Because some part of me trusted the shape of his control more than I trusted my own noise.
That realization scared me more than wanting him.
After practice, I stayed in the shower too long, then couldn’t remember whether I’d used soap, so I used it again. I put my compression shirt on backward, fixed it, lost my phone, found it under my towel, then forgot my socks until Roman silently tossed them at my chest from across the room.
I caught them.
He looked away before I could say anything.
That hurt worse than if he’d yelled.
Milo, sensing danger like a golden retriever near a thunderstorm, kept his mouth shut for once. Brooks hummed badly while tying his shoes. Lowell asked Benny about a stick curve with the focused desperation of a man trying to avoid family tension at Thanksgiving.
I dressed fast.
Too fast, because I left my watch in my stall and had to go back for it. By then the room had thinned. Roman was gone. Milo was talking to Tessa in the hall about some charity appearance and using both hands to explain something that did not require either of them.
I kept my head down and aimed for the back exit.
I almost made it.
“Holloway.”
Declan’s voice came from the short hallway outside the coaches’ offices.
My whole body stopped before I told it to.
I turned.
He stood near the equipment room door.
Of course. Of fucking course.
No one else was in the hall. The main locker room noise carried faintly behind me, distant enough to feel unreal. A cart rattledsomewhere around the corner. The building smelled like wet gear and floor cleaner.
Declan looked like a head coach after practice. Pullover. Dark pants. Tablet in one hand. Whistle gone. Hair slightly damp at the temples. Face controlled so tightly I could see the strain in it now.
I saw it because I was looking for cracks.
Maybe because I needed proof I wasn’t the only one coming apart.
“Coach,” I said.
His eyes flicked briefly toward the corner, then back to me. “You ate?”
Of all the things he could have said, that nearly broke something in me.
I huffed out a breath that wasn’t a laugh. “That’s your question?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
His nostrils flared, subtle, irritated. Familiar enough to make heat crawl under my skin.
“I had a protein shake,” I added, because apparently I was incapable of not answering him properly.
“When?”
