Chapter 16 Silas
SIXTEEN
SILAS
The sun’s not even high enough to justify how hot it already is, and I’m barely five minutes into warm-ups before I realize I’ve made a mistake.
A dangerous one.
Luke is stretched out on the field in compression shorts and a cut-off jersey like temptation incarnate. And I can’t fucking look away.
His hair is damp from his sweat, and curls brush the nap of his neck. His arms flex as he pushes off the turf. And when he jogs back into the line after a drill, his fingers hook in the waistband of his shorts like he knows I’m watching.
I’m sure he does; hell, the whole team would be blind not to notice at this point.
I glance away, force my focus on Taylor, then Blackman, then literally anyone else—but it doesn’t last. I look back.
Again and again. Like an idiot. Like a man with no self-control.
Like someone who spent last night watching that same body beg to come on a screen while whispering Yes, Sir until I came undone.
Maldita sea.
My whistle hangs useless around my neck. My clipboard stays untouched at my side. I’ve barely called out a single correction, and warmups are almost over.
This is a problem.
“Coach.” Will jogs past, slowing just long enough to smirk. “You spacing out or just appreciating the view?”
I narrow my eyes. “Run another lap.”
He grins like I handed him a gold star.
Tyrell snickers as he passes next. “You want us to leave the field so you two can get a minute alone?”
“Lap.”
“Totally worth it.”
I rub a hand over my face.
It’s not like I’m doing anything. Not now during practice. But they’re not stupid. Players catch more than they should, especially when the coach gets a look on his face every time number twenty-two so much as breathes.
And Luke’s not helping.
He’s on his hands and knees for a stretch now, ass in the air like he’s auditioning for a fucking OnlyFans sponsorship. His eyes flick up, lock with mine for a second, and he smirks.
He’s a devil in a practice jersey.
I blow the whistle harder than necessary. “Let’s go! Partner drills. Skill position pairs—Blackman, Taylor. Peoples, Johnson.” I call out most of the team, until I can’t avoid calling out Luke’s name. “Rivera, Jenkins pair up. Maddox, you’re with me.”
A few heads swivel. A few brows lift. But no one says anything. They know better.
Luke jogs over, eyes wide with mock innocence. “Need a partner, Coach?”
I look at him—really look at him—and something inside me lurches.
It’s not just want anymore.
It’s not even just lust.
It’s need. It’s watching the way he fits into this team like he was born to lead it. The way he pushes, provokes, performs. And it terrifies me because I’ve been down this road before. I’ve cared before. And look where that got me.
Crushed.
Guilt-ridden.
Alone.
But none of that matters when he’s close enough that I can smell him—grass, sweat, something sharp and citrusy clinging to his skin like a second breath.
“You’re late on your hip turn,” I manage, tone rough as I circle behind him. “You’re compensating on your left side again.”
He shrugs, easy and loose. “Maybe I’m just trying to get your attention.”
“You already have it,” I growl—too low for anyone else to hear.
He shivers.
I should walk away. I should put distance between us. I should stop letting him get inside my head. There are a lot of things I should do, and I do none of them.
His smirk fades just slightly when I don’t walk away.
Instead, I move closer—one step, then another—until my shadow falls across his feet. He straightens a little, chest rising, trying to play it off. But I see it. The hitch in his breath. The tension that coils through his shoulders when I reach out.
“Square up,” I say, voice low, clipped.
He obeys. Of course he does. That’s the part that kills me—how easily he follows orders, even now.
I step behind him, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin, but don’t touch him. Not yet. I watch the subtle shift of his stance, the angle of his feet, the coil of his legs.
His hips are turned out slightly—barely enough to notice. But it matters. Especially for a running back who relies on explosive cuts and sharp changes in direction. That’s where the power comes from. The hips.
“Lower,” I say, voice flat.
He sinks down a little more, weight shifting between his feet. And he wobbles.
That’s when I move. My hand lands on his left hip, firm and steady, while my other braces lightly against his oblique. I guide his hips inward, rotating them just a few degrees, locking them into alignment.
“Your turn’s breaking down here,” I say, low in his ear. “You’re opening too soon. Keep it tucked until your inside foot plants. Then drive.”
He doesn’t say anything for a beat. Just breathes, shallow and measured.
“You always get this handsy when someone’s a little off, Coach?”
I tighten my hold just slightly. Not enough to be inappropriate. But enough for him to feel the heat behind it. The intent.
“This isn’t about you,” I lie. “It’s about form.”
“Mmm,” he hums, letting the sound vibrate between us. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
I release him as though his skin burns, pulling back and letting my hands drop to my sides. I don’t meet his eyes.
“You’ve got the instinct,” I say. “But instincts can get sloppy if you don’t check the mechanics. If you’re going to own the title of the best Running Back in the league, you need to tighten it up.”
He looks over his shoulder, mouth curved in something that’s not quite a smile. “Yes, Sir.”
And the way he says it—breathy and cocky—it sparks low in my gut.
I turn away before I do something fucking stupid.
I’m playing with fire here. I know better. The team’s going to gossip like teenage girls in the locker room after practice—hell, they probably already are.
So, I straighten, tilt my head back toward the field, and say loud enough for everyone to hear, “Go run that again. Full speed this time.”
Then I raise a hand. “Peoples! Over here.”
He jogs over, sweat beading at his temple, face already flushed. I keep my tone neutral as I step in close and adjust his stance, pointing out the slight lag in his first step and the way he flares his elbow out when it should stay tight to his body.
“You’re dropping your shoulder before the cut,” I say. “That’s a tell. Keep it square until the break.”
He nods. “Yes, Coach.”
Good. Normal. Professional.
I move on. Quick, clinical corrections with Taylor on his pocket reads.
A talk with Blackman about keeping his hands tighter on press coverage.
I even make a point to pull Rivera and Jenkins aside during water break and ask them about footwork drills, ignoring the way they both grin like they’ve seen something they weren’t supposed to.
By the time the final scrimmage whistle blows, I’ve corrected seven players, reviewed two plays, and said absolutely nothing personal to anyone else.
Luke doesn’t look at me again. Not once. Which is probably the smart thing. The right thing. And it still grates like sandpaper under my skin.
I blow the final whistle and call out, “Good work. Hit the locker room. Ice up. Full lift schedule tomorrow.”
A few of them groan. Taylor makes some joke about “Coach Gray and his love language being pain.” The others laugh. Luke jogs off without a word.
I let them go.
And try like hell not to watch him.
The locker room finally empties. One last slam of a locker. One more muffled curse over sore hamstrings. Then silence.
I let it settle for a minute.
Just me, the low hum of the overhead light, and the smell of turf sweat and Gatorade residue still clinging to my skin. I lean back in my chair, stretch the tension out of my neck, and tell myself today was fine. Professional. Mostly.
I made it through without crossing any lines.
Until the door creaks open.
Luke strolls in like he owns the place—which, judging by the shit-eating grin on his face, he absolutely believes he does.
“Don’t you knock?” I ask without looking up from my clipboard.
“Not when I’m expected.”
“You weren’t.”
He shrugs, walking deeper into the office, sweat-dark curls falling over his forehead. His practice tee is clinging to his chest in all the wrong ways. Or maybe all the right ones. My jaw tenses as I try—and fail—not to watch the way his hips shift as he walks.
He leans on the desk watching me. “You gonna tell me what that was out there today?”
I arch a brow. “You’re gonna have to be more specific.”
He grins, eyes dancing. “The way you touched me as though we were alone in your bed.”
“I corrected your form,” I say. “That’s my job.”
He hums, mock serious. “Mmhmm. And is it also your job to stare at me like you're starving? Because I gotta tell you, Coach… it gives me a hard-on. And it’s really hard to run full speed when I’m half hard in compression shorts and a jock strap.”
I close my eyes.
“Luke—”
He pushes off the desk, circling toward me slowly. “Maybe just tone down the lust a little while we’re on the field. Or I’m gonna have to start calling you something worse than Sir in front of the team.”
“Don’t,” I warn.
His grin widens. “Okay, Daddy.”
Every part of me stills. The breath in my lungs freezes. My pulse slams in my throat.
Fuck.
It shouldn’t hit like that—shouldn’t curl around my spine and tighten my fucking balls, or make my fingers twitch with the urge to grab him and pin him right there against my desk.
But it does.
Way more than Sir. More than Coach. It's a sucker punch straight to the part of me I keep buried six feet under control.
I stand—too fast.
He’s already on my side of the desk, close enough to smell the sweat still clinging to his skin, the faint edge of whatever citrus soap he uses. His proximity is a gut punch.
“You’re playing with fire,” I say.
He bites his lip, eyes scanning mine as though he’s cataloging every reaction. “And you like it.”
My jaw flexes. I shift closer, crowding him against the desk without touching. “I like discipline,” I growl. “Respect. Restraint.”