Tristan was sullen throughout the meal, barely speaking except to order. From the way he was acting, you’d think we’d been slaughtered. Colt and Xavier tried to act like it didn’t affect them, but his foul mood weighed heavily on our table, like a small storm cell of atmospheric pressure. And I sipped my wine, observing, trying to decipher his mood.

By the time the waiter delivered our meals, it hadn’t gotten any better. In fact, it only seemed worse. Colt and Xavier had given up on even trying to engage with Tristan, who appeared to have a permanent scowl directed at me. What the hell was his problem?

I gulped down my wine, wishing more than ever that I hadn’t agreed to come. Was he mad at me for somehow “breaking tradition”? That seemed petty and out of character, but nothing Tristan did tonight made sense to me.

Still, all was not lost. I cut into my steak, releasing a puff of steam. Mmm, bacon. And was that truffle oil? I hadn’t even tasted it yet, but I knew it would be melt-in-your-mouth good. If my dinner from the last visit was any indication, this meal would be just as fantastic.

Tristan had ordered the same thing as me, yet he didn’t seem nearly as excited as he cut into his steak. I was on the verge of telling him it was blasphemy to grumble over such a perfect piece of meat, but I didn’t get the chance. He pushed his plate away, sending it knocking into his water glass. Xavier righted the glass before it could fall. But Tristan was already standing, throwing his napkin on the table before storming off.

I looked to Xavier and Colt for guidance, but they seemed just as astonished as me. Xavier used Tristan’s knife to pry his steak apart, and it was tinged with pink. It was cooked to perfection—medium, just as he’d requested.

“What’s up with him?” I hooked my thumb in the direction Tristan had gone. Toward the restrooms, if I had to guess. There was no way he’d risk running into any fans or the paparazzi in this state.

Colt shrugged. “Beats me. He can get moody sometimes, but he’s not usually this big of an asshole.”

“Do you think it’s his shoulder?” I asked, trying to understand. Wanting to help him.

“Maybe,” Colt said between bites.

“Nah,” Xavier interrupted. “Tristan has a super high threshold for pain. I think it’s something else.”

“I don’t think he’s happy I’m here,” I said, half hoping they hadn’t heard me over the din of the restaurant. Since we were seated in the back near the kitchen, it was even louder—conversation coupled with the clang of pans and the sizzle of food cooking on a stove.

“What?” Colt placed his hand over mine. “Why would you think that?” I tried to focus on his question and ignore the way my skin tingled from his touch.

“He keeps scowling at me,” I said.

“Ever heard of resting bitch face?” Colt asked, and I nodded. “Tristan has resting scowl face. He’s such a broody bastard.”

I shook my head with a laugh. “Resting scowl face.”

“It’s true,” Xavier chimed in. “Which makes it even more difficult to know if he’s just saying he doesn’t want to talk, or if he really doesn’t want to talk.”

“There’s only one way to find out.” I pushed my chair back and stood.

“You sure you want to do this?” Xavier asked, worry creasing his brow.

I downed the last of my wine. “Of course.” I turned, feeling their eyes on me as I walked away.

The unisex bathrooms were separated from the restaurant by a door, and I let myself into the narrow corridor. With only two doors, I had a fifty-fifty chance of getting it right on the first try.

I knocked on the first one, and a deep voice called, “Taken.”

“Tristan,” I said through the door, knowing it was him. “It’s me, Blake. Are you okay?”

I waited a minute, but there was no answer. So, I knocked again. “Tristan?”

The door swung open, and I came face-to-face with a pissed-off Tristan. “Why can’t you leave me alone? Why won’t everyone just leave me the fuck alone?” His eyes were wild, and even though I knew he’d consumed nothing but water all evening, he was certainly acting like an angry drunk.

“Because we care about you,” I said in a calm voice. “I care about you.”

He slammed his palm against the doorframe, and I startled. I narrowed my eyes at him, refusing to be bullied. Colt, Xavier, and I had been nothing but nice the entire evening, putting up with his sour mood. And I’d had enough.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I seethed, only to have him turn his backside to me. I stepped into the restroom, letting the door close behind me. I might be buzzed, but I wasn’t so far gone not to know better than to make a scene in a public space. “We won the game, yet you’re acting like a sore loser. Are you mad about that play in the third quarter?” I asked, racking my brain for some explanation. I knew how much of a perfectionist he could be, and despite a win, he often picked apart the plays that had gone wrong.

“This isn’t about the fucking game.” His back was still turned to me, and I could see the tension in his shoulders just as I could feel it exuding from his every pore.

“Then what is it about?” I asked. “Is it me? Because if you don’t want me here, just say the word. I’ll go. You don’t have to act like an asshole.”

His shoulders slumped, and he let out a deep sigh that made the room feel even smaller. He turned to face me, his head bowed. “No. Don’t go.” His whispered plea struck me in the heart.

My anger dissipated, leaving concern in its wake. I could tell Tristan was hurting, and I wanted to take away his pain.

I stepped closer, moving slowly as if trying to soothe a wounded bear. “Then talk to me. Let me in.”

He let out a deep sigh, his eyes focused anywhere but at me. “This will likely be my last season with the Rebels.”

“What?” I stared back at him, mouth agape. “Why?”

The team would be crazy to let a player like Tristan go. He was talented and disciplined, a leader. His record on the field was remarkable, just as his behavior off the field was impeccable. He was known as the Monk for a reason. If anything, Carrie complained he didn’t have enough of a public presence.

“My shoulder.” His words echoed off the walls of the small space, bouncing back into me. Reverberating through my body like the cannon shots fired with every touchdown the Rebels scored. “The doctor says I may only have one more season left before I have to retire. And that’s if I’m lucky.”

I sucked in a sharp breath. I knew what it was like to be on the receiving end of news so devastating it felt like nothing would ever be the same. I was no stranger to loss. And I knew how I’d feel if I were in his shoes. Like my very essence, my soul, was being stripped from me.

It wasn’t about the money for Tristan. It was about the love of the game. And I knew, like any athlete, he’d want to end his career on a high note. Though, as I’d seen many times, that wasn’t always within your control. And for someone like Tristan, who thrived on control, accepting that would be even more difficult.

My heart was breaking for him, but I couldn’t believe this was the end. I needed to be strong. I needed to hold out hope. He’d been kind enough not to show me pity when he learned about my mom, when he’d seen me freak out after the power outage. I wanted to return the favor.

“You can always get a second opinion,” I offered. I hated the words as soon as they left my mouth. They were so trite, so lacking at such a big moment in his career, in his life.

He’d ditched his tie, leaving the top buttons of his shirt undone. When he glanced toward the ceiling, the long column of his neck was on display, showcasing his Adam’s apple. “Blake, he’s the best orthopedic surgeon in the nation.”

“Well—” I shrugged “—doctors have been known to be wrong.” My mom’s doctors told us she had three months to live. She’d died two weeks later.

It must have been something in the way I’d said it because Tristan stilled, the fight going out of him. He glanced at me, his eyes meeting mine as he studied me. Even without saying the words, I knew he understood I was referring to my mom.

I hadn’t intended to bring her up, but she was never far from my mind. Her life had been cut short. Her dreams left unachieved.

And then he did the last thing I’d expected. He walked over to me and wrapped me in a hug.

I stood there for a moment, arms sticking out to my sides awkwardly. But then I breathed him in. I felt the heat radiating from him, and I embraced him. I embraced the moment.

Apart from Colt and Xavier, it had been a long time since anyone had comforted me. And it felt…good. Really good, actually. From the broad muscles of his back, resting beneath my palms, to the clean scent that emanated from his clothes. Tristan was solid and reassuring, and…were his hands in my hair?

I closed my eyes, a moan floating out of my throat as he massaged my scalp with his fingers. My hair was going to look like a rat’s nest, but I couldn’t care less. In all my fantasies of Tristian and his skilled fingers, I’d never imagined him using them to perform such a sensual, intimate act. After my legs had turned to jelly, he lowered his fingers, cupping my face in his hands.

“Blake,” he breathed my name. It was a prayer on his lips as he kissed my temple, my cheek.

Green eyes met blue, like land meeting sky, the earth spinning and swirling as he leaned in and pressed his lips to mine. I sighed, falling into him, my mind struggling to catch up. My body aching for his touch, wishing for more.

It was a whisper of a kiss at first, slow and hesitant. His lips were soft on mine, his hands gentle in my hair. He pressed his tongue to the seam of my lips, and I opened to him. Tristan had taken control of the situation, and I was more than happy to let him.

I toyed with the hem of his shirt, lifting it, needing to feel his bare skin. His hands were in my hair, sliding down my back, gripping my hips and pulling me to him. If we were playing football, he’d be the quarterback calling the shots, making the plays. And my body was his to command.

Because when it came to Tristan, I was quickly realizing I had absolutely no willpower. His demanding kisses and nimble fingers were sapping me of all reason and filling me instead with desire. My nipples ached, tight peaks straining against my bra. Touch me.

As if reading my mind, he ran his hands over my breasts, cupping them through the layers of material. But it wasn’t nearly enough, and it only made me want more.

“This is wrong,” I said between kisses. My protest sounded weak to my ears.

If only the situation were different. If only I weren’t his coach. None of this would be an issue.

“I don’t care.” He kissed his way down my neck, prying open the buttons of my shirt, impatient fingers fumbling with the small closures.

He turned us so I was facing the mirror with my back to him. The sight of Tristan peeling back my Rebels shirt should’ve stopped me, but it only spurred me on. And I wasn’t the only one. Our eyes met in the reflection. His, dark and hooded. Mine, wild with lust.

With his hips pressed to mine, his hard-on digging into my ass, we watched. Watched as his hand disappeared into my bra, feeling the weight of my breast and teasing my nipple. Watched as his other hand slid down my stomach, slipping beneath my pants. I’d never been so turned on, and I saw my desire reflected back at me and then some.

“You don’t mean that,” I panted, giving voice to his words and my thoughts.

Tristan was a model of self-restraint. His nickname was the Monk, for crying out loud. And I…I had only ever wanted to coach in the NFL.

But in this moment, right here and right now, all I wanted was him. Consequences be damned, I wanted to feel his lips on my body. I wanted to feel his fingers in my hair. I wanted to feel him pulse inside me as I clenched around him. I wanted it all.

Damn, we looked good together. The contrast of his dark hair with my blond, his green eyes with my blue. The olive skin of his forearm flexing against the soft flesh of my pale stomach. He was masculine and beautiful, and if he didn’t touch me soon, I was going to explode.

“I’m tired of doing everything right, only to have everything go wrong.” His voice was gruff when he spoke. “I’m tired of discipline and rules and regard for consequences. For once, I want to give in. For once, I want to let go.”

God, it sounded so tempting. And I was right there with him.

“Please, Blake. Please, let go with me,” he husked. The sound of his voice, his warm breath against my neck, was nearly my undoing.

Every move was deliberate, and he played my body like he would football—with finesse and precision. With passion. It was like he had a playbook on my desires, knowing exactly how to touch me for maximum impact.

It was on the tip of my tongue to say yes, when the door swung open.

We froze, eyes wide, one of Tristan’s hands teasing my exposed nipple, the other down my pants. Shay stared at us, jaw dropped, her eyes red and puffy. She wiped her nose with her shirt and shut the door again.

“Fuck. Fuckity. Fuck. Fuck,” I said, each one a little bit louder than the last. I scrambled to get away from Tristan, though it was too late. The damage had already been done.

Tristan locked the door, scrubbing a hand over his head. “Shit.”

I hastily buttoned my shirt, tucking it back into my pants before fixing my hair. I could barely look at my reflection in the mirror, my cheeks heating with shame and disgust. My god. What was I thinking? I was his coach.

What if Shay told someone? What if… My mind froze, my brain on overload. What were we going to do? When it came to football, I knew exactly what to do. I knew exactly what play to use when, which players to move into position. But when it came to Tristan, when it came to matters of the heart? My playbook was useless, especially since I’d essentially just tossed the damn thing out the window.

I’d had one rule. One. Don’t fuck the players. And I’d been on the verge of breaking it had we not been interrupted.

I fumbled with the doorknob, eager to escape. My skin was burning, tingling as sweat formed.

“Blake.” Tristan’s voice was soft when he placed his hand on my wrist. “Let me.”

“I think you’ve done enough.” I yanked on the handle with my back still to him. I was just as guilty as him, but it was easier to place blame on someone else.

And I needed out. I needed to get away from his addictive lips and his amazing scent. From his talented hands and his tempting body. Everyone had an Achilles’ heel, and apparently, Tristan was mine.

He twisted the knob, easily unlocking the door. I spun to face him, trying to ignore the fact that his shirt was hanging out of his pants thanks to me. “Let’s make one thing clear. That—" I pointed at the restroom as if it had personally offended me “—never happened.”

Tristan nodded, but I detected a slight uptick at the corner of his mouth. That mouth. Those lips.

Fuck him. Fuck him and his sexy lips. And fuck me for getting a taste of them. Because now it was all I could think about.

I huffed and strode toward the table, taking the long way around the restaurant and past the host stand. I needed a moment to compose myself. And I needed to see what Shay was doing and if she was okay.

She’d returned to her post, and one of the waitresses had her arm around her shoulder, comforting her. She didn’t so much as glance at me when I passed, and I told myself that asking for her silence would only be more damning.

I didn’t want to return to the table, but seeing as my tote and phone were there, I didn’t have much choice. I forced myself to put one foot in the other, while trying to psych myself up. I could do this. I could sit there across from Tristan, eating our meal and acting as if nothing had happened. Because what had happened was…unacceptable. Unprofessional. Un…believable.

My body flushed with heat at the memory of his lips on mine. The way he’d taken control of the situation, placing his hands all over me. Scorching my skin, searing me with his touch. And it could never happen again, I reminded myself as I took my seat across from Tristan. I glared at him, hating that he looked completely unruffled, while I felt as if I’d been caught in a hurricane.

“Everything…okay?” Xavier asked, his plate now empty. How long had we been gone?

“Yep,” I said, digging into my now-cold steak with gusto. I could do this; I could be a professional. And we could work together without succumbing to temptation again.

“Then why is Tristan still scowling?” Colt asked as he and Xavier looked between us.

I chanced a glance at Tristan and found his eyes blazing with the same desire I’d seen reflected in the bathroom mirror. I clenched my thighs, awash with need. Come Monday morning, this would all be forgotten. Brushed off as an impulsive reaction to an emotional situation. I told myself we were riding high on endorphins and adrenaline after the game, and he was reeling from the news about his shoulder. But just to be safe, I planned to keep my distance.

As I’d told Tristan, this never happened. It hadn’t happened tonight, and it certainly wasn’t going to happen again.