Page 5

CHAPTER FOUR-KOA

“Jackson, get your arse over here. Everyone else, hit the showers!”

Coach Dane’s voice slices through the sticky Southern air like a whip, and I drag myself toward him with every ounce of restraint I’ve got left.

I already know what’s coming— worst training session of my life.

And yeah, maybe I deserve the bollocking.

But can you blame me?

I’ve got Finley Adamo rolling around in the grass like it’s a goddamn boudoir shoot.

Cleavage on display.

Tits bouncing.

Arse outlined in tights so tight I could practically fucking count the little hearts on her goddamn thong, barely covering her mound.

And trust me. I will.

One day I’ll be up close and personal with her sweet slit, and I’ll rip those damn panties off with my teeth.

She’s everywhere.

On the sidelines.

On the grass.

Always behind the camera.

Permanently stuck in my head.

How the hell is a man supposed to focus when that is within twenty meters?

I can damn near taste her.

It’s maddening, this ache that coils in my gut every time she’s near.

And Christ, I can smell her from here.

Not sweat. Not the sour tang of effort and turf and blood like what I’m used to out here.

No. She’s all sweetness and sin, like warm vanilla tangled with something heady and ripe, something so soft and feminine it makes my jaw clench.

She doesn’t belong on the pitch. Not really.

She’s too clean. Too soft.

Too everything.

The kind of woman who should be tucked into silk sheets, not crouching in grass with a camera in her hands and fire in her eyes.

She’s a walking contradiction. Bright lipstick, smart mouth, thighs for days.

And the truth is, I’ve never wanted anything more in my entire miserable life.

She’s the exact fucking opposite of this brutal, bloody game.

And maybe that’s why I can’t stop staring.

Coach is glaring at me. I know I fucked up, but what can I say?

It’s done now, and I’m not going to beat myself up about it.

But I’m not fucking happy. Not with myself.

Not with the fact that my bollocks are turning a deep shade of frustration-blue and my cock has had enough of my internal moral dilemmas.

What I need is simple:

A release.

Get out.

Get laid.

Get over her.

Right now, though, I’m just going to follow Coach into the locker room of this sad little rented field and take my punishment like a good lad.

With a grimace that looks like a smile and silent prayers that Finley stays far, far away from me.

But, of course, the universe has to prove again just how much it fucking hates me.

“NO! Not yet!”

Her voice cuts through the air, chasing us like some goddamn siren song, and I swear, every muscle in my back tenses.

Fuck. Me.

Yes, please .

That annoying bastard of a voice in my head again— horny, reckless, and clearly on her side.

I clench my jaw as she catches up, chest heaving, face flushed, camera swinging from her shoulder like she’s just dashed out of a rom-com and into my worst possible scenario.

“What is it, Fin?” Coach asks her, all casual-like.

Like we’re not on a ticking time bomb made of sexual tension and bad decisions.

I bristle.

Fin.

That nickname slips off his tongue too easily. I know he’s got his Carolina, but still. It grates.

“I, uh, would like to get a few stills of some of the guys. Please?” she asks, looking up at him like butter wouldn’t melt in her too-kissable mouth.

“Shouldn’t they shower first?” Coach raises a brow.

Please say yes. Send her away. Save me.

“NO! I mean—no, actually. I’ve been testing content in small doses and, well, women seem to go crazy for the players when they’re all, um, sweaty,” she mumbles, cheeks going pink.

I nearly groan.

Right here, in front of everyone.

Christ. She doesn’t even know what she does to me.

“Well, here. Use Koa. I think the others are already hittin’ the showers,” Coach says with a shrug and walks off like he didn’t just toss me into the lion’s den.

The bloody traitor.

“Oh, um, I don’t want to bother Mr. Jackson,” she tries.

“Nonsense. Bother him all you want,” Coach calls back over his shoulder, smirking like the devil himself.

I don’t even know who I hate more in this moment— Coach, her, or myself.

“Um, sorry,” she says, fiddling with her camera strap.

I don’t answer.

I can’t.

If I look at her right now, I’ll either say something cruel or grab her and kiss her until we both forget our names.

Possibly both.

I turn instead, scanning the area like I’m trying to pick the least sexually charged patch of grass in all of South Carolina.

My practice jersey is already off, clutched in one hand, sticky with sweat. I glance down at it, wondering if she expects me to put it back on.

“Where do you want me?” I ask, voice rougher than I meant it to be.

“Oh,” she says, and her cheeks go even pinker.

Then I realize what I just said. And I bite back a groan.

“Um, right there is fine, thanks.”

Her voice is soft.

Uncertain. Uncomfortable.

I hate that.

Hate that I’ve made her feel that way.

Because the truth is, I don’t want to be cold with her.

I don’t want to be harsh.

I don’t want to keep pretending like I’m not affected.

Because I am.

More than I should be.

More than I’ve ever been.

And standing here half-naked, the sun blazing, her eyes on me like she’s trying not to stare—yeah, I’ve never been closer to losing control.

She lifts the camera again, her mouth pursed in focus, but I can tell her hands are shaking.

Just a little.

Like maybe she’s feeling it too.

Good.

Because I’ve been drenched in this slow torture since I laid eyes on the fiery little redhead, and if I’m going down, she’s coming with me.

Good idea.

In fact, maybe I’ve been thinking about this all wrong.

I shift, stepping toward her.

Not enough to crowd, but enough to make her pause.

Her finger freezes over the shutter button.

“Getting what you need, sweetheart?” I ask, voice low, rough.

She blinks up at me, her eyes flashing green fire at me.

“Excuse me?”

“The shots,” I say, letting a smirk tug at the corner of my mouth. “You’ve been staring at my thighs for a full minute. Just making sure you’re capturing the angles that really matter.”

Her cheeks flush.

Glorious.

“That’s not what I’m—I mean, I wasn’t—” she stammers, clearly outraged, then narrows her eyes. “Wow. You really do think a lot of yourself, don’t you?”

I chuckle, stepping in one more stride.

Now we’re toe to toe.

Her head tips back slightly to keep looking up at me.

“You say that like you weren’t drooling a second ago.”

“I wasn’t drooling,” she snaps, but her voice goes a little breathless. “I was documenting.”

“Is that what you call it?”

I lean down, just a hair. Just enough for her to feel my breath near her ear.

“What are you?—”

“Want me on the ground for the next one? Or are we done here, Red?”

She blinks. The vein at the base of her throat is racing like mad.

“What?”

“I said, are we past the professional portion of this little photo shoot?”

Her breath catches, but she rallies, because of course she does.

“You know,” she murmurs, tilting her chin, “you talk a big game for someone who got his head caved in by a rugby ball a few hours ago.”

That lands.

I laugh.

Out loud.

A sharp bark of surprise that makes her grin.

“I mean, you might think you own the game, Big Guy, but that ball?” she teases, poking me in the chest. “That ball really showed you who’s boss.”

“There she is. Keep talking, Red,” I say, voice dropping low again. “See what happens.”

She grins, bold now. “Oh, I’d love to. But I’ve got to go finish the professional portion of this little photo shoot , remember?”

And just like that, she turns, flipping her camera back on like she didn’t just set my blood on fire.

I watch her walk away, hips swaying in those damn tights like sin was sewn into the seams, and all I can think is one thing.

This is going to be a long, hard season.

In more ways than one.