Page 10

The bus hummed as we barreled down the highway toward Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, that strip of interstate spooling out like a promise, or a sentence, with the gray hills of fall watching us go. November was upon us and the competitive season had begun, which meant regular tournaments and travels. I used to love this time when I was a student, the camaraderie of a road trip, the high energy sparkling in the air. But now, my team was subdued, most of them with earbuds in or glued to their phones, the excitement of another match just a glimmer in their eyes.

How times have changed.

Tyler sat near the back, headphones on and head resting against the window. The murky sunlight cut across his face, casting one cheekbone in a milky light. There was something so open, so calm about his expression that it tugged at me. It was the first time I’d really let myself look at him since the day I’d thrown him out of my office, leaving us both hanging in some strange kind of limbo. I’d avoided being alone with him ever since that incident, trying to stave off something dangerous. But that look in his eyes—the way his voice trembled when he moaned my name—left a crack in my armor that hadn’t mended.

God help me, I wanted him. I knew that now, even though I didn’t know what to make of it. I never looked at another guy like that in my life. Yet I wanted him. It was like all my self-control dissolved in his presence. I’d eaten his ass, for Christ’s sake! And not a day went by that I didn’t crave to do it again. Mandy did nothing for me sexually—no woman since Jen did—but one look at Tyler made my blood boil with desire. I’d started fantasizing about fucking him, ramming my cock into that tight pink hole and going to town on his bubble butt. It frightened me. It felt just like an addiction, a substance abuse of a different kind, and I couldn’t allow myself to slip down that black hole again.

His leg seemed to be all right; at least, that’s what he’d told me. Still, my eyes kept straying back to him, alert, watching the way he shifted in his seat, mindful of catching some telltale sign of strain or pain. He’d insisted on competing, claiming he was fine, more than ready. I believed him, though my trust in my judgment felt a little rattled these days. Especially when it comes to him.

When we arrived at the hotel, I gathered the team in the lobby for a few quick words. “It’s Friday night,” I told them. “You’re free to go out, explore the town, and have some fun—but not too much fun. The competition starts tomorrow at ten, and you better be rested and ready. I want you all back in your rooms by eleven. Got it?”

“Yes, Coach,” the chorus of voices murmured around me.

We settled into our rooms, a mass of restless bodies jostling down carpeted hallways, the air heavy with anticipation. I gave them this evening to unwind, the curfew set, and made sure each room assignment was clear. Tyler was roomed with his buddy Finn, but I’d hardly closed my door before that strange surge of doubt and pure need hit me again. I had no business thinking about him like this. And yet, the thought of another guy sharing his room, another body so close to his, set my pulse thrumming with a dull, steady heat.

My gaze wandered to the mini-bar beside my bed, my throat suddenly dry. The temptation was there, always in the back of my mind, but I’ve conquered that demon once. I would not fall prey to it again. So I stripped and got into the shower, then ordered room service, rocking a fluffy white bathrobe and slippers like I was in some fancy ski resort. I ate my dinner and watched TV in peace, until fatigue finally set in and I passed out on my comfy king-sized bed.

* * *

The gym at Gettysburg College had the same utilitarian layout as ours back home—white fluorescent lights and large blue mats stretched across the wooden floor like a battlefield. Everything around us was orange and blue—their team colors. My Ephs lined up along the mats, a sea of purple singlets, sharp and ready, each one knowing exactly what lay ahead. The Gettysburg Bullets were already there, warming up, confident on their home turf. The gym buzzed with the hum of competition. Across the room, coaches leaned in close, talking strategy, shoulders tense, glancing over to measure up our strengths and weaknesses.

“Blake Hudson,” Don Tappert greeted me as I walked over there to say hello. We knew each other from our competition days, though he was a few years older. “So you’re the new guy Simmons hired to assist him? Where’s the old fart, anyway?”

“Hi Don,” I said. “Didn’t you hear? Clark took a semester off. Hip surgery.”

“So, you’re the sole coach at Williams now? Damn. I don’t know if I should pity you or congratulate you.”

“Yeah, well, I manage.”

“These are my assistant coaches, Will Prescott and Ben Smith. ”

I shook their hands, said my hellos, and nodded back to where my team stood. “I should get back and see if the boys are ready. Best of luck.”

“Right back at ya.”

Back in our corner, I kept my eyes trained on my Ephs, stepping forward, clapping hands on shoulders, keeping each boy steady and focused. I’d seen them in practice a hundred times, pushed them through drills and bruises, but here, out in the open, they were on their own. And all I could do was watch.

“You know the drill,” I said, voice low, walking down the line. “Keep it clean. Fast. Don’t let them find your weak spot.” I stopped next to Dean, our heaviest, a solid wall of muscle with a single-minded focus that could make anyone flinch. “They’re going to come in quick, so watch for the double-leg. Look them in the eye. You can tell someone’s next move by their eyes.”

Dean nodded, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Got it, Coach.”

The ref’s whistle blew, calling the first wrestler to the mat. It was Jared, our freshman 141-pounder, sharp and lean, but his nerves were always close to the surface. His opponent was the same height, built like a whip, and they both lunged in, each one hungry, too fast for anything but instinct. Jared went for a single-leg takedown, but the Bullet snapped free, twisting low and driving forward with a shoulder .

“Circle out, Kaminski!” I shouted, hands fisted at my sides. “Stay light on your feet!”

He heard me, stepping back, finding his rhythm, and then moved in with a side-hook and a quick grab at the opponent’s knee. The Bullet faltered, just enough for Jared to sweep his leg out, sending him down hard. I blew out a breath and watched as Jared pinned his opponent, holding tight, the seconds ticking down to the final whistle.

The ref held up Jared’s arm, and he walked back to us, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes, his grin wide. Score one for us.

“Nice work,” I said, clapping him on the shoulder, though my eyes were already on the next kid stepping onto the mat, our 157-pounder, Derek. Derek was all sharp angles and quiet determination, and his opponent—stockier, solid, with a steady grip—looked every bit his equal. This was going to be close.

Derek started strong, circling his opponent like a shark, keeping his distance, watching for an opening. Then he lunged, but the Bullet sidestepped, slipping behind him and slamming him down with a bear hug that knocked the breath out of him.

“Don’t let him lock you down, Ferrelli!” I yelled, feeling that familiar twist of frustration. Derek struggled, twisting, his hands scrabbling for a grip, finally slipping free just as the Bullet went in for another shot. But he was too quick—Derek couldn’t shake him, and the next thing I knew, the Bullet had him pinned, the ref blowing the whistle. Derek lost, but his face was unreadable as he walked back to us, jaw set, shoulders stiff.

“Keep your head up,” I told him. “You fought hard. It’s not over.”

He nodded, and I could see the fire in his eyes, the determination that wouldn’t quit, even in the face of defeat. That’s what I loved about these guys. They didn’t quit. No matter how hard it got.

The next few matches were a back-and-forth, each wrestler giving everything they had, pushing through moves I’d drilled into them so many times that I could almost see each feint and grapple in my mind before they made it. Scott won his bout with a quick takedown and a swift headlock, grinning like a maniac as he pinned the guy’s shoulders to the mat. Ethan fought hard, but his opponent was quicker, slipping past his guard and flipping him over in a single, brutal motion. I wish I had Alex with us, but his shoulder was still out of commission.

With each win, the team cheered, slapping each other’s backs, their excitement contagious. With each loss, I pulled the guys aside, gave quick words of encouragement, focusing them, reminding them that a single failure didn’t define them. My throat was hoarse from all the shouting, my hands aching from clapping backs and steadying shoulders. I could feel the tension building with each match, the team feeding off each other’s energy, each defeat hitting harder, each triumph driving them forward.

When they called Cruiserweight, Tyler’s class, my breath hitched for a moment, but I didn’t let myself waver.

“How’s the leg?” I asked him, standing close, too close, so only he could hear me.

“It’s fine,” he said, securing his protective headgear, then glancing at me.

God, one look from those deep brown eyes and my pulse quickened. I nodded, leaving him to do his best.

He walked to the mat, steady and calm, that same fierce determination I knew so well now burning in his gaze. His opponent waited on the opposite side, all easy confidence, hands loose, gaze fixed on Tyler with a hint of a smirk. The kind of look that made my stomach clench, a mix of irritation and something darker. I didn’t like the way that boy’s eyes lingered on Tyler. Why the fuck was he smiling?

The whistle blew, and Tyler moved, fast, circling around, his stance low, balanced. The other boy matched him step for step, waiting, watching, his movements easy, almost lazy. Tyler lunged for his leg, trying to sweep him down, but the Bullet twisted, slipping free, driving forward with a shoulder that sent Tyler back a few steps.

“Keep your stance, Tyler!” I yelled, my voice louder than I intended. “Focus! ”

He heard me, shifting his weight, his gaze sharpening. The Bullet moved in again, his hand flashing out, but Tyler dodged, slipping around him, almost getting him in a hold before the boy twisted free. Tyler’s jaw tightened, and I could see the frustration creeping in, the tension in his shoulders. His leg was holding up, but I noticed him favoring it, just enough to make me worry.

Then the Bullet moved in, fast, locking Tyler’s arm in a vice grip, twisting him down, their bodies tangling in a brutal dance of strength and skill. Tyler struggled, trying to break free, but the boy held on, his grip unrelenting, and then, with a final twist, he had Tyler pinned. The whistle blew, the match over as fast as it began.

Tyler lay there a second longer than he should have, breathing hard, his face blank with the aftershock of defeat. A knot tightening in my gut, I watched as the Bullet leaned down, offering Tyler a hand. Tyler took it, though reluctantly, his jaw tight. The boy’s smirk widened as he pulled him up close, holding onto Tyler’s hand just a little too long. He said something, right at Tyler’s ear, and I could see the way Tyler’s eyes widened, a faint blush creeping up his cheeks. The other boy’s hand lingered on his shoulder, a touch that was too familiar, his smile too flirty, and the sudden rage flared up in me, hot and undeniable. They exchanged a few words, too distant for me to hear, before that cocky bastard turned and walked away at last .

Tyler trotted back, his face blank, but there was frustration in his eyes, the faint glimmer of something else as he glanced at me.

“What the hell was that?” I demanded, heat surging through my veins.

“What?” Tyler said, half-bewildered, half-confrontational.

I took him by the shoulder and almost dragged him away from the rest of the team, their faces a mix of confusion and curiosity. I leaned in and growled low so that only Tyler could hear me. “What did that kid want from you?”

He stared at me, blinking like he had just seen Bigfoot in a tutu. “If you must know, Chris asked if I’d like to go out for a drink later. What’s it to you, anyway?”

Because you’re mine! The thought flared through my mind. I tried to keep my expression neutral, but inside, I was a volcano ready to erupt. And destroy this entire goddamned building. Maybe even the whole town. Mine, mine, mine! But the rest of the team was watching, the competition still not over, and I bit my tongue, swallowing my anger like something barbed and vile. I was making a fool out of myself. “Nothing,” I said at last, my voice a bit shaky, though my hands clenched at my sides so hard that my nails dug into my palms. “In any case, you fought hard. That’s what matters.”

There was something raw in his expression, something that twisted in my chest, but then his face closed off, set in a mask of control. I forced myself to look away, to keep my focus on the team as Finn Collins took his place on the mat.

The match continued, each bout a whirlwind of shouts and slams, victories and losses, the energy in the gym building to a fever pitch. I cheered, shouted, guided my boys, keeping them steady, even as my mind kept drifting back to Tyler, to the look on his face, to the way he’d walked off the mat with that faint, unreadable expression. To the way that Chris kid had looked at him, with that easy confidence that made me want to cross the mat and knock it right off his smug, handsome face.

But I kept my focus, kept my emotions in check, and by the end of the day, the team was still standing, bruised and tired but holding their heads high. We’d won some, lost some, but they’d fought hard, given everything they had, and that was all I could ask for.

As we headed back to the hotel, the team buzzing with the adrenaline of the night, my gaze was steady, my expression calm. But inside, I was a mess, a tangled knot of emotions that wouldn’t let go.

“Coach, some of us will go out to celebrate,” Scott said, catching up to me in the lobby. “After we shower and change. Some of the Bullets have offered to take us out and show us around.”

I tried to keep my face neutral, biting my lip so as not to lash out. What could I say— you can’t, because I’m jealous ? “All right. Stay out of trouble, and don’t stay out too late,” I said instead. “We’ll be leaving tomorrow at eleven.”

“Yes, Coach,” Scott said and rushed to join the others, Tyler among them, to get ready for a night of fun. I did a quick headcount, watching them scatter to their rooms, but Tyler was already slipping off down the hall with Finn and the others. He didn’t look my way, didn’t acknowledge me, my gaze burning holes in his back. That same flicker of defiance was back in his eyes, a challenge left hanging in the air. I spun around, heading to my room and fuming like a steam locomotive .