My bed is made. My socks are in drawers instead of in the sock bin I normally use. And I’ve paced the living room so many times the carpet’s probably thinking about filing a complaint.
It’s not like this is a date.
It’s not like I asked him to come overforanything. We’re just going to talk. Sit down. Clear the air. Set expectations.
That’s what this is.
Or so I tell myself, again, dragging a hand over the back of my neck.
My phone buzzes on the table—just a message from Harris about next week’s practice schedule. Not Luke. Not yet. The knot in my chest tightens anyway.
I’ve faced losing games. Faced injuries. Hell, I’ve faced Xavier’s parents in a sterile hallway when there was nothing left to say.
But this—waiting for Luke to show up, to walk through that door and possibly undo every boundary I’ve fought to keep in place—this might be worse. Because I want him here.
I want him more than I should. Not just his body, not just his attitude, or the way he saysyes, SirorDaddyas though they are a challenge and a promise all in one.
I want therestof him. The tangled parts. The soft ones he doesn’t show anyone. The broken ones he’s convinced make him unlovable.
And that’s the real reason I vacuumed. Because if I’m going to fuck this up, I want to at least do it with clean floors.
I glance at the clock. He should be out of the shower and eaten by now. On his way. Unless he changed his mind. Unless he’s decided we’re too complicated. Unless he realized?—
The knock on the door makes my pulse jump. I cross the room with slow, steady steps, nerves making my palms feel clammy. And when I open the door—he’s there, looking slightly awkward, nibbling on his lower lip in a way that has me wanting to tug it free.
He looks like he’s fresh out of a shower, hair still damp at the hairline, cheeks slightly flushed from either nerves or the walk over. Tight jeans. Black T-shirt. And the second he meets my eyes, his mouth tilts into a cocky little smirk that’s clearly trying to mask whatever’s happening behind his eyes.
My heart stutters forgetting how to function with him standing here in front of me. My fingers tighten on the door handle as I stareat him.
He lifts a brow. “You gonna invite me in, Coach, or just stare at me like you’re trying to commit me to memory?”
“I’m thinking about both,” I admit.
His smile slips for a second. Just a tiny little second that someone else probably wouldn’t have caught. And I know he’s feeling it too. Whatever this is.
I step aside, holding the door wide open.
“Come in,” I say, voice rough.
Luke steps over the threshold, eyes scanning the space. Then his gaze flicks back to mine, mouth tugging up at the corners.
“And shoes off,” he adds, tone lazy. “Since I know you like rule followers.”
He toes off his sneakers right by the door, like he’s done it a hundred times. I don’t say anything. Because if I open my mouth, I might say something stupid—likeStay forever.
Instead, I lock the door behind him and nod toward the living room. “Couch.”
He arches a brow. “So bossy. No drink first?”
“Don’t push it, Luke.”
He grins. “You say that like you don’t know me at all.”
I walk past him, toward the kitchen. “Water?”
“No whiskey?” he calls after me, playful.
“No alcohol,” I say, glancing back over my shoulder. “We’re both staying sober for this.”
