Page 102 of Bitter When He Begs

I told him I was working on my film class project again, and hadn’t mentioned I was planning to drop by practice. Mostly because I didn’t want him to think I was coming just to see him. But also because I didn’t want to admit that’s exactly why I was.

He’s standing off to the side now, hands on his hips, chest rising and falling. Eli’s to his left, Julian to his right, both of them clearly talking shit if the grins on their faces mean anything. But Luca’s mouth twitches at the corners like he’s fighting a smile. And even that stupid, subtle twitch is hot.

I want to kiss it off his face. I want to ruin him for smiling like that in public where other people can see.

I can’t hear what they’re saying, but Julian’s gesturing wildly, and Luca’s rolling his eyes with that exasperated look I’ve started to love—the one he gets when his friends are being assholes, and he’s pretending not to enjoy it.

Julian’s eyes shift up the bleachers mid-sentence, and I know the second he spots me. His whole face lights up like he just caught a live performance of his favorite soap. He nudges Luca with his elbow hard enough to make him stumble, and then, as if on cue, points directly at me.

Luca looks up, and the smile that splits across his face is instant. The kind that short-circuits something in my chestbecause it’s so rare I ever get to be the reason someone looks like that.

I don’t breathe.

He’s a walking, talking thirst trap. A sweaty, smug menace with an eight-pack carved by gods and a smile that could melt asphalt. He looks like he walked straight off a protein ad and into my life with the sole purpose of making me stupid.

“Oh, my god,” I mutter, trying not to stare directly at his unfairly symmetrical features. “I’m dating a golden retriever with a porn star’s body.”

I blink, dumbly lifting one hand in a half-wave like some flustered teenage groupie. My stomach’s a mess. I can’t tell if I want to crawl under the stands or run down them two at a time. But Luca’s already jogging toward me, waving off Julian’s comment over his shoulder, and I’m already on my feet before I realize I’ve moved.

I meet him halfway down the stairs, my boots catching slightly on the hot metal. His cleats clatter against the concrete path as he jogs toward me, messy hair falling into his eyes, jaw sharp with exertion, and god—he’s really just a menace.

“Hey,” he says, breathless but beaming.

I push my sunglasses to the top of my head, folding my arms across my chest like it’ll help keep me steady. “Don’t you have, like, team shit to be doing right now?”

He shrugs, reaching for my hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “They can wait.”

“You’re literally their captain.”

He squeezes my hand. “And you’re literally my boyfriend.”

I groan, but it comes out more like a laugh. “Christ, you’re such a jock.”

“Mm. You love it.”

I try to scowl but end up biting back a smile, letting him hold my hand like we’re the main characters in a teen rom-com andnot two absolute disasters who fell into something we never planned for.

Up close, he smells like sweat and sunblock, grass and heat, and something undeniably Luca. His skin glows under the sun, his jaw shadowed with a hint of stubble, and his lips chapped from yelling all afternoon. And still, he looks like something out of a poster—messy, smug, and so fucking beautiful I want to claw my own face off.

“I didn’t think you’d come today,” he says, his voice lower now.

“I had time,” I lie.

His brow quirks. “Yeah?”

I sigh. “Okay, fine. I wanted to see you run around in tight shorts. Sue me.”

Luca laughs, that deep, satisfied sound that vibrates through his chest and ends with a smirk so cocky it makes me regret every honest thing I’ve ever said. “You can’t say shit about me being a jock when you’re out here thirsting over practice gear.”

“I’m not thirsting,” I deadpan.

He leans in slightly, tilting his head. “Babe, you’re basically drooling.”

I blink. “Did you just call me ‘babe’?”

His smirk gets impossibly worse. “You love that, too.”

I roll my eyes and tug my hand free just long enough to smack his chest, immediately regretting it when I make contact with muscle so hard it feels like I hit a wall. “Asshole.”

---