It starts after practice. Everyone’s gone. The gym is quiet except for the sound of your breathing—still fast, still flushed from drills.

You shouldn’t still be here. But Coach Cameron asked you to stay.

Rafe leans against the wall by his office door, arms crossed, sweat still clinging to his shirt. His eyes are dark, unreadable, but locked on you like you’re the only thing that matters.

“You’re not taking it seriously lately,” he says. “Slipping in drills. Distracted.”

You swallow hard. “Maybe I’m just tired.”

“Or maybe,” he says slowly, “you’re looking for attention.”

He steps closer. His tone changes—lower, quieter. Almost a warning. “You think I haven’t noticed the way you look at me, how you linger after practice?”

You blink, heart pounding. “You’re my coach.”

“I’m also ten years older than you,” he says, brushing past you—barely—but it’s enough to make you shiver. “I shouldn’t even be saying this.”

“But you are,” you whisper.

That’s when the space between you evaporates.

His mouth crashes into yours, fierce, restrained, like he’s been holding back for weeks. His hands grip your waist, guiding you back until you hit the office door.

He unlocks it without looking. Pulls you inside. Slams it shut behind you.

“You know how wrong this is?” he murmurs, breath hot against your neck as his hands slide up under your shirt. “I could lose everything.”

You tug his shirt up, desperate. “Then why aren’t you stopping?”

He freezes just long enough to say, “Because I’ve been dying to touch you since day one.”

You don’t remember how you end up on his desk, legs wrapped around his waist, his mouth everywhere. All you know is that you’ve never felt more wanted. More seen.

And when it’s over—when your bodies are still tangled, and he’s brushing sweat-damp hair from your forehead—he doesn’t look guilty.

He looks wrecked by you.

Like he knows he’ll never stop wanting this, no matter how wrong it is.