Prologue
Luke's POV
The roar of the crowd was still vibrating in the soles of my cleats as I navigated the concrete tunnel leading away from the field. It’s a specific kind of hum. Sixty thousand people screaming until their lungs give out, a wall of sound that follows you long after the stadium lights dim.
My jersey was heavy with a cocktail of sweat, turf rubber, and the literal dirt of a hard-won victory. At twenty-five, I was supposed to feel invincible, and tonight, leading the Boston Ironclads to a fourth-quarter comeback, I actually did.
"Hell of a drive, Calder!" our tight end barks, slamming a heavy hand against my shoulder pads.
I grin, the adrenaline still masking the dull ache in my throwing arm. "We saw the gap. We took it. Good catch, man."
The locker room was a chaotic sanctuary of shouting, splashing showers, and the rhythmic beat of a post-game playlist. It smells like wintergreen rub and triumph. For most of the guys, the night was just beginning. Celebratory dinners, high-end bars, or heading home to wives and kids. For me, the win was only the first half of the evening’s stakes.
I bypass the initial celebrations and head straight for my locker. My hands were still slightly unsteady as I reach for my phone, which had been locked away in the equipment trunk since pre-game warmups.
The screen illuminates, casting a sharp blue glow over my grass-stained knuckles. Amidst the flurry of notifications- congratulatory texts from my agent, my parents, and several sports reporters- there was one name that made the rest of the noise fade into the background.
Gabe.
No “good game.” No “saw that touchdown.” Just a pinned location in a quiet corner of the city and a single sentence: Be here by midnight
I stared at the blinking blue dot on the map. To the rest of the world, I was the star quarterback for the Ironclads, the golden boy of the NFL with a clean-cut image and a laser-focused spiral. But as I sat on the wooden bench, the celebrations of my teammates sounding like they were miles away, I realized the victory on the field was the easy part.
The hard part was trying to shake off a hook-up that has been happening for four years.
I have known Gabe since his dad coached me at Boston College though.
Every time I go to end it, I somehow end up in bed with him.
Funny how that works out.
It's not like I can message him either. For some reason, none of my messages seem to deliver to him. He has me blocked unless he wants to send a message for me to come meet him for sex.
He wants to hate me. Maybe he does.
But he still messages whenever we are in the same city.
And I can't help but make my way to him every time.
