“I’m just saying,” he grins, leaning his head against the window like this is a totally normal conversation. “You look stressed. I’m helpful.”
“You’re not actually serious,” I say.
He hums. “And yet you’re hard again.”
I glance over at him. He wiggles his brows like a little shit, smug and so full of it, and if I weren’t trying so damn hard to be responsible?—
“If I pull over right now,” I warn, voice low, “you’re walking to practice.”
“You say that like it’s a punishment,” he teases.
I groan and press harder on the gas, needing the drive to end before I give in to the temptation of his smart mouth and even smarter hands.
“Sit there,” I mutter, jaw tight, “and don’t talk for five minutes.”
He leans back with a shit-eating grin. “Fine. But I still think you’re missing a great opportunity. Road-head builds trust.”
“Luke.”
“What? You don’t believe in team bonding?”
I don’t answer. I can’t. Because if I do, I might tell him that I’d very much like road-head, as he put it. And he knows it.
He shifts in his seat again, legs stretching out. “What are you going to tell the team when I show up with you, in your clothes?”
Shit, he’s right.
I glance at him—at the hoodie that still swallows him whole, the sleeves hiding his hands, the drawstring chewed between his teeth. And yeah, I want him. I want this. I want the whole fucking world to know. But we’re not there yet. Not in a way the world can see.
And definitely not in a way I can drive him to practice like this.
I flick on my blinker and turn early, pulling onto a quieter side street, a block from the dorms. Luke doesn’t say anything at first, just watches me with raised brows as I ease thecar to a stop.
“Really?” he asks, voice light but eyes sharp. “You’re doing the drop-off routine?”
I sigh and scrub a hand over my jaw. “You need your gear. And if we walk in together, like this, we’re not going to make it ten feet before someone starts asking questions.”
He stares at me for a beat, then glances down at himself—the hoodie, the too big joggers, a grin tugging at his lips despite the tension building between us.
Then he pouts.
Full bottom lip, slouched posture, arms crossed like a sulking teenager. “I feel like your dirty little secret.”
“Luke—”
“I mean, I am,” he says, mock-hurt. “Literally. In your hoodie. Full of your?—”
“Luke.” My voice is sharper this time.
His lips twitch.
I narrow my eyes, and he finally cracks a grin. “I’m joking,” he says, reaching for the door handle. “I know your job’s important. And I like you too much to fuck it up.”
My heart squeezes at his words.
He opens the door, but before he steps out, he leans over and presses a kiss to my cheek—quick, sweet, and maddeningly tender.
“I’ll see you at practice, Coach,” he says, picking up his sneakers and turning toward his dorms.
