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I can’t seem to move on with my fucking life.

I thought I was joking when I said Elise came straight from hell, but with every passing day, that seems more and more like the truth. She’s like a succubus, invading my every waking thought, and I can’t rid my brain of her no matter how much I try.

My dick is rubbed raw, and I’m pretty sure I’ve got new calluses forming on my palms from the absurd number of times I’ve fucked my own hand to the thought of her dripping cunt, and god, that mouth.

My jaw is clenched shut as the team unloads from the bus, piling into the hotel after an excruciating game that ended with us winning, but only by one goal.

Us. Because these women and this team have become mine in every sense. I root for them the same way I do my teammates, celebrating their wins as my own because they are.

And that’s the only explanation for why Elise’s behaviour at the end of the game struck me as odd. She was unusually frustrated, kicking a rubbish bin as she stormed off into the locker room.

My godforsaken brain wouldn’t drop the thought that maybe she’s got as much pent-up energy over what never happened as I do.

No, I don’t want that. I can’t, I remind myself, following after the team into the brightly lit lobby.

Elise is already leaning over the concierge desk as he hands her the room keys, passing them out according to the sleeping chart we set up this week.

We try to rotate who stays with one another on these trips to keep everything fair, even if they all wind up swapping as soon as I head to my own room.

She saunters over to me as the rest of the ladies make their way up the stairs or take the elevators, hauling their duffel bags over their shoulders.

I swallow thickly, taking in the sway of her rounded hips and the way her quads flex with each step. Her dark hair is wrapped up in a bun, and tendrils of those silken strands frame her face. Her dark features are a massive contrast to her icy-blue eyes and light sun-kissed complexion.

“Hey, Coach,” she says, sticking out a hand wrapped tightly around my room key. I try to take it from her, but she doesn’t budge when my hand swallows hers. She glances down at it, one corner of her lips curving. “I see you sprung for the suite, huh?” she asks, her eyes glittering with mischief.

“Yep,” I croak.

She smirks, loosening her grip, and drops her hand to her side, leaving me in the middle of this massive, limestone-walled lobby with cathedral ceilings, and a hard-on that would rival Big Ben.