Page 11 of The Break Down

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.

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