Chapter 6
SIX
SILAS
Coach Harris sidles up beside me, his clipboard tucked under one arm, chewing on the end of a pen cap that’s been mangled to hell. His eyes follow the three stragglers now jogging laps as if they’ve never heard of punctuality.
“That’s Luke Maddox with the mouth,” he says gruffly, jerking his chin toward Luke. “Running back. Presses every damn button he can find just to see what happens—but he plays like a demon when the ball’s in his hands.”
I don’t respond right away, but the images his words bring up have nothing to do with football.
Because Maddox—Luke—is jogging like he owns the field. As though his delay was planned and the whistle I blew just now didn’t rattle him at all.
Because it didn’t.
Nothing rattled him last night either. Not the pressure of my hands. Not the weight of my body above his. Not even the first time I whispered a command in his ear and watched him obey like it was instinct.
He gave in so beautifully.
Same mouth. Same walk. Same reckless ease in his body that I had pinned to my sheets a few hours ago.
No makeup now, no glitter, just sleep-rough hair shoved back with his fingers and a loose practice shirt clinging to his shoulders.
Santo cielo. Shit.
“Luke Maddox,” I repeat quietly, the name familiar now in a different context—one that involves my hand around his throat, not a football. “Got it.”
Harris keeps talking, oblivious. “The other two are Tyrell Jenkins and Will Rivera. Linebackers. Good instincts. Dumbasses off the field but smart enough with a playbook in their hands. Jenkins is a hothead. Rivera usually pulls him back.”
I nod once, still tracking him. Luke.
He’s laughing now, saying something to Jenkins that makes the other boy shake his head and chuckle. Maddox tosses his curls back like he owns the field already, as if being late means nothing to him. As if he doesn’t remember me at all from last night.
Which would be easier to believe if he hadn’t looked me dead in the eye and smiled like he knows what that mouth did last night.
“Maddox,” I repeat, committing the name to the part of my brain that processes threats and temptation.
“Mmm,” Harris grunts. “Can’t break his rhythm with Colton Taylor—our quarterback. The two of them are in sync like they’ve been playing together for years. Don’t let the mouth fool you—Maddox has discipline when it counts. No matter how much he’ll try to test your patience.”
Test it?
I can still feel his nails in my back. And I know he has discipline. He had more control than I expected. Even as he squirmed under me. Even as he begged for more. Even as he waited because I told him to. Even worse, I can still taste the word Hermoso on my tongue like a sin.
I clench my jaw hard enough it aches.
And now he’s here. Smirking. Pushing buttons in front of my boss, in front of his teammates, pretending not to know who I am except to poke at the sleeping beast just enough to watch me flinch.
He’s playing a fucking game.
And he’s good at it.
I flex my fingers at my sides, the phantom weight of him still lingering on my hands. The way he looked, mouth parted, body flushed, wrecked and mine for one night only.
Except now he’s here. A player. Under me in a very different way.
This is going to be a goddamn problem.
“And he will test you,” Harris says, following my gaze. “Maddox pushes boundaries for fun—he’ll push harder with a new coach.”
My jaw flexes. No shit.
“He’s not malicious,” Harris adds, like that softens the blow. “Just cocky. Smart as hell when he wants to be, but always toeing the line. Think you’ll have any trouble setting expectations?”
I don’t look away from the field.
Luke finishes his second lap, that same infuriating smile still ghosting across his face—as if he knows exactly what’s at stake, and he’s enjoying the hell out of the view from the edge.
“I don’t have trouble setting boundaries,” I say flatly. “I have trouble when people don’t listen.”
Harris grunts. “Well. Maddox listens—eventually.”
I snort. Oh, I know.
He listens just fine when he’s panting my name, desperate to please. When his body’s shaking because I’ve told him not to come. When I’ve got my hand on his dick and he’s whispering por favor like it’s a prayer.
Hermoso desastre.
That’s what he is. A beautiful fucking mess.
And this—this—is why I don’t bend my rules. Why I don’t fuck near home. Why I don’t bring anyone back to my own goddamn bed.
If I hadn’t made that mistake, I wouldn’t be standing here now, fighting the urge to call him into the coaches’ office after practice.
Not for discipline.
Not for punishment.
But because I want his smart mouth wrapped around something else entirely.
And that is exactly the problem.
Coach Harris checks his watch, then hands off the clipboard I’ve already memorized.
“I’ve got some paperwork to handle with Admin. New scholarship stuff, incoming transfers, that kind of crap. You good to run the rest of practice?”
“Yeah,” I say, eyes still on the field. “I’ve got it.”
He grunts his approval. “Don’t go easy on them. Especially Maddox—kid’s got too much natural talent and not enough sense.”
“He’ll get sense,” I mutter, more to myself than to Harris.
The older coach claps my shoulder once—too hard, but not unkind—before heading off toward the main building, leaving me with the field and thirty-something athletes in various stages of warm-up.
And one smug little bastard jogging straight toward me.
Luke slows just enough to look casual, not enough to be called out. He shouldn’t be able to talk at this pace, but of course he does. He flashes me a grin like he’s still in my bedroom, not my training ground.
“Coach Gray,” he says, voice too damn bright, “you always keep such a close eye on your players?”
My teeth grind.
“I mean, don’t get me wrong,” he adds, a little breathless now. “Kinda hot, the whole silent authority thing. Very headmaster meets halftime fantasy.”
I step forward—just one—watching the way his eyes flick down, the faintest twitch of awareness that he’s pushing too far.
Good.
He should know what happens when you poke a lion.
“You’ve got one more lap, Maddox,” I say. “And I expect you to run it without your mouth moving.”
He grins wider, but he picks up his pace. Only now, I know what he’s doing. He’s not just pushing my buttons. He’s daring me to push back.
And I will. Later.
I turn away before I do something stupid.
Like drag him into the nearest building and remind him exactly how last night ended—with his fingers clutching my sheets and my name a broken sound on his lips.
Instead, I blow the whistle and bark the first set of drills.
“Pair off! Cone ladders and lateral shuffles—full speed! Linemen group to the left, receivers and backs to the right. Quarterbacks, warm-up passes. Go!”
Movement explodes across the field as players scramble into action.
Tyrell Jenkins and Will Rivera break into easy banter as they jog over to the cones, still laughing about something from their last lap. Both are built like boulders—linebackers who could probably flatten a truck if they hit it right.
“Save the jokes for after practice,” I snap, and they immediately sober, dropping into place without another word.
Colton Taylor’s already got a ball in hand, spinning it in practiced rhythm. He tosses a sharp spiral to Hudson Peoples, their backup QB, before catching it back with ease. There’s a natural leadership in Taylor—quiet, focused, efficient. I can see why he’s captain.
“Maddox,” I call out, loud enough to carry across the field. “You’re with Taylor. Shuttle sprints between cones, then catch on the cut. You drop a pass, you run it again.”
Luke jogs over, the only one who dares to smirk while doing it.
“Yes, Coach,” he says smoothly, like it’s a game, as if we’re still in last night’s afterglow.
I don’t acknowledge him.
Taylor flicks him a quick look, then nods once—his version of Let’s get to work.
I focus on the rest of the groups, walking the perimeter of the drills like I don’t feel Luke’s eyes following me. I make a point of correcting Rivera’s foot placement, redirecting Jenkin’s body angle on the ladder steps, adjusting cone spacing for the cornerbacks.
“Again,” I bark to one group. “Explode off the line this time or don’t bother showing up on Saturday.”
They repeat the drill without complaint.
I move back toward the receivers just as Luke drops into a full sprint, cuts, and pivots perfectly on Taylor’s pass.
Of course he’s good. That’s part of the problem.
I glance at my watch and blow the whistle again. “Switch stations. Rivera, Jenkins—you’re on sled drills with Harper and Rojas. Taylor, Blackman, Peoples—deep pass tree. Maddox, cone weave sprints. Now.”
Luke jogs toward the next setup, tongue running over his bottom lip like he knows exactly how far he can push me.
He doesn’t. But he will. And by the time this practice is over, I’ll make damn sure he knows exactly where the lines are.
And what happens when he crosses them.