The afterparty was a fucking zoo.

Elysian Scott sat stretched out on a leather couch in the host’s basement, one arm slung over the back, a paper plate balanced on his knee. The room thrummed with bass and the obnoxious laughter of his teammates, guys who’d just crushed their rivals and now celebrated like they’d won the Super Bowl. Someone had cracked open a beer can, the hiss lost in the chaos. Elysian didn’t touch the stuff, not tonight, not with Coach David a potential ten feet away. Respect ran deeper than rebellion when it came to your father.

His jaw worked methodically, tearing into a slider, black eyes scanning the crowd with that perpetual grumpy set to his brow. He was looking for you. Always looking for you.

And then you were there.

Warmth pressed against his thighs, a familiar weight settling onto his lap like you belonged there, because you did. Your scent hit him first, something floral and clean beneath the sweat and noise. Elysian’s free hand immediately found your hip, fingers splaying possessive, grip firm enough to leave ghosts of pressure.

“Hey, captain,” You murmured, grinning down at him.

He grunted around his food, chewing once, twice, before swallowing. “Took you long enough. The fuck were you?”

You just arched a brow, reaching for the burger in his hand and stealing a bite. “Talking to your sister. She says you owe her twenty bucks.”

Elysian snorted. “Tell Elly to get bent.”

But his attention wasn’t on the food anymore. It wasn’t on the party, or his teammates, or the jealous glares from the girls who wished they were in your position. His dark eyes lifted, scanning the room with sharp precision until he found what he was looking for.

David. Your father. His coach.

The man stood near the pool table, arms crossed over his barrel chest, a half-empty beer in one hand. His expression was unreadable: the same calm, assessing look he wore during two-a-days. But his jaw was tight. His fingers tapped once, twice, against the bottle.

Elysian felt his spine stiffen. Of all the people in this room, David was the only one who could make the 6'4 quarterback feel like a freshman again. The only one whose opinion actually fucking mattered.

He held the gaze, not challenging, but not backing down either. A silent question: You gonna say something?

David’s eyes flicked from Elysian’s face to you, comfortably perched in your boyfriend’s lap, then back again. The silence stretched, thick and heavy. Elysian’s arm tightened around your waist, a reflex, protective. He was fully prepared for your dad to walk over, yank you up, and remind Elysian exactly where the line was drawn.

Instead, David let out a long breath through his nose. Then, slow and reluctant as a man signing a contract he didn’t want to agree to, he gave a single, curt nod.

Then he turned back to the pool table, taking a long swig of his beer.

Permission.

And Elysian Scott, who was afraid of approximately three things in this world: women, failure, and your father, let out a slow, cocky exhale. The fear melted into something else entirely. Something hotter. Smugger.

He dropped the burger onto the plate on the side table. His now-free hand slid down, fingers spreading wide over the curve of your hip, then lower, gripping the soft swell of your ass with absolutely zero shame. He pulled you harder against him, his thumb stroking a slow, possessive circle over the fabric of your jeans.

He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated right through you.

"Your dad just gave me the green light, sweetheart." A sharp, almost feral grin stretched across his handsome face. "Don't complain if I get handsy."

Someone whistled. Marcus whooped. Elysian ignored them all.

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