Chapter 21
Reece
Ihaven’t been with another girl.
Not since Sam.
Not since that first night in my room when she fell apart under my touch and then walked out as if she hadn’t just shattered my entire spine and left it that way. Every chance since then has still come to me just like it always did. Easy. Willing. Loud enough to stroke my ego and nothing else.
And I feel nothing.
There’s no spark left. No pull. No hunger. Just this dull, unending ache sitting low in my gut, whispering her name every time I close my eyes.
Red.
She’s everything I want.
There’s no doubt about it. No confusion. I’m in love with her, and that realization hits harder than any hit I’ve ever taken on the field. I’ve never felt this way about anyone. Not even close.
That’s the part that really messes me up the most.
It pisses me off how quickly she got under my skin. How fast she transformed me. I built my whole reputation on not caring. On taking what I wanted, screwing who I wanted, and walking away before emotions ever had a chance to breathe. It was simple. Clean. Easy.
Until her.
Now I can’t get hard for someone else.
It doesn’t matter how attractive they are or how far they will go, my mind pulls me back to her.
I don’t even recognize myself. Who the hell am I if I’m not the guy who lets go first?
Because here I am—watching every door, every hallway, every crowd of people hoping she’ll be in it. Listening for her laugh in rooms she’s clearly not in.
And if she told me right now that she wanted more, I’d fucking give her everything.
I’m early for practice. First one here.
The field’s still soaked from the afternoon storm, slick under my boots, with the smell of wet grass sharp in the air. Coach isn’t here yet? It doesn’t matter though; I need to move. Run. To bleed some of the shit out of my system before I do something stupid. Something I’ll regret.
It’s been three fucking days.
Three days since I had my hands on her. Since I tasted her moan in the back of my throat and watched her come undone with my name broken in her mouth.
Three days without touching her, and it already feels too long.
My skin itches from it. My cock stays hard at the worst times, aching for the girl who told me we needed to stop for now.
My muscles burn from trying to keep it together, pretending I’m fine when all I want is to shove her up against the lockers and feel that little hitch in her breath again.
Watch her pupils blow wide. Make her forget whatever the fuck Lola said.
But I can’t. This matters to her. Someone saw us, so she wants to lay low.
She thinks it’s Tara, maybe. Sam’s not sure exactly, but it spooked her. She told me that morning after her night at Lola’s. Her voice was too fucking soft for someone as strong as her.
She bit her nails. Her voice cracked at the edges. And I swear to God, I stopped breathing.
She tried to act cool, laugh it off, with that sarcastic little smile she wears like armor. But I saw her fingers twist in her lap. I heard how her voice went flat when she said we needed to back off. For now.
And that’s the part that gutted me because I’d already been imagining what I’d do next. Where I’d take her on our next date. How I’d make her come apart again, slower this time. No rush. Just her spread out for me, mine to ruin all over again.
But she was scared, so I swallowed it. Nodded even though every cell in my body screamed not to. Now I’m stuck in this in-between hell, walking past her in the halls and pretending she’s not all I fucking want. All I see. All I need.
There haven’t been any whispers yet. No sly comments.
No one in the locker room smirking or asking if she moaned my name.
Not even Jace, who usually can’t shut the fuck up when there’s gossip in the air.
If he knew, he’d already be printing flyers about the fucking bet I never should have made in the first place.
His group chats would be full of GIFs, dick jokes, and “did you hear?” energy.
If anyone says one word that turns her into a punchline, I’ll break their jaw for it. I don’t care who it is. I’ll knock out teeth before I let anyone talk about her like she’s some easy fuck in a library stall.
Tara Evans with her tight ponytail. Always sipping on some overpriced iced latte, face set in that bored, holier-than-thou expression.
The girl who acts as if she’s above everything but still drags your name through the dirt without lifting a finger.
She is judgmental as hell and acts too good for gossip until it’s juicy enough to give her a sense of authority.
She’s been talked about in the locker room before. A few of the guys have bragged about finger-fucking her in dark corners at parties, passing her around like a trophy.
So if it was Tara who saw us, maybe for once she’s sticking up for Sam. Maybe she’s keeping her judgy mouth shut because she knows what it’s like to be the girl everyone talks about. The one who’s only relevant when she’s being fucked.
Or could it be she’s just biding her time, waiting until she needs a distraction from the rumors that float around her.
But if she really lets it slip, that’s when I’ll have a serious problem.
This isn’t just some hallway rumor. This is ours. And I’ll defend it. I’ll defend Sam. Every messy, fragile, beautiful part of her.
If Tara says one word, I swear to God I’ll make sure she regrets it.
Coach Reynolds steps onto the field first, whistle already in hand. The rest of the team follows behind him, all noise and swagger—shoulders bumping, laughs too loud, the usual reckless energy they bring everywhere they go.
It used to settle into me easily. It used to feel like mine. Now it rubs me the wrong way. It doesn’t sit right in my chest. It’s too loud. It doesn’t match the way everything inside me has shifted.
“Reece,” Coach barks, walking over as I finish my second lap. Sweat’s already soaking my back, my shirt drenched, but I keep moving. “You’re here early again.”
His tone is rough, but I see how his eyes catch on the dirt beneath my cleats.
The way he nods once, proud without saying a word.
He knows I’m all in this time. No skipping reps.
No half-assing warm-ups or sneaking off early to chase a girl or punch someone in the parking lot.
I’m showing up. Earning it. Bleeding for it. Every damn step.
We hit drills hard. Sprint sets first, back and forth, sharp turns, legs burning. Then tackling practice. Coach is pushing us harder than usual, shouting from across the field, voice cutting through the air. No room to breathe. No room to think.
Good. I don’t want to think.
I want the pain. I want the bruises. I crave the ache in my muscles and the fire in my chest. Every time I hit the grass, I see a different face. One of the boys in the locker room cracking a joke. Tara fucking Evans smirking behind her cup. I hit harder. I hit angrier.
That’s the fucked-up part. I’ve never protected anyone before. Not unless they wore my jersey colors.
But Red’s not just anyone. She’s the girl I’ve been chasing without realizing I was running. The girl I’ve loved in silence. In glances. In every reckless move I made just to feel something real. And I didn’t even see it until she pulled away.
Coach blows the whistle and I drop into formation, heart pounding, dirt on my knees. I run hard as if it’s the only thing I’ve ever been good at.
Dylan fucking James. Quarterback. Star boy. Walks around with a crown on his head and a hard-on for his own reflection. He always has a crowd, always high on praise and that dick-swinging swagger he probably jerks off to at night.
He shouts something across the field just as I finish the drill, his voice full of smug bullshit, fishing for laughs and throwing bait to his little fan club.
I don’t accept it. I push past him forcefully, catching his shoulder.
He stumbles, catches himself, releases a laugh that’s all bark, no bite. But I notice it. The flicker in his eyes. The one-second pause before the mask falls back into place.
Cocky fuck thinks he’s invincible. Maybe he is, when his entire offensive surrounds him, guiding every move.
But remove the blockers, peel away the ego, and all that’s left is a loudmouth riding on everyone else’s effort.
So what if the guy can throw a ball? He wouldn’t last a second without his wall of protection.
He’d be on the ground before he could blink.
I don’t pause to feed it. I’m not here for his mouth.
He’ll get what he deserves.
Just not today.
Right now, it’s the snap count in my head and the target in front of me.
I read the offense, track every twitch in the line, plant my feet, and hit harder than the asshole across from me expects.
I move with purpose, fists clenched, jaw tight.
Out here, I don’t question anything. Don’t second-guess.
It’s the one place I don’t feel fucked up, too much, or not enough.
Out here, I just am. Solid. Ruthless. Grounded as hell.
And for three perfect seconds, that’s everything.
By the time practice ends, I’m a complete mess. Muscles trembling. Sweat soaked through every layer. My ribs ache, my shoulders hurt, and my legs feel like concrete blocks. My helmet hits the locker with a clang, and I peel off my pads, skin burning where the fabric’s rubbed raw.
The hot water hits me in the shower, and I almost groan, leaning into it. Letting it slam into the back of my neck, shoulders, spine. My breath drags in slowly. Controlled. I count it out, trying to pull myself back into my body.
Then it hits me.