My jaw clenches so hard it aches. I force my expression blank, dragging the towel across the back of my neck like I’m just cooling down, casual, unbothered. But inside? Inside, everything’s spiraling.
She’s here. She’s close. She’s moving forward, and I’m standing still.
I keep my head down, breathing slow, pretending to listen when a couple of the guys joke about a bad call from practice. One of them claps me on the back, too hard, and I grunt, nodding like I heard whatever was said. I didn’t. The only thing echoing in my skull is her name.
“Coach Prescott.” One of the younger players drops onto the bench across from me, tugging at the tape around his wrists. “You good? You look… I don’t know. Somewhere else.”
“I’m fine.” The words come out sharper than I intend. I clear my throat, force them smoother. “Just thinking through drills for tomorrow.”
He nods, buys it, and shifts the conversation back to the game film. The relief is instant, but it doesn’t last. Because all I can hear, under the hum of the room, is that someone had a date with Sarah Evans. My Sarah.
Like I needed the reminder that she’s not mine. Like I don’t already know every line of her face, the way she bites her lipwhen she’s trying not to laugh, the exact shade of her eyes when she’s tired.
I drag the towel from my neck, fold it too neat, too deliberately, before tossing it into the bin. My movements are steady, practiced. Inside, I’m unraveling.
Because it’s not just that she’s back. It’s that she’s building a life that doesn’t include me.
She’d been gone for almost a year, some big PR contract downstate, long enough for me to start pretending I was over her. And now she’s back in town, working in the university’s Communications Office, like the universe wants to remind me she’s close enough to touch but still completely out of reach.
And if I don’t move, if I don’t do something, she’ll slip further away until there’s no catching up.
I stand abruptly, mumbling something about reviewing film, about wanting to get ahead. A couple of guys glance my way, curious, but no one stops me. I head for the door, each step heavier than it should be, each one pounding with the same truth I can’t outrun.
I can’t sit here.
I can’t pretend it doesn’t matter.
I can’t lose her again.
Not without trying.
…………
When I get home the house is too quiet. Sierra’s already in bed, a thin line of light spilling out from under the bedroom door, but I can’t make myself go in. Not yet. I flick the TV on, more for the noise than anything else, the glow washing over the walls in flickers I don’t even register. I haven’t heard a word of the commentary or the score. My head’s somewhere else entirely.
Sarah.
It’s ridiculous how one name can drown out everything else. I’ve built a whole life since her: coaching, marriage, the house with the white shutters Sierra swore she’d always wanted. I’ve stacked choices like bricks, trying to wall her out. And still, she slips through the cracks. Still shows up when I least expect it, at the coffee shop, in the locker room, in the silence between breaths.
I sink onto the couch, elbows braced on my knees, hands laced together so tight they ache. I told myself a thousand times it was over. She made her choice, I made mine. But the truth is, I’ve never been able to cut her out. Not completely. She’s threaded through every win, every loss, every moment I should’ve felt more than I did.
Sometimes she shows up clearest when I’m weakest, when exhaustion drags me under and memory doesn’t bother asking permission.
I’m half under, the weight of the day dragging me down. Last thing I remember, I was stretched out on the couch. But then,there’s a shift of the mattress beneath me. Sheets, not cushions. The brush of fingers against my chest.
“Jace,” she whispers, low and rough, like she’s been holding back all night.
My eyes snap open, and she’s there. Sarah. Hair spilling over her shoulder, lips parted, crawling up my body like she belongs here. The sheet slips low around my hips, and her hand follows, slow at first, then bolder when my breath stutters. Her palm closes around my cock through the thin cotton of my boxers, pressure firm enough to drag a curse out of me.
“Jesus,” I rasp, catching her wrist before she can pull away. “You trying to kill me?”
Her grin is quick, wicked. “Not unless you want me to.”
I flip her beneath me before the laugh can fade, pinning her wrists above her head. She gasps, arching up, and the sound shoots straight through me. Her thighs spread, welcoming me in, the thin scrap of her shorts doing nothing to hide the heat of her. I grind down once, sharp and hungry, and she moans into my mouth like she’s been starving for it.
“You drive me insane,” I mutter against her lips, teeth grazing, tongue chasing the taste of her. “Can’t ever get enough.”
Her hips lift, frantic. “Then take it. Take me.”
