Chapter 24 Silas
TWENTY-FOUR
SILAS
We stay on the couch for most of the day—eating, talking, watching something forgettable.
Luke stretches out with his feet in my lap, demanding calf massages and making dramatic moaning sounds when I indulge him.
I let him. Every bit of it. Because I don’t want him to leave.
I like the domestic bliss that’s settled over my apartment. A taste of what we could really be.
My joggers and hoodie are way too big on him, but his clothes are dirty and having him sit around in just his boxers would have him unable to walk right, let alone run plays tomorrow. Because I definitely wouldn’t be able to control myself.
When he falls asleep with his head on my chest, curled into my side, I just hold him. And for once, I let myself want everything.
“I love you, hermoso,” I murmur against his temple. I might not say it to him in English while he’s awake, but I can’t help it as the words tumble out as he snores softly against me.
Eventually, I carry him to my bed again and cuddle up behind him, tugging him against me. He mumbles little incoherent words as I do, but settles in my arms.
The alarm doesn’t go off.
Correction: My alarm doesn’t go off.
I jolt upright, heart in my throat as my eyes catch the bright light filtering through the blinds. Too bright. Too late.
I check the time.
6:43 AM.
“Shit.”
Luke groans beside me as I leap out of bed, grabbing my joggers from the floor. “What the—”
“We’re late,” I snap. “Practice starts in seventeen minutes, and we’re twenty minutes away.”
Luke rolls onto his stomach, face buried in the pillow. “That sounds like a you problem.”
I stop, halfway into my shirt, and stare at him. “You’re on the team. It’s your problem, too.”
He lifts his head just enough to peek one eye open. His hair’s a mess. His cheek has a pillow crease. And still—still—he smirks.
“Well, maybe if someone didn’t schedule early-morning practices like a sadist, I wouldn’t be forced to stay in bed until absolutely necessary.”
“Necessary was forty-three minutes ago.”
He yawns. “Mm. Again. Sounds like your fault. If you let me suck your dick before bed, we’d have both slept better and woken up on time.”
I stop dead.
He grins. “Coach.”
I point a finger at him, trying not to smile, failing. “Don’t.”
“You’re hard again, aren’t you?” he asks, stretching like a cat. “I’m a menace. You should punish me.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You’re hard,” he sing-songs.
“I’m about to be fired,” I mutter, grabbing my keys and tossing him my hoodie from the night before.
“Fine, fine. I’ll get dressed.” He groans as he rolls out of bed. “But just so you know… if you let me get on my knees this morning, we will both have better attitudes at practice. It would only take an extra couple of minutes, promise.”
I turn slowly.
He’s grinning again, sweater half on, hair wild.
“You’re lucky I like you,” I say.
“You’re lucky I haven’t made you come behind the bleachers yet,” he shoots back.
“Get dressed, Trouble.”
The car ride is chaos.
Luke’s in my passenger seat, legs pulled up, bare feet on the dash, and my hoodie swallowed around him as though it was made for this.
For him. The sleeves cover his hands, his wild morning hair is half-tamed by the collar, and he looks smug as hell humming along to the radio as if he owns the air I’m breathing.
He looks good in my clothes.
The kind of good that makes me think maybe early practices are a mistake. If I weren’t on a tight schedule, I’d already have him in my lap, tugging that damn hoodie over his head so I could see him again—really see him. Mark him up until he’s mine in every way that counts.
His foot taps the dash to the beat. Then he turns and grins at me, catching me watching him. Although, I’m not even trying to hide it.
He bites his bottom lip and tilts his head. “You’re staring,” he says.
“Can you blame me?” I murmur, eyes dropping to where my hoodie hangs loose around his thighs. My joggers swallowing up his legs.
He laughs and slouches deeper into the seat, as though he knows exactly what he’s doing to me. And the whole ride is just another excuse to get under my skin.
And hell, maybe it is. But I’m not fighting it anymore. Let him try. Let him tempt me.
He already fucking owns me.
I grip the steering wheel tighter, trying not to let my thoughts spiral, but it’s hard with him sitting over there all smug and barefoot in my clothes like he doesn’t even realize the kind of damage he’s doing to me.
Except he does.
I can see it in the way he stretches, slow and obnoxious, arms overhead as the hem of the hoodie rides up his thighs. Just enough to make me wonder if he’s wearing his boxers underneath. It’s enough to make me insane.
“Bet I could make you come before the next red light,” he says casually, like he’s commenting on the weather.
I choke on air.
“Luke—”
“I’m just saying,” he grins, leaning his head against the window like this is a totally normal conversation. “You look stressed. I’m helpful.”
“You’re not actually serious,” I say.
He hums. “And yet you’re hard again.”
I glance over at him. He wiggles his brows like a little shit, smug and so full of it, and if I weren’t trying so damn hard to be responsible—
“If I pull over right now,” I warn, voice low, “you’re walking to practice.”
“You say that like it’s a punishment,” he teases.
I groan and press harder on the gas, needing the drive to end before I give in to the temptation of his smart mouth and even smarter hands.
“Sit there,” I mutter, jaw tight, “and don’t talk for five minutes.”
He leans back with a shit-eating grin. “Fine. But I still think you’re missing a great opportunity. Road-head builds trust.”
“Luke.”
“What? You don’t believe in team bonding?”
I don’t answer. I can’t. Because if I do, I might tell him that I’d very much like road-head, as he put it. And he knows it.
He shifts in his seat again, legs stretching out. “What are you going to tell the team when I show up with you, in your clothes?”
Shit, he’s right.
I glance at him—at the hoodie that still swallows him whole, the sleeves hiding his hands, the drawstring chewed between his teeth. And yeah, I want him. I want this. I want the whole fucking world to know. But we’re not there yet. Not in a way the world can see.
And definitely not in a way I can drive him to practice like this.
I flick on my blinker and turn early, pulling onto a quieter side street, a block from the dorms. Luke doesn’t say anything at first, just watches me with raised brows as I ease the car to a stop.
“Really?” he asks, voice light but eyes sharp. “You’re doing the drop-off routine?”
I sigh and scrub a hand over my jaw. “You need your gear. And if we walk in together, like this, we’re not going to make it ten feet before someone starts asking questions.”
He stares at me for a beat, then glances down at himself—the hoodie, the too big joggers, a grin tugging at his lips despite the tension building between us.
Then he pouts.
Full bottom lip, slouched posture, arms crossed like a sulking teenager. “I feel like your dirty little secret.”
“Luke—”
“I mean, I am,” he says, mock-hurt. “Literally. In your hoodie. Full of your—”
“Luke.” My voice is sharper this time.
His lips twitch.
I narrow my eyes, and he finally cracks a grin. “I’m joking,” he says, reaching for the door handle. “I know your job’s important. And I like you too much to fuck it up.”
My heart squeezes at his words.
He opens the door, but before he steps out, he leans over and presses a kiss to my cheek—quick, sweet, and maddeningly tender.
“I’ll see you at practice, Coach,” he says, picking up his sneakers and turning toward his dorms.
I watch him go, the sway of his ass done on purpose I’m sure. He glances back, blowing me a kiss before he’s gone, slipping around the corner. I don’t move until my heart slows down. I will be late for real now, and I don’t even care.