Chapter 21 #2
A memory from a few days ago. Sam in my shower, bare and dripping, steam curling around her hair, eyes locked on mine.
The way her mouth parted when I ran the soap over her skin.
The sound she made when I pressed her against the tile.
The scratch of her nails down my back. How she tasted when I kissed her under the spray.
I fucking hate how easily my mind goes there.
How desperate it still is to live inside the seconds we stole.
I rest my forehead against the wall and mutter a string of curses under my breath.
Get it fucking together, asshole.
I stay in the shower longer than I should. Long enough for the noise to fade. Half the guys are already gone, and the locker room smells more like soap than sweat.
I turn off the water, towel off, and put on clean clothes.
I stuff my things into my bag, sling it over my shoulder, and head for the door, eager to get the hell out of here.
I’m nearly past the Coach’s office when I hear it.
“Reece.”
One word, and my spine snaps straight as if it’s been yanked into place. I halt mid-step and turn my head just enough to see Coach through the open door. He’s behind the desk, face unreadable.
“Come in and close the door.”
Fuck.
My grip tightens on the strap of my bag as I step through the door. One look at Coach’s face, and I realize this isn’t about missing a block or half-assing a drill. This is deeper.
I already know what this is.
It has to be my old man.
This town can’t keep its mouth shut for shit. Yesterday, I was shooting hoops behind the school with Noah and Jace, and some guy I’ve never talked to said, “Heard you had a killer game last week.”
So yeah. The rumors are out.
The comeback. The stats. The whispers.
And my father, sure as shit, wouldn’t ask me. He’d go straight to Coach and act like he’s proud. Pretend he actually gives a fuck.
It wouldn’t be the first time he crawled out of his hole when football gave him a reason to care. When I made him look good enough to talk about in bars.
Coach knows everything about it. Every flaw in that history. He’s the one who told me to stop giving my future to a man who only shows up to control it.
“Play for you,” he had told me. “Not for a ghost that’s still breathing.”
And I’m trying. Damn, I’m trying. But ghosts have long arms. And my old man still has a grip around my fucking throat.
“You’ve been putting in the work.” Coach says. “You’re not coasting.”
“I didn’t come back to coast.”
He grunts. His chair creaks as he leans back, studying me. “Your old man know you’re back?”
My jaw clenches before I answer. “I don’t know. Probably.” I don’t add that he wouldn’t ask me if I was playing.
“That is not why I called you in.”
That gets my attention.
“Then why?”
He taps the pen on the desk again. Once. Twice. Then, he sets it down and folds his arms.
“There’s a scout coming.”
My pulse skips. Chest tightens. I force a breath.
“He’s coming to check out West. Wants to see if he’s got the toughness for their defense. But while he’s here, he’ll be watching.”
“That’s… not for me.”
“Bullshit,” Coach snorts. “You think I didn’t see what you did out there today? Your footwork’s cleaner than it’s ever been. Your vision’s sharp. You’re reading the field better than half the damn league.”
“I had my shot, Coach. I quit,” I say, voice low. “I threw it all away.”
“You think that’s how this works?” he leans forward, forearms braced on the desk. “You think one mistake writes off the rest of your life?”
I glance away.
“Reece.” His voice hardens. “You could go all the way. You’ve got that thing. The thing you can’t coach. The shit that sets you apart when everything’s on the line.”
I blink hard. My palms sweat. My heart pounds oddly, not from running but from remembering what it felt like to be a kid watching those matches, dreaming of being on the field. Cleats cut into real grass. Lights. Roaring crowds. My name on the back of a jersey.
That dream got buried under fights, fuckups and fists slammed into lockers. Under girls who meant nothing and nights I still can’t remember.
Now, it’s no longer buried. It’s clawing its way back to the surface.
“Play the way you did today,” Coach tells me. “And this Mayfair scout won’t miss you. He won’t be able to keep his eyes off you.”
The name alone hits me deep. Mayfair.
Top-tier. Full ride. Out of this town and every messed-up part of it. Away from my old man’s bullshit, away from the memory of every time I got close to something good just to see it ripped away from me.
Mayfair means I get to choose who I am. It means I don’t have to become him.
That means I get to be with Sam without this place looming over us. Noah and Aubrey will be there too.
Coach leans forward, voice low. “Think about it, Reece. You’ve got the talent. Don’t waste this shot.”
I push to my feet, heart slamming against my ribs. “Thanks, Coach.”
He watches me for a moment longer, mouth set in that half-smile he saves for when he’s proud, but not too obvious about it.
I nod once, then swing my bag over my shoulder and leave before that pride can slip away.
The hallway is quiet except for the hum of the vending machine and the sound of my boots hitting the tile. I pull out my phone, knowing there’s only one person I want to tell.
Reece: Hey. Can we meet up? There’s something I need to tell you.
I stare at the screen, thumb hovering, before I hit send.
A second later, the screen lights up.
Sam: Yeah. I’ll meet you at your place usual time. We’ll work on the assessment. And no, that is not code. Assessment only.
A smirk pulls at my mouth. There she is, all sharp-tongued and always two steps ahead.
I shove my phone in my pocket, chest still tight but a little lighter now. She’s coming over. She’s giving me that shot too, even if she’s pretending it’s about homework.
I’ve got one chance to fix everything. Football, get it back on track. Earn that Mayfair offer.
Sam, I’m fucking done with dark corners and half-truths when all I wanna do is grab her hand in front of everyone and make sure they know. She’s mine. My fucking girl. My Red.