Chapter 10
Reece
It’s the last class of the day, and I’m balls deep in it with Chloe in the third-floor bathroom, trying to get the ghost of Sam out of my mind. My hand grips the sink as I thrust into Chloe from behind, the mirror shifting slightly with each movement.
"Oh yeah, baby,” Chloe moans. “That’s it. Just like that.”
She throws her head back, her voice echoing off the tiles, with her mouth open, moaning louder.
Usually, I like it when girls get loud. I feed off it. But today, it’s fucking infuriating.
Because every sound she makes reminds me she’s the one beneath my hands, not Sam.
I grit my teeth, jaw clenched as I slam into her, trying to silence the voice in my head that keeps flashing images of Sam bent over the sink instead.
Chloe moans again, this time louder, and something inside me breaks.
“Shut the fuck up,” I growl.
I grasp her hair and pull her head back firmly enough to make the point clear. She gasps, startled, but she doesn’t resist. I don’t want her voice or reactions. I want complete silence.
I close my eyes and fuck her like I’m losing my mind. My hips snap against her ass, rough and relentless. My grip tightens, and in my mind, the blonde hair in my fist darkens. Softer. Red. Not stiff with product. Not fake.
Sam.
I picture how she froze when I touched her. The way her breath caught. How her mouth opened just a little, like she didn’t know what was about to happen next. I imagine sliding my cock between those parted lips, that pause between us, her hesitation before she finally gives in.
The heat rises quickly. Too quickly.
My abs lock up, my balls draw tight as I chase it, pounding into Chloe with no rhythm, no care. I spill into the condom with a low curse, still fucking her through it until there’s nothing left in me. Until I’m empty, pissed off, and breathing hard.
I slow down before coming to a stop.
When I open my eyes, the fantasy vanishes immediately. Blonde hair slips through my fingers. Not red. She’s not Sam.
I let go of Chloe’s hair and pull out my cock, not caring that she didn’t finish. She probably fakes it anyway. The loud moans and breathless gasps—all fake to make herself feel wanted.
I walk to the trash can and throw away the condom.
Chloe adjusts her hair and waddles over with her underwear still bunched around her knees, completely unbothered.
“What’s the matter, baby?” she asks. “You don’t seem like yourself.”
That word “baby” makes my blood boil.
After I tuck my cock back into my pants, I grab my bag from the floor and walk past her.
“You don’t get to call me that fucking name, for starters,” I tell her.
I ignore the hurt on her face, push the door open, and leave, ignoring the way she snaps my name behind me, pissed off and sharp.
All I can think about is Sam.
And the fucked-up truth is, Chloe, didn’t help at all.
The bell rings, so I head to practice with my jaw clenched and chest buzzing, anger and desire tangled so tightly I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
Every step toward the building feels heavy. I keep wondering whether the team already knows I’m back or if I’ll get to walk in and see it register on their faces in real time.
The locker room provides that answer for me.
The second I walk in, a few heads turn.
A brief moment of silence, then it shatters.
“Wilson.”
Someone grins. A couple of guys I used to line up beside get to their feet without saying a word, fists already raised. I tap them back; the contact sends a jolt through my arm. Welcome back. No speeches or bullshit. Just acknowledgment.
Some guys stay on the bench. The ones who aren’t too happy about my return. A few guys I’ve put in place outside these walls watch me with flat expressions. I can tell by the way they don’t move that they would rather watch me die than rejoin the team.
Good.
I don’t need their fucking permission.
I drop my bag on the bench and sit down, shoulders tense, fingers already working on the laces and straps. I strip off and put on my gear piece by piece. Pads. Jersey. Cleats. The routine comes back quickly. Automatic. My body knows this even if my mind is still a mess.
The field hits me the moment I step outside.
Cut grass. Something welcoming underneath it all. The sound alone lights me up. Pads slamming together. Cleats tearing up turf. Coach’s shouts floating through the air. It’s loud, violent and honest in a way the rest of my life never is.
Coach Reynolds doesn’t go easy on me.
“Wilson,” he barks, clipboard tucked under his arm. “Defense drills. You’re running last.”
A few guys glance back at me. Testing. Curious.
I nod once.
Ten minutes in, and my lungs are on fire. Each breath grates on the way in and burns on the way out. My legs feel heavy, muscles screaming, but my body remembers what it used to do, even if it’s pissed at me for stepping away. Muscle memory kicks in.
I was good once. Strong. Fast. Angry in a way that worked for me instead of against me.
Now every sprint is earned. Every drill costs something. Sweat stings my eyes, runs down my back and soaks into my pads until they feel twice as heavy. When I take a hit, it rattles my bones hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs.
But through everything, I welcome it.
Every shove reminds me I’m still here. Still standing. Still able to handle the punishment and send it right back.
I line up across from an asshole I put in his place about a month ago for running his mouth about Jace and I. He freezes when he realizes it’s me. Half terrified. Half thrilled. Like he gets to tell this story later, no matter the outcome.
Bad fucking luck for him.
The whistle blows, and I don’t hesitate.
I drive straight into him, shoulder low, legs pumping, giving it my all with the hit. Bodies crash loudly enough to turn heads. He stumbles back, eyes wide open, barely able to stay on his feet.
Good.
That message lands clean.
Coach watches from the sideline. He nods once. No praise. No commentary. That’s all I get. And somehow it’s enough.
Defense drills grind on.
Relentless. Repetitive. Brutal.
Sweat pours down my back, soaking my shirt until it sticks to my skin like a second layer I can’t peel off. My lungs burn every time I breathe in. My legs move slower than they used to. Heavier. I miss tackles I shouldn’t and get shoved harder than I expect. I get up more slowly than I want to.
It pisses me off.
So I push harder.
I take the hits. I give them back. My bones shake. My muscles scream. Every drill is a fight I have to win all over again.
But I don’t quit because quitting would leave too much room in my head, and that space is dangerous.
That space fills quickly with the way Sam Carter looked at me in the library. The way her breath hitched and how she bolted as if she was afraid of what might happen if she stayed.
So I run again and again, hit harder, and dig deeper. I let the violence burn everything out of me for a few seconds at a time. Because if I stop moving, if I stop hurting, every thought I don’t want of her comes rushing back. And right now, my head belongs to this team, not Sam.
By the time practice ends, my arms are trembling and my lungs are screaming as if they have something personal against me. Sweat drips off my chin. Everything hurts. Everything feels earned.
Coach claps his hand on my shoulder.
“Not bad for a comeback,” he says. “You keep this up, you’ll earn your spot.”
Earn.
The word hits harder than any tackle I’ve taken today.
Earn means nothing is given. It means I don’t get to coast on who I used to be. Earn means every day I show up, bleed a little, prove I deserve to stand here.
I take off my pads in the locker room and sit on the bench, lingering longer than I need to. My hands rest on my knees. I look at them as if I don’t recognize them. Dirt under my nails. Knuckles scraped raw. Skin split and stinging.
Something about this feels right.
Purpose doesn’t settle in clean. It never does. It hovers just out of reach—restless and unfinished. But purpose sits closer than it has in a long time, and that matters more than I want to admit.
I don’t go home.
Instead, my feet move on their own and carry me back across campus, muscles sore, body heavy, mind quieter than it has been all day. The late afternoon air cools the heat clinging to my skin as I walk.
That’s when I remember my notebook.
Still sitting at one of the tables in the library—the one covered in all my notes, with Sam Carter’s handwriting in the margins, tied to a project I can’t escape and a girl I haven’t managed to shake all damn day.
The library is quieter this time. Not the tense, skin-tight quiet from before. Instead, it’s more gentle. Afternoon light filters through the tall windows, pale gold and dusty, slicing across the room in long beams. Dust motes drift lazily in the air, slow and unbothered.
My boots sound too loud against the floor.
The librarian sits at her desk near the front, glasses resting low on her nose, fingers moving through paperwork with practiced boredom.
She looks up when I approach, her eyes flicking over me, lingering a second longer on my gear bag slung over my shoulder.
“Did anyone hand in a notebook?” I ask. My voice comes out rough, still scraped raw from practice.
She looks at me over her glasses. “I’ll just have a look,” she says, already bending down to check under the counter.
“It’s a black one,” I add unnecessarily as she opens a drawer and scans the contents.
As she looks, my attention drifts around the room, and there she is.
Sam is sitting at the same table we used earlier.
Her hair is pulled back this time, tidy and out of her face, revealing the curve of her neck. Her sleeves are rolled up, with her forearms resting casually on the table, her posture relaxed and loose in a way I’ve never seen directed at me.
A kid sits across from her. He’s a freshman. Books are spread out between them, highlighters scattered as if he’s drowning in coursework.
Red is leaning in, listening, with her pen tapping lightly as he talks.
And she’s smiling.
The smile that softens her entire face. She nods along as the kid talks, says something I can’t hear, and he laughs, shoulders relaxing, relief evident on his face.
She’s helping him.
She looks happy.
And for some fucked up reason, that makes it harder to breathe than anything that happened on the field tonight.
“Is this the one?” the librarian asks, holding out a black notebook. The corners are bent. The spine is worn from months of being shoved into my bag and dragged back out again.
“Yeah. Thanks,” I say, already reaching out.
I take the notebook from her and move without thinking, my feet already guiding me toward Sam.
She’s explaining something with her hands, fingers moving as she talks, visualizing it in the air.
The kid across from her nods, eyes shining, shoulders relaxing.
I take another step closer.
“So this part,” she says, tapping the page in front of him, “you’re overthinking it. You’ve got the right way of adding it up. You’re just doubting yourself.”
He squints at the paper, then looks back up at her. “So you’re saying I’m not bad at math. I’m just bad at believing in myself.”
She smiles. “Exactly.”
He grins. “Wow. I came for numbers and got a therapy session.”
She laughs.
It’s warm and unguarded. No edge. Just easy and natural.
Fuck.
The sound hits low in my stomach and spreads quickly. My fingers automatically tighten around the notebook without me realizing it.
She says something I don’t catch. The kid nods again and looks down at the workbook.
I clear my throat. “Careful, Red. Your halo is showing.”
The nickname slips out before I can stop myself.
She glances up, surprise flickering across her face before she masks the reaction. The smile she was wearing disappears, replaced by something guarded.
“I’m helping someone,” she says, calm but pointed. “You should try it sometime.”
The kid’s gaze flicks between the two of us, brows furrowing.
I open my mouth, ready to say something that will make her bristle and restore the space to where it belongs. I’ve got a dozen lines queued up and waiting. Sarcastic. Cutting. The kind that usually hits the mark.
But it catches in my throat because of the way the kid looks at her with gratitude for helping him.
A timer goes off, and Sam shifts, her attention breaking as she reaches for her phone and turns off the alarm. The sound feels loud in the quiet.
“Thanks, Sam,” the kid says, sincere as hell. “I think I actually get it now.” He packs up his books, shoves them into his bag, and slings it over his shoulder. “Seriously, thanks.” He gives her a quick wave and heads out.
The library settles again.
The quiet rushes back in to fill the space he leaves behind. And I’m still standing there, way too close. Holding my stupid notebook in my hands like an excuse to stay, giving me a reason to be in her space when I don’t know what the hell to do now that I am.
She turns back to her table and starts stacking her things. Neat. Methodical.
Tension fills the space between us now. The kind that hums softly and refuses to shut the fuck up no matter how hard I try to ignore it.
I should say something. Anything.
Crack a joke.
Say something sharp. Walk away like I’m supposed to.
Every option exists right in front of me, and I choose none of them.
She helped that kid by showing up and making things easier for someone who needed it.
Watching her makes me feel stupid for every half-assed move I’ve made on her just to win that stupid bet with Jace.
I should fucking walk away, but I keep lingering.
Seeing her help that kid made it clear. I can’t ignore it anymore after seeing that.
She deserves better than this asshole version of me.