Page 11

11

JAXON

I stand there, my pulse pounding in my ears, body still thrumming with the ghost of her touch.

My fingers twitch at my sides, aching to reach for her, to pull her back, to demand answers for the questions haunting me.

But she's already disappeared into the crowd, that damn smirk still playing on her lips, like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me. Like she knows I’m hers, even if she isn’t mine.

A hand claps against my shoulder, jerking me back to the present.

"Bro, you good?" one of our linebackers, Beck Harrison, asks, his dark brows furrowed.

I force my face into something neutral, ignoring the fire still burning under my skin. "Yeah," I grit out. "Just—yeah."

Beck follows my line of sight, catching a glimpse of Madison weaving through the party, her chocolate hair catching the light. My stomach tightens. She’s a beacon I’ve always been drawn to, even when I know better. His lips pull into a knowing grin. "Ah. Got it. You have a thing for Madison?"

Yeah, a thing for her stomping all over my heart.

The words dig under my skin, sharp and bitter. Because that's exactly what it feels like—like I’m some game she’s playing, pushing and pulling to see how close she can get before I break, testing me like she hasn’t already broken enough of me.

And the worst part?

I want to break.

I want to shatter to pieces if it means she’ll be the one to put me back together.

I shake my head, rolling my shoulders in an attempt to loosen the tension coiled there.

"Doesn't matter," I mutter, grabbing a soda off the counter. I pop the top and take a long drink.

"Uh-huh," he says, clearly unconvinced. "Yeah, keep telling yourself that, man."

I don’t respond, because I don’t need to. What the hell would I even say? That the girl I’ve been in love with for half my life just waltzed back in like she never left? That she still looks at me like she wants me but keeps running like she’s afraid to?

My jaw is tight, my grip white-knuckled around the bottle. My mind is already too far gone, still stuck in the way she felt against me.

This isn't over, not even close.

I don’t know how long I stand there, muscles locked tight, my body still humming with the aftermath of what just happened—of what almost happened.

The music is too loud, the air too thick, my skin too hot.

I need to get the hell out of here before I do something stupid, like go looking for her. Before I demand answers she clearly isn’t ready to give.

I push through the crowd, ignoring the calls of my teammates, the drunken laughter, the couples tangled up against walls and on couches. Every brush of someone against me feels wrong—not her, not soft enough, not warm enough, not Madison.

By the time I reach the staircase, my pulse is still uneven, my thoughts a mess of her hands, her breath, her body against mine. I take the steps two at a time, my jaw clenched so hard, it aches.

The second I get into my room, I slam the door shut behind me, the bass from the party still thudding faintly through the walls like a heartbeat—steady, relentless, a reminder of what happened downstairs. I lean against the door, tilting my head back, dragging a hand down my face.

Jesus Christ.

I exhale sharply, pushing off the door and yanking my shirt over my head, trying to shake the feeling of her skin under my palms. It doesn’t work. It won’t leave me.

Everything about her is burned into me. The scent of her—lavender and something uniquely her—takes me back to nights spent on the rooftop outside my bedroom window.

The way her breath hitched when I pulled her closer, that tiny crack in her composure revealing the Madison I used to know. The way she felt—soft and warm and perfect against me, like the missing piece I’ve been unconsciously searching for since she walked away.

I groan, running a hand through my hair, pacing across the room like it’ll somehow shake the tension gripping every inch of my body.

I enter my bathroom, turning on the shower, cranking the dial to cold in an pathetic attempt to cool the fire she’s lit inside me, to numb the ache only she seems to bring.

"Get it together, Montgomery," I mutter through clenched teeth.

But the cold isn't working. If anything, it's making everything worse—every sensation heightened, every nerve ending alive with the memory of her. The way she pressed against me. The soft curve of her waist beneath my hands. The teasing roll of her hips.

I groan, reaching for the temperature dial, turning it until steam begins to rise around me. The heat envelops me, and I close my eyes, surrendering to the inevitable.

My hand slides down my stomach, my breath catching as I wrap my fingers around my dick. I tell myself this is just physical release. It doesn't mean anything. It's just to take the edge off so I can think clearly again.

But as I start stroking myself, it's her face I see behind closed eyelids, her scent that fills my lungs. Her name threatens to spill from my lips as I move my hand faster, chasing release from this torment.

I remember the way her breath hitched when I pulled her closer. The way her body fit perfectly against mine. The way she whispered my name like it belonged in her mouth.

"Fuck," I hiss, my free hand braced against the tile as the pressure builds, as every muscle tenses with my approaching release. My strokes become desperate, erratic, matching the chaos inside me.

When it finally hits, her name escapes my lips in a broken whisper—a confession, a prayer, a curse. The intensity of it staggers me, leaving me breathless and trembling under the spray.

For one, blissful moment, my mind is blank, free from the torment of wanting what I can’t have. But it doesn't last. Reality crashes back as my heartbeat slows, as the water washes away the evidence of my weakness.

I press my forehead against the cold tile, squeezing my eyes shut against the flood of memories.

The sharp whistle cuts through the cool Monday morning air as I push through the last rep of sprints. Sweat beads down my temple, my lungs burning, muscles tight from the weekend. This pain, this exhaustion, it's good. It keeps my mind from wandering where it shouldn't—back to her.

"Montgomery!"

I glance up to see Coach Harding waving me over, his expression unreadable beneath his cap. That look means business.

"Walk with me," he says, clapping my shoulder as we move toward the edge of the field. "You've been playing your ass off," he starts. "Numbers are exactly where they need to be. You're climbing the draft boards fast. First round is looking more like a guarantee."

I nod, rolling my shoulders. "Appreciate that, Coach. "

He stops, facing me fully. "You're aware of the teams showing the most interest?"

I shift my weight, already knowing. "East coast." The words sit heavy on my tongue.

"Couple of strong programs looking to rebuild with a young receiver like you, teams that need a guy who can move the chains and put points on the board." He pauses. "They like your hands, Montgomery. You don't drop the ball when it matters."

I exhale through my nose. I should be pumped about this. Any kid dreaming of the league would kill for these odds. But all I can think about is how far away those teams are.

How far from her I'd be.

"You got something on your mind?" Coach asks, eyes narrowing.

I hesitate, flexing my fingers. This is what I've worked for the last eleven years for, so why does it feel like something is clawing at my chest?

"Nah," I finally say. "Just taking it all in."

Coach watches me a beat longer. "Good. Keep your head straight. You're on the path to something big, kid. Don't let anything pull you off it."

"Yes, sir."

He walks away, leaving me standing there, staring out at the field. The future is laid out in front of me, everything I've worked for finally within reach. But all I can think about is how it's leading me further away from a woman who doesn't even know she has me wrapped around her finger.

I rejoin the team for conditioning, and Carter falls into step beside me, breathing heavy but grinning.

"Big convo with Coach, huh?" he muses. "Draft stock?"

"Yep."

"East coast teams?"

I glance at him. "Damn, you psychic now?"

He smirks. "Nah, just paying attention. You're the top wideout this year. Those teams need a guy like you bad. "

I adjust my gloves.

"Yeah. I know."

Carter studies me.

"But you're not hyped about it."

The easy response would be to brush it off, say I'm focused on the next game, but Carter doesn't buy bullshit.

"It's…a lot," I admit.

"Just thinking about everything."

His expression shifts, knowing.

"By 'everything,' you mean a certain brunette?"

I shoot him a look.

"Not everything is about a girl, Hayes."

He laughs.

"When a dude looks that miserable about getting drafted first round, there's usually a woman involved."

I clench my jaw, picking up pace, but Carter keeps up.

"Look, man," he continues, "I get it. Young love, best friends, deep feelings. But you really gonna give up everything you’ve worked for based solely on the chance of her wanting you back?"

The words hit harder than I want. "Nobody said anything about giving anything up."

"Okay, but would you change your plans for her? If some Midwest team comes knocking—hell, even a local team—you gonna pick based on that?"

My stomach twists. I hate that I don't have an answer.

"I'm not saying she isn't important, but this is the dream, Jax. You don't change the dream for a girl. Not unless you wanna be the guy sitting at a bar ten years from now, watching the draft and wondering why you hesitated."

I let his words settle, finishing the sprint with eyes locked ahead, chest burning from more than just exertion.

I don't answer him because I don't need to.

Yeah, this is the dream. Yeah, teams on the other side of the country want me.

But what Carter—what everyone—doesn't understand is, she isn't just some girl.

Madison isn't a distraction. She's not a mistake. She's not a reason to hesitate.

She's the reason.

For everything .

Why I transferred here. Why I'm playing the best football of my life so far. Why, even with the biggest opportunity ahead of me, all I can think about is her.

She might believe she's too broken to let someone in, but I know better. I've always known better.

She isn't broken.

She just needs someone who refuses to let her believe that lie.