"Get it together, Montgomery," I mutter through clenched teeth.
But the cold isn't working. If anything, it's making everything worse—every sensation heightened, every nerve ending alive with the memory of her. The way she pressed against me. The soft curve of her waist beneath my hands. The teasing roll of her hips.
I groan, reaching for the temperature dial, turning it until steam begins to rise around me. The heat envelops me, and I close my eyes, surrendering to the inevitable.
My hand slides down my stomach, my breath catching as I wrap my fingers around my dick. I tell myself this is just physical release. It doesn't mean anything. It's just to take the edge off so I can think clearly again.
But as I start stroking myself, it's her face I see behind closed eyelids, her scent that fills my lungs. Her name threatens to spillfrom my lips as I move my hand faster, chasing release from this torment.
I remember the way her breath hitched when I pulled her closer. The way her body fit perfectly against mine. The way she whispered my name like it belonged in her mouth.
"Fuck," I hiss, my free hand braced against the tile as the pressure builds, as every muscle tenses with my approaching release. My strokes become desperate, erratic, matching the chaos inside me.
When it finally hits, her name escapes my lips in a broken whisper—a confession, a prayer, a curse. The intensity of it staggers me, leaving me breathless and trembling under the spray.
For one, blissful moment, my mind is blank, free from the torment of wanting what I can’t have. But it doesn't last. Reality crashes back as my heartbeat slows, as the water washes away the evidence of my weakness.
I press my forehead against the cold tile, squeezing my eyes shut against the flood of memories.
The sharp whistle cuts through the cool Monday morning air as I push through the last rep of sprints. Sweat beads down my temple, my lungs burning, muscles tight from the weekend. This pain, this exhaustion, it's good. It keeps my mind from wandering where it shouldn't—back to her.
"Montgomery!"
I glance up to see Coach Harding waving me over, his expression unreadable beneath his cap. That look means business.
"Walk with me," he says, clapping my shoulder as we move toward the edge of the field. "You've been playing your ass off," he starts. "Numbers are exactly where they need to be. You're climbing the draft boards fast. First round is looking more like a guarantee."
I nod, rolling my shoulders. "Appreciate that, Coach."
He stops, facing me fully. "You're aware of the teams showing the most interest?"
I shift my weight, already knowing. "East coast." The words sit heavy on my tongue.
"Couple of strong programs looking to rebuild with a young receiver like you, teams that need a guy who can move the chains and put points on the board." He pauses. "They like your hands, Montgomery. You don't drop the ball when it matters."
I exhale through my nose. I should be pumped about this. Any kid dreaming of the league would kill for these odds. But all I can think about is how far away those teams are.
How far from her I'd be.
"You got something on your mind?" Coach asks, eyes narrowing.
I hesitate, flexing my fingers. This is what I've worked for the last eleven years for, so why does it feel like something is clawing at my chest?
"Nah," I finally say. "Just taking it all in."
Coach watches me a beat longer. "Good. Keep your head straight. You're on the path to something big, kid. Don't let anything pull you off it."
"Yes, sir."
He walks away, leaving me standing there, staring out at the field. The future is laid out in front of me, everything I've worked for finally within reach. But all I can think about is how it's leading me further away from a woman who doesn't even know she has me wrapped around her finger.
I rejoin the team for conditioning, and Carter falls into step beside me, breathing heavy but grinning.
"Big convo with Coach, huh?" he muses. "Draft stock?"
"Yep."
"East coast teams?"
