Page 12 of The Break Down

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.

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