13. Chad
CHAPTER 13
Chad
Dean’s eyes flicker, and I know I’m pushing his buttons. I can’t help it—it’s too easy. Every word, every glance, lands like a hit, and he reacts just the way I want him to. Like I’ve struck a raw nerve.
There’s tension between us, electric and unspoken, and I crave it. Him. It’s why I signed up for these lessons in the first place. Not because I care about tennis, but because I need to be close to him. I need him to see what he threw away.
But then Lakelyn steps into the space between us. Her hand brushes his arm, light and unassuming, and everything shifts.
Dean’s whole body softens, his shoulders relaxing like her touch alone is enough to calm the storm brewing in him. It’s subtle, but I notice—and it knocks the wind out of me.
I can’t look away from them. For a moment, it’s like I’m outside of myself, watching the way he looks at her, how he melts under her hand.
And then it hits me.
It’s not just me.
He wants her, too.
It’s not something he’d admit—not in words, not even to himself—but the way his alpha instincts flare up around her and me is undeniable. It’s like he’s fighting it, but the truth is written all over him.
He wants a pack, even if he’s too stubborn to acknowledge it.
And here’s the kicker: the thought of Lakelyn and me in the same pack with him? It doesn’t just make sense. It feels perfect. Almost too perfect, like we’ve been orbiting around this without realizing it.
I don’t know what to do with that thought yet, but it burrows in deep, refusing to let go.
I take a steadying breath, forcing the tangled thoughts to the back of my mind, and cross the court to where the rackets are lined up. My fingers skim the handles before picking one up, testing its weight, rolling the grip between my palm and fingers. The feel of it is foreign but grounding, a distraction from the storm of emotions simmering beneath my skin.
Even with my back to them, I feel their eyes on me—their attention like a current in the air, pulling me under.
I turn slowly, swinging the racket lazily, my gaze locking on Dean’s. “So, Coach,” I drawl, letting a teasing lilt curl into my voice, “think you could lend me those expert hands of yours? You know, to make sure I’m holding it just right.”
His jaw tightens, and I catch the flicker of fire in his eyes, the way the tension snaps taut between us like a rubber band ready to break. My lips curve into a smirk, satisfaction blooming in my chest.
But underneath the smugness, there’s something else—a deeper ache coiling low in my belly. The idea of Dean’s hands on me, the thought of his touch, settles there and spreads like wildfire. I can’t stop the image that flashes in my mind: him standing behind me like he did with Lakelyn the other day, his hands guiding hers, his body brushing against hers as he adjusted her stance.
Only this time, it’s me. His breath warm against the back of my neck. The press of his chest to my back. The weight of his hands, steady but firm, as they guide mine.
My grip on the racket tightens as heat rolls through me, stirring something deep and primal. I know exactly what I’d do if he stepped closer. Just enough to feel the brush of his body against mine. Just enough to push him over the edge, to make him admit this thing between us isn’t one-sided.
Dean’s eyes flicker, his gaze cutting briefly to Lakelyn before settling back on me. For a moment, I think he’s going to shut me down, tell me to figure it out myself, to stop playing games.
But then he exhales, slow and measured, and nods. “Alright, fine,” he says, his jaw still tight, his voice clipped but steady.
I hold back a grin as he approaches, the air between us thick enough to choke on. I let him come to me, knowing exactly what I’m doing.
Lakelyn steps back, her presence lingering just at the edge of my awareness. I catch the look in her eyes—curiosity, not jealousy. It’s not what I expected. There’s something almost knowing in her gaze, like she’s waiting to see where this goes. Like she’s already figured out something I’m just starting to piece together.
Dean steps closer, and I stay rooted in place, my pulse racing. His hands slide over mine, firm but not rough, adjusting my grip on the racket without a word. Then he shifts, stepping in until his chest brushes my back. The contact sends a spark zipping through me, straight to the center of my chest. It’s better than I imagined. Hell, it’s everything.
“You need to loosen up,” he murmurs, his voice low and edged with something raw. The words skim over my ear, igniting a trail of heat that pools low in my stomach. I force myself to breathe, to stay still, even as every nerve ending in my body comes alive.
Dean’s hands guide mine, angling the racket, adjusting my stance. But all I can focus on is the warmth radiating from him, his steady, grounding presence. His scent washes over me—earthy, woodsy, and heady enough to make my knees feel unsteady.
I shift, just slightly, leaning back to test the waters. My movement is subtle, deliberate—just enough to feel the solid press of his thighs against me. A whisper of a touch, but enough to leave me burning.
His fingers falter for the barest moment, his grip tightening just slightly, betraying that he felt it too. My lips twitch into a faint smile, satisfaction curling in my chest. But there’s more than that. A thrill, electric and wild, like I’ve found the edge of something dangerous and leaned right over it.
Dean doesn’t step away. Instead, he adjusts my grip one final time, his hands lingering a moment longer than necessary. Neither of us speaks, the tension between us stretching thin but refusing to snap. The air feels heavy, charged, like a storm waiting to break. And for once, I’m not sure which of us will make the first move.
“Lakelyn, can you switch the launcher back on?” Dean calls, his breath ghosting along the side of my neck. The low rasp of his voice sends a jolt straight through me, and I have to swallow hard as she moves across the court to press the button.
The first ball shoots out, and Dean swings our arms together, guiding the racket. His chest presses against my back with every movement, his body a solid, consuming presence. The ball bounces off the racket, but I barely register it. My focus is entirely on him—on the firm grip of his fingers over mine, the heat radiating from his body.
“Loosen your stance,” he mutters, his hands nudging mine just enough to widen my grip. Then he steps closer, his legs shifting between mine, his body aligning perfectly against me. I feel everything—the hard line of his thighs, the press of his cock against me. My pulse stutters, slick pooling low in my body, and I can’t stop the way I harden in my shorts.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Lakelyn’s gaze. Her eyes flick over us, lingering on the space between our bodies, and there’s no mistaking the interest glimmering there.
Another ball launches, and Dean swings our arms again. The motion sends me brushing back into him, and this time, a soft, involuntary moan escapes my lips. His grip tightens, his breath hitching against my skin. The air between us thickens with pheromones, a potent mix of his and mine, clouding my thoughts.
Dean’s nose skims along my neck, and a shiver races down my spine. His hands slide from the racket, one gripping my upper arm while the other wraps lightly around my throat. The pressure is gentle, but the intent behind it isn’t. A low growl rumbles from him, vibrating against my back.
My body reacts instinctively, arching into him, surrendering. My head tilts to the side, baring my neck as his fingers tighten slightly. My breath catches, the thrill coursing through me undeniable. For a moment, I let myself sink into it.
Then a ball ricochets off the racket and smacks into my stomach, snapping me back to reality. The haze shatters.
I jerk away from his grip, stumbling forward as my breath comes in ragged gasps. My pulse pounds in my ears, and I clutch the racket like a lifeline.
No alphas.
I force the words into my mind like a mantra, a shield against the pull of him. My chest heaves as I straighten, forcing myself to turn back to the court. To ignore the way his eyes burn into me, the way my body still hums with the memory of his touch.
Damn, I’m bad at this rule. Put me near an alpha, and it’s like my body takes over, dragging me into dangerous territory. Bed? Who needs one? Just bend me over a desk, a bench, hell, even the net right here on the court would do. The worst part is, I’m pretty sure Dean knows it.
I can’t meet his gaze, so I turn to Lakelyn instead. Her wide eyes and flushed cheeks tell me everything I need to know—she saw it all. My sweet virgin, Lakelyn. Getting far more than a tennis lesson today.
Crossing the space between us, I stop at the net, reaching for her. She steps closer without hesitation, pressing against me as her arms wind tightly around my back. Her head tucks into my chest, and I cling to her, letting the solidness of her presence anchor me.
“Are you okay?” she whispers, her voice low enough that Dean can’t hear.
I swallow hard, trying to find words as I wet my lips. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” She pulls back slightly, just enough to look up at me. Her soft, curious gaze meets mine. “What are you sorry for?”
“I like you,” I admit, my voice trembling. “A lot. There’s this connection between us, and I don’t want to ruin it over some alpha.”
Her lips curve into a gentle smile, and she raises a hand to cup my cheek. The warmth of her touch steadies me.
“I’m a beta,” she says softly. “I know you’ll need alphas for your heats. I’m okay with that. Someday, maybe even a pack.” She glances past me, her gaze lingering over my shoulder. Dean. Of course. Then, lowering her voice even further, she adds, “And if Dean’s one of them?—”
She doesn’t finish the sentence, but she doesn’t need to. The meaning is clear, her acceptance radiating off her like a balm.
If only it were that simple.
I brush a strand of her hair back, tucking it behind her ear. “If I pick any alphas for my heats or otherwise,” I say firmly, my thumb grazing her jawline, “we will pick them together. Because we’ll both be enjoying them.”
Her breath catches, and her eyes flicker with something deeper—understanding, maybe hope. And despite the chaos raging in me, I can’t help but feel the smallest flicker of calm. I need this woman like I need the air in my lungs.
She presses her lips together, the blush still coloring her cheeks as she gives me a small, hesitant nod. I lean down and press a soft kiss to her temple before stepping back. My chest tightens, but I force myself to move. I have to face Dean.
He’s silent behind us, but I don’t need to look to feel him. He’s in the air around me, in my blood. Hell, he’ll probably always be there, whether I want him to be or not.
“It’s Lakelyn’s turn,” I say, turning to meet his gaze.
Dean’s nostrils flare as he inhales deeply, and my breath catches at the sight of him. His pupils are blown wide, his lips pressed into a thin line, and he’s visibly hard. The material of his shorts strains against his length, and I can’t help but picture Lakelyn’s ass pressed back against him instead of mine. The thought sends a different kind of thrill skittering through me.
Would she excite him more than I do? God, I hope so. I hope she presses every single one of his buttons.
Lakelyn tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear, her steps quick and slightly unsure as she hurries back toward Dean.
“I can, um, do it on my own,” she stammers, her gaze fixed on his tense, unreadable face.
But before he can respond—and I know he’s going to let her off the hook—I cut in, my voice smooth and teasing. “No, she can’t. She needs your help, Coach.”
Dean’s jaw ticks, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard. His teeth clench so tightly I think I hear them grind, and it sends a laugh tumbling out of me.
“Unless you think you can’t be professional,” I add, my tone dripping with challenge.
I hope he breaks. Hope he snaps and lets the Alpha out. I want to see him lose that iron control and show us exactly what’s hiding beneath.
Lakelyn squeaks when Dean’s arms suddenly wrap around her, his hands dwarfing hers on the racket. She freezes for a moment, her breath catching as he tugs her closer with no hesitation.
And then it happens.
A low, guttural growl rumbles from him, raw and possessive, vibrating in the air around us.
I feel it like a shock to my system, and I don’t know whether to grin or shudder. Maybe both.