve seen something they weren’t supposed to.
By the time the final scrimmage whistle blows, I’vecorrected seven players, reviewed two plays, and said absolutely nothing personal to anyone else.
Luke doesn’t look at me again. Not once. Which is probably the smart thing. The right thing. And it still grates like sandpaper under my skin.
I blow the final whistle and call out, “Good work. Hit the locker room. Ice up. Full lift schedule tomorrow.”
A few of them groan. Taylor makes some joke about “Coach Gray and his love language being pain.” The others laugh. Luke jogs off without a word.
I let them go.
And try like hell not to watch him.
The locker room finally empties.One last slam of a locker. One more muffled curse over sore hamstrings. Then silence.
I let it settle for a minute.
Just me, the low hum of the overhead light, and the smell of turf sweat andGatoraderesidue still clinging to my skin. I lean back in my chair, stretch the tension out of my neck, and tell myself today was fine. Professional. Mostly.
I made it through without crossing any lines.
Until the door creaks open.
Luke strolls in like he owns the place—which, judging by the shit-eating grin on his face, he absolutely believes he does.
“Don’t you knock?” I ask without looking up from my clipboard.
“Not when I’m expected.”
“You weren’t.”
He shrugs, walking deeper into the office, sweat-dark curls falling over his forehead. His practice tee is clinging to his chest in all the wrong ways. Or maybe all the right ones. My jaw tenses as I try—and fail—not to watch the way his hips shift as he walks.
He leans on the desk watching me. “You gonna tell me what that was out there today?”
I arch a brow. “You’re gonna have to be more specific.”
He grins, eyes dancing. “The way you touched me as though we were alone in your bed.”
“I corrected your form,” I say. “That’s my job.”
He hums, mock serious. “Mmhmm. And is it also your job to stare at me like you're starving? Because I gotta tell you, Coach… it gives me a hard-on. And it’s really hard to run full speed when I’m half hard in compression shorts and a jock strap.”
I close my eyes.
“Luke—”
He pushes off the desk, circling toward me slowly. “Maybe just tone down the lust a little while we’re on the field. Or I’m gonna have to start calling you something worse than Sir in front of the team.”
“Don’t,” I warn.
His grin widens. “Okay, Daddy.”
Every part of me stills. The breath in my lungs freezes. My pulse slams in my throat.
Fuck.
It shouldn’t hit like that—shouldn’t curl around my spine and tighten my fucking balls, or make my fingers twitch with the urge to grab him and pin him right there against my desk.
