Chapter 8
EIGHT
SILAS
A week in, and I know all their names.
I know Taylor favors a three-step drop, even when it’s not in the playbook. I know Peoples reads coverage before the snap and still doesn’t trust his gut. I know Ty and Will talk shit better than they block. And I know that Luke Maddox—my running back—is a goddamn problem.
On the field, he’s quick. Shifty. Explosive. He waits until the last possible second to cut and somehow still finds the lane. It’s instinctual, not rehearsed. Dangerous. And fucking familiar.
Too familiar.
Because the way he runs—eyes scanning, hips low, center of gravity a breath from tipping—is the way Xavier used to run before everything went sideways. And it grates. Lodges under my skin like glass.
I cross my arms as Luke jogs back from another drill, laughing at something Will says, his helmet tucked under one arm, curls damp and clinging to his forehead.
He looks…confident.
No. Cocky.
And worse—comfortable.
His chemistry with the rest of the offense is undeniable. They light up around him. Lean in. Laugh at his stupid jokes, even when they’re barely disguised innuendos.
Like now.
“I mean,” Luke says as he passes the water cooler, “I’m just saying, if anyone needs hands on practice, mine are free after ten.”
A few of the guys groan. Colton throws a towel at him.
“Gross.”
“What?” Luke shrugs, completely unbothered. “Multi-talented. Some of us give 110% on and off the field.”
“Off which field?” Peoples calls.
Luke smirks. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
I grind my teeth.
It’s not the flirting. Not really. Most of these guys are walking hormone bombs, and half of them flirt just to see what sticks. But Luke’s different. Calculated. His words are flippant, but his eyes flick over to me.
Just for a second. Just long enough to let me know the comment was for me.
And maybe for someone else too.
Because earlier today, I heard him mention Prism. Just casually. Like he was still on it. Still swiping. Still—
Fuck.
I pace down the sideline, barking instructions as the guys switch drills. A few groan, but they move. Even Luke. He always does, eventually.
That’s the problem.
He listens. Just enough.
Pushes. Just enough.
And every time I think he’s done testing limits, he finds a new one. A new way to remind me of that night—of how I let hermoso slip out before I knew who he was. Before I knew I’d be coaching him. Before I knew the cost.
I haven’t so much as looked at anyone else since.
But Luke’s out here dragging every pair of eyes in his direction, as if attention is oxygen and he’ll die without it.
Worse—he knows I’m watching. And he fucking likes it.
I snap my clipboard closed with a little more force than necessary and call the group back in for rotations.
Control is supposed to be mine.
But around Luke Maddox? It’s slipping.
And I know exactly what it’s going to cost me if I don’t get it back.
The field finally clears.
Pads hit the turf with dull thuds, cleats scuff pavement, and voices fade to the low hum of end-of-day exhaustion. I take a long breath, roll out the tension in my shoulders, and remind myself that I survived another practice without throttling my star running back.
Barely.
Harris claps me on the shoulder as he passes, already scrolling through something on his phone. “Got a meeting across campus. You good to lock up?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“Appreciate it.” He doesn’t look up. “Try not to murder Maddox. We need him Saturday.”
I don’t dignify that with a response. It’s bad enough that my technical boss has seemed to pick up on whatever this is that’s between us.
The locker room is half-empty when I step in, steam clinging to the mirrors and the heavy scent of sweat, deodorant, and that God-awful body spray someone’s still using like they’re in high school.
Most of the guys are already dressed and heading out, voices echoing in lazy waves down the tunnel. Micah tosses a joke over his shoulder. Colton swats it down with a sarcastic comment. Peoples slams his locker with a groan. The usual end-of-practice chaos.
Except for one thing.
One player still in the back corner, towel slung low on his hips, like he’s got all the time in the world.
Luke.
Of course.
I pause near the door, watching as he adjusts something in his locker pretending he hasn’t noticed I’m there. As though this isn’t his third time being the last one in here this week.
“This a habit now?” I ask, voice low.
Luke glances back, slow and unhurried, eyes cutting to mine as if he was waiting for me to speak. “What can I say? I like hot water and quiet rooms.”
“You’re not the quiet type.”
He smirks and goes back to whatever he’s doing. “Maybe I’m evolving.”
Bullshit.
He’s here because I’m here. Because Harris left. Because this is the part of the day where all the lines blur and whatever professional distance I’ve managed to scrape together starts to unravel.
I step farther in, and the door swings shut behind me with a solid thud.
“You heard Coach Harris,” I say, letting the words drop between us. “He left me to lock up.”
Luke glances over his shoulder again. “I heard.”
“You’re the last one here.”
“Am I?” He stretches that towel tighter around his waist, the muscles in his back flexing as he turns fully toward me. His smile is lazy, borderline innocent. “Guess I lost track of time.”
I grit my teeth.
“You planning on putting clothes on sometime today?” I ask.
Luke raises a brow, eyes flicking down to the towel. “You offering to help?”
The air goes still. Luke doesn’t blink. His fingers curl around the edge of his locker door, and he reaches inside with deliberate slowness, as though he knows exactly what this is doing to me.
He pulls out a pair of panties.
Red. Lace. Small enough to fit in one hand. Bright enough to draw my full attention.
Every last drop of blood in my body abandons my brain in favor of my dick.
He turns them over once between his fingers, examining them like they’re just another piece of equipment, his expression unreadable except for the glint in his eyes. Challenging. Curious. A question he already knows the answer to.
I don’t move.
If I move, I will touch him.
If I touch him, I will not stop.
Luke lets the towel fall.
Just like that.
No hesitation. No theatrics. Pure skin and confidence and the kind of casual bravery that makes my control fracture along hairline cracks. He steps into the panties slowly, deliberately, pulling them up over strong thighs and hips as though he’s daring me to say something.
Daring me to look.
I do.
Fuck me.
Maldita sea.
My jaw locks so hard it aches. Heat slams low and vicious, sharp enough to make my hands curl at my sides as I physically restrain myself.
“You’re pushing it,” I say.
“Am I?” Luke straightens, finally meeting my eyes. “You didn’t say stop.”
That’s the problem. I didn’t.
The locker room hums around us—vents rattling softly, distant footsteps somewhere down the hall—but all I can see is him. Bare skin. Red lace cupping his cock. That infuriating calm he has.
“This ends now,” I say, because it has to. Because if it doesn’t, I’m going to cross a line I can’t uncross. And it was one thing before we both knew. Now it would just be irresponsible.
Luke tilts his head, studying me. I know he sees how serious I am.
“Then you should probably lock up,” he says lightly. “Before someone sees.”
He grabs his clothes, finally—finally—and turns away, giving me his back like he trusts I won’t touch him. I can’t help it.
My eyes drop.
Fuck.
The lace disappears between the curve of his ass like it was made for him, clinging in all the ways that make my mouth go dry and my cock twitch, hard and heavy against the inside of my thigh.
He bends slightly to grab his shirt, and that’s it.
That’s the last thread of control.
It snaps.
I cross the space between us before I can think better of it, one hand bracing the locker above his head as I crowd in, close enough that his back brushes my chest as he straightens.
Luke stills.
“You think this is a game?” I ask, voice low, harsh, right at his ear.
“I think,” he says, breath steady, “you’ve been playing it longer than I have so you would know, wouldn’t you, Coach.”
My other hand lands on his hip, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. He gasps—quiet, involuntary—but doesn’t move away or tell me to stop.
I slide my palm over that lace, down between his legs, letting it press against my hand. He’s hard. Fucking aching for it.
I exhale through my nose, jaw clenched tight enough to crack. “You put this on for me.”
Luke tips his head back against my shoulder. “You think I wear red lace for just anyone?”
I growl—actual, low and guttural—and shove the locker door shut with a slam, caging him in completely.
“You’re a fucking menace.”
“Yeah,” he breathes, “but you like it.”
God help me, I do.
I press my hips forward, letting him feel how much, grinding slow and mean against the curve of his ass.
He whimpers, soft and wrecked, and I feel it like gasoline on fire.
I shouldn’t be doing this. I know better. But knowing better hasn’t done a damn thing to stop the want clawing its way out of me.
I grip his chin and turn his head just enough to catch his mouth in a kiss that’s all teeth and fury and need. He groans against my lips, reaching back to grab at me, pull me closer, deepen it.
And I let him.
Because he’s mine right now.
His kiss is slick, desperate, like he’s been starving for this—for me. And maybe he has. Maybe we both have.
I spin him, pinning his back to the locker, and he goes easily, willingly, head tilted just enough for me to devour him all over again. My hand skates down his chest, past the waistband of that fucking lace, palming him through it.
He moans—needy, shameless.
I kiss down the side of his neck, biting the place where his shoulder meets his throat, just hard enough to leave something behind. A mark. A warning. A goddamn brand.
He bucks into my hand and pants, “F-fuck, Coach—”