Chapter 5
FIVE
LUKE
My limbs feel like wet noodles—warm and shaky and stretched out from the inside. It takes me a minute to remember how to breathe and another to untangle myself from Silas.
His skin is hot against mine, his hand still heavy on my thigh like he doesn’t want to let go yet.
Which is… flattering. Hot, even. But also not the plan.
I clear my throat and push myself up on one elbow. “Mind if I use your shower real quick?”
His gaze lifts to mine—dark and unreadable—but he gives a small nod.
I slide off the bed, bare except for the hickeys I can already feel forming.
My clothes are still somewhere in the living room—discarded in a trail I barely remember leaving—but I don’t go get them.
I stroll across his room, as naked as the day I was born, and step into the bathroom attached to his room.
He watches me the whole time.
I feel it. That dark, possessive weight of his gaze stitched into every inch of exposed skin.
The bathroom is as clean and intentional as the rest of his place. Minimalist. Neutral. Not a stray hair in sight.
I crank the hot water and step under the spray, letting it rinse the sweat and slick and cum off my skin. Letting it wash away any lingering thoughts that maybe this could’ve been more than a one-night thing.
Because it’s not.
It’s just sex. And really good sex doesn’t change the rules.
Five minutes later, I’m towel-dried and mostly put back together. I slip back into the bedroom, still damp, a towel around my hips, and find him exactly where I left him—leaning against the headboard, sheet low on his hips, watching me with that same unreadable intensity.
“I’ll grab my stuff from the living room,” I say, avoiding the way his gaze tracks me. “Didn’t want to drip on your floors.”
He nods once.
I don’t ask for help. I don’t need it. I make the walk out with the towel slung low around my hips, find my jeans, shirt, underwear, and socks strewn across his plush carpet. I dress quickly, not bothering with the socks, shoving my feet into my boots and running a hand through my still-damp hair.
When I straighten, Silas is leaning in the doorway of the hall. Shirtless. Barefoot. Still watching me.
There’s something quiet and claiming in the look. Something that makes my chest tighten in a way I do not have time to unpack.
“Thanks for the hospitality,” I say lightly, giving him a grin as I reach for the door. “I’ll leave a five-star review.”
He doesn’t laugh or smile. Just studies me like he’s memorizing something.
“You don’t have to go.”
I pause. My heart leaps into my throat, and I swallow it back down.
Glance back at him over my shoulder. “Yeah, I do.”
His gaze drops to my still-wet hair, lingers on the bruises he left across my neck and shoulder that he can see through the mesh of my shirt, and rises again. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure,” I say. Then add, with a flash of teeth, “But hey—ten out of ten. Would let you boss me around again.”
His brow lifts, slow. But he doesn’t stop me. Doesn’t ask for my number. Doesn’t say see you around.
And I walk out the door telling myself that’s exactly what I wanted. Even if a small, traitorous part of me already wants to look back.
I hate mornings.
Like… viscerally.
They feel like a personal attack. Especially this one, with the sun barely over the damn horizon and the group chat going off at six-fucking-thirty like that’s a normal, acceptable hour for human activity.
Ty bangs on the bathroom door while I’m brushing my teeth, still half-asleep and moving like molasses. “Bro, you’re gonna make us late. You know we can’t be late.”
“Then leave without me,” I mumble, foam and all. “I’m not your mom.”
“You wish you were my mom,” he calls back. “She’s a MILF.”
I rinse and spit, rolling my eyes so hard it almost gives me a headache. “You have issues.”
Fifteen minutes later, we’re jogging across campus toward the field, Ty and Will both grumbling beside me like it’s my fault they didn’t leave earlier. Will flips me off dramatically, his bag slamming against his back with every step.
“My legs are sore, and it’s your fault,” he huffs. “You couldn’t take your dick appointment on literally any other night?”
“It wasn’t an appointment,” I mutter. “It was spontaneous and meaningful.”
Ty snorts. “You didn’t even know his last name.”
“Details.”
Truth is, I’m a little sore too. A slow burn between my thighs that flares every time I take a longer stride. Not a complaint—more like a memory, tucked under my skin, echoing in all the right places.
And then I see the field.
The team’s already out there, spread across the turf, running drills. A few cones. Some shouting. The clatter of cleats on synthetic grass.
And him.
Silas.
Whistle around his neck, barking orders like it’s his job.
Because apparently, it is.
I stop walking.
Dead stop.
That’s the man who had me flat on my back less than three hours ago, voice low and steady while I completely forgot my own name. The man whose hands I can still feel. The same man I did not get a last name from because this was supposed to be easy.
Anonymous.
Ty bumps into me with a grunt, and Will crashes into both of us.
“What the hell, dude—?”
“Holy shit,” I whisper.
Because Silas is standing at midfield in black athletic joggers, fitted team shirt stretched across his chest, tatted and tanned arms and flexed as he points out the next station for warmups.
His hair’s pushed back, sunglasses on, whistle hanging loose around his neck.
His voice carries—calm, clipped, authoritative.
Coach mode.
There’s no trace of the man who made me beg last night. No trace of the mouth that learned exactly where my pulse jumps. No trace of the voice that murmured hermoso like it belonged to me.
I could almost convince myself I imagined it—if not for the dull ache still humming between my legs, if not for the way my body reacts just looking at him.
And he still doesn’t see me.
Not because he’s pretending. Because he genuinely hasn’t noticed yet.
My gaze drifts to the other man standing near the sideline, clipboard tucked under his arm, posture rigid as ever. Coach Harris. Same thick neck, same permanent scowl, same air of someone who believes punctuality is a moral virtue. I’ve known him since freshman year. He hasn’t changed a bit.
He glances up, spots us approaching late, and his expression darkens.
“You three want to join us,” he calls across the field, voice booming, “or should we hold practice until your social calendar clears up?”
Every head turns.
Including Silas’s.
And that’s when his gaze locks onto mine. Immediate. Unmistakable.
The smallest pause—barely a hitch in his posture, barely enough to notice if you weren’t looking for it.
But I am.
Then his jaw sets, professionalism snapping back into place like armor.
Coach Harris barely gives it a beat before barking, “Laps. Now. All three of you.”
Ty groans under his breath. Will mutters something about regretting every life choice that led him to this moment. I just lift my brows and throw a glance toward the man in joggers with the jaw of death and the voice that once said mírame like it meant everything.
We all start jogging, but I slow my pace a little—just enough to turn my head toward Harris and ask, all innocent, “So, who’s the new guy?”
That earns me a sharp look from both coaches, but I keep my expression neutral, maybe even a little bored. Ty side-eyes me with a silent what the hell are you doing expression, but I ignore it. I’ve already committed to the bit.
Harris grunts. “Coach Gray. Assistant head coach. He’ll be leading drills this year.”
“Coach Gray,” I echo, loud enough that it carries. “Looks strict with that whistle around his neck.”
Silas doesn’t say a word, but a vein in his neck jumps. I swear I see it twitch.
I could leave it alone. I really could. But I’m me. And Silas looks… composed, but only barely. That calm, commanding shell doesn’t fool me.
So I toss a smile over my shoulder and add, “You look familiar, though. Maybe I’ve seen you around somewhere?”
The sharp tweet of his whistle pierces the air, cutting through conversation like a blade.
“Pick up the pace,” he says flatly. “You’ve got a lot of time to make up for.”
And just like that, the game begins.
I grin and run.
Ty falls into pace beside me, his head already on a swivel like he’s checking to make sure no one else saw what he just saw.
Will catches up on my other side, glancing between me and Coach Gray like we’ve just dropped into the middle of a soap opera.
“What the fuck was that?” Ty hisses under his breath.
I shrug, breath light. “What was what?”
Will narrows his eyes. “You mean to tell me you didn’t see the way he looked at you?”
“Pretty sure he was looking at all of us,” I say, feigning innocence. “We were late.”
“No,” Ty says, voice low and conspiratorial. “He was looking at you like he wanted to bury you under the turf and call it a lesson plan.”
Will snorts. “Or like he already did and regrets it.”
“Maybe he’s just not a morning person.” I smile sweetly, which only makes them more suspicious.
Ty groans. “Luke. Tell me you didn’t fuck our new coach.”
“I didn’t,” I lie cheerfully.
Will groans louder. “You so did.”
“Nothing wrong with a little cardio before cardio,” I say lightly. “And I can say with complete honesty, I had no clue.” Then I pick up my pace before they can press further.
Behind me, I feel the weight of Silas’s stare like heat on the back of my neck.
Good.
Let’s see who breaks first.