3. Leo - Private Territory
The air in the hallway leading to the athletic wing is thick with that sweet, cloying scent of floor wax and burnt rubber—an aroma that means exhaustion to anyone else, but for me, it's become the scent of anticipation.
Five days have passed since I last saw Nate—Professor Sterling—and every hour spent without the weight of his gaze on me has been a slow torture of withdrawal.
I move with a slight drag of my right foot, a practiced limp, calibrated to look just credible enough to justify my presence here after hours, but not so severe that it robs me of my usual, lithe insolence.
I reach his office door. It's an anonymous slab of dark wood with a small brass nameplate.
To me, it's the portal to a sanctuary. I pause for a second, adjusting my oversized hoodie so it slips off one shoulder.
I want to look vulnerable, but in that calculated way that makes a man like him want to exert his protection.
Three sharp knocks. My heart hammers against my ribs—a jackhammer counting down the seconds.
"Come in."
His voice is muffled by the wood, but it's unmistakable.
Deep, firm, weighted with the kind of authority that makes my bones vibrate.
I step inside. The office is small, almost claustrophobic, saturated with the smell of Nate: cold coffee, leather, and that masculine hint of sandalwood that seems to permeate even the files on his desk.
He's sitting behind a laptop, the blue light of the screen sharpening the hard lines of his jaw.
He's wearing a charcoal polo that highlights the sheer bulk of his arms crossed over the desk.
When he looks up and sees me, there's an imperceptible hitch in his dark eyes.
A flicker that tells me everything I need to know: he hasn't stopped thinking about me either.
"Sinclair. What are you doing here? Practice ended a long time ago." His tone is harsh, a defensive wall he's trying to throw up between us, but I see the tension in the way his knuckles turn white as he grips a pen.
"I hurt myself, Coach," I say, biting my lower lip and letting a look of feigned pain wash over my face.
I lean against the doorframe, letting the hoodie expose even more of my collarbone.
"My ankle. During the last set of sprints.
I thought it would go away, but now I can barely put any weight on it. "
Nate lets out a heavy sigh, a mix of frustration and resignation.
He stands, and the movement reveals just how massive he is in this cramped space.
As he moves toward me, the air seems to grow denser.
Every step he takes obliterates the safety net of distance he's been desperately trying to maintain.
"Sit there," he says, pointing to a folding exam table against the wall, covered in a sheet of rough paper that crinkles under my weight.
I sit, watching him as he crouches between my open legs.
The intimacy of the position is devastating.
His head is level with my lap; the heat radiating from his body is a magnet pulling me toward him.
Nate doesn't look me in the face. He's focused on my right foot.
His hands—large, calloused, marked by years of hard work—move with surgical precision.
He slides off my sneaker, then my white sock, moving with a slowness that steals my breath.
When his fingers finally close around my bare skin, a jolt of electricity shoots up my leg and explodes in my lower belly. The contact is blistering. His hands are rough, but his touch is surprisingly gentle as he begins to test the joint's mobility.
"Tell me where it hurts," he murmurs, and his voice, so close now, makes the hair on my arms stand up.
"There... right there, Coach," I whisper, as he presses his thumb against my ankle bone. I don't feel any physical pain; I only feel a desire that's blurring my vision.
Nate continues to manipulate my foot. I feel the pressure of his fingertips, the way he cups my heel with his palm, almost entirely covering my skin with his.
It's a silent possession. His eyes are fixed on my ankle, but I can feel his focus is elsewhere.
His breathing has grown heavier, a jagged rhythm that betrays his agitation.
For a moment, he seems to forget his role.
His hand slides slowly up toward my calf, squeezing the muscle with a strength that has nothing to do with a medical exam.
It's the touch of a man dying to touch more, yet terrified of himself.
I stay still, watching him from above. The back of his neck is inches from my knees.
I see the short-cropped brown hair, the line of his neck disappearing under the collar of his polo.
I want to sink my fingers into that hair, pull his head back, and force him to look me in the eye while he touches me like that.
The tension in the office is so high I feel like I could reach out and snap it.
Every time his fingers press into my skin, it's like he's branding his territory.
It's a voluntary submission: I am his athlete, he is the authority, and right now, my body is in his hands.
"There doesn't seem to be any swelling," he says, but his voice is cracked, stripped of its usual steadiness. His hand doesn't pull away from my foot. It lingers there, basking in the forbidden contact. "Might just be a minor sprain. You should ice it."
This is it. I have to push. I have to see how much his mask can take before it shatters into a thousand pieces. In a move I hope looks natural, as if I'm bracing myself against the pain, I reach out with my left hand and rest it on his thigh, just above the knee.
Under the tech fabric of his pants, I feel his quad muscle, hard as iron. It's a mass of pure, coiled power. My fingers close slightly over his leg, feeling the intense heat radiating from him. It's not a fleeting touch. It's a deliberate, slow caress, sliding a few inches up toward his groin.
Nate freezes. It's as if time has stopped.
His hands, still clamped around my foot, tighten until it almost hurts.
I feel his pulse skyrocket, a frantic gallop vibrating through his fingers.
For an infinite second, he doesn't move.
He stays there, with my hand pressing against his denied intimacy, trapped between duty and an instinct that is eating him alive.
Then, the explosion.
Nate bolts to his feet with a violence that nearly tips over the stool.
He drops my foot like it's white-hot, recoiling until he hits the desk.
His face is a mask of fury and terror. His breath is short, his eyes wide, his pupils so dilated the blue has almost vanished.
He is visibly shaken, his hands trembling slightly before he shoves them into fists at his sides.
"Out," he hisses. It's a guttural sound, loaded with a self-loathing directed more at himself than at me.
"Coach, I—" I try to keep my tone innocent, but my predatory smile betrays me. I saw the truth in his eyes. I felt his body answer mine.
"I said OUT, Sinclair! Now!" he roars, his voice booming within the narrow walls. He points a finger toward the door, his arm as taut as a loaded spring. "Put your shoe on and get out of my sight."
I stand up slowly, savoring every second of his breakdown. I slip my shoe on without breaking eye contact, maintaining a calm that drives him even crazier. I know I've violated his private territory—not just his office, but the fortress he built around his morality.
I reach the door, stop, and turn to look at him one last time. Nate is still there, leaning against the desk, head down, shoulders heaving as he struggles to regain control. He looks like a man who just lost a crucial battle.
"See you on the field, Coach," I whisper, barely audible.
I don't wait for a reaction. I step out into the hallway, my heart dancing with the thrill of triumph. He's just a man who's discovered how sweet it feels to fall.