CHAPTER SEVEN: HEAT CHECK

The rain came out of nowhere.

It wasn't the light, apologetic drizzle they'd trained through a hundred times. This was something else — heavy, sharp, relentless. It sheeted across the pitch like a warning. But practice didn’t stop. Not with Liam Riley watching.

Especially not with Noah Carter running like he had something to prove.

Players moved like their cleats were fighting the mud. They slipped. Stumbled. Swore under their breath. But Noah was different. Fierce. Focused. Every pivot, every sprint, every tackle was done like he was chasing something he couldn’t name.

Or maybe someone.

Liam stood on the sideline, arms crossed, soaked to the skin, pretending he couldn’t see what was right in front of him.

Noah wasn’t just training.

He was testing him.

And Liam was failing.

He snapped commands through the downpour, his voice cutting across the field like thunder. “Tighter turns, Carter. You’re not dancing out here.”

Noah didn’t reply. Just pushed harder.

Then he slipped.

It happened fast — a sharp step, a twist of his foot, and the thud of his body hitting the soaked turf. He didn’t cry out. Just hit the ground and stayed there a beat too long.

Liam was moving before he realized it, mud splashing up his legs as he crossed the field.

“Noah,” he said, breath tight.

“I’m fine.” Noah’s voice was strained but steady as he pushed himself up, wincing. “Just slipped.”

“You hit hard.”

“So?” A ghost of a grin crossed Noah’s face. “You gonna carry me off the field, Coach?”

Liam offered a hand. Hesitated. Then took it.

Their palms met — hot skin, cold rain, tension so thick it could choke.

Liam pulled him up too fast, too forcefully. Like distance could erase what just passed between them.

“You’re done for today.”

Noah stepped closer. His breath steamed in the air. “You benching me or protecting me?”

Liam held his stare. “Both.”

The locker room buzzed with post-practice chaos — water sloshing, cleats dropped, laughter tossed around like towels. But by the time Liam circled back from a press call, the place had emptied out.

Except for him.

Noah sat on the edge of the bench, shirtless, knee bent, one hand slowly winding athletic tape around it. The muscles in his back rippled with each movement, his skin still damp from the rain, curls plastered to his forehead.

He didn’t look up.

“You always check on your players after hours?” he asked.

Liam lingered near the door. “Just the ones who almost tear a ligament because they don’t know when to quit.”

Noah snorted. “So just me, then.”

Silence pooled in the space between them. Liam walked forward, each step louder than the last. The storm still pounded on the roof overhead — a steady reminder that outside, everything was chaos.

“You wrap it yourself?” he asked, nodding to the tape.

Noah looked up. “Had to learn. Can’t rely on anyone else to do it right.”

The words hit harder than they should’ve. Liam crouched beside him before he thought better of it.

“Let me see.”

Noah hesitated. Then let his leg drop.

Liam’s fingers brushed the skin above the tape. His touch was light, professional. He told himself it didn’t mean anything. But he could feel the heat rising from Noah’s skin, the quiet way his breath hitched.

“I could get fired for this,” Liam muttered, almost to himself.

“You haven’t done anything yet.”

Their eyes met.

Everything in Liam screamed to pull away.

But he didn’t.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, voice low, rough.

“I won’t.”

The air thickened, heavy with everything unspoken.

A heartbeat passed.

Two.

And then

A knock shattered it all.

Liam jerked back. Stood so fast his knees cracked.

“Yeah?” he barked.

The assistant coach poked his head in. “Press is asking for you.”

Liam nodded stiffly. “On my way.”

When the door shut again, the silence felt colder.

Noah stood. His hands were steady now. Guarded.

He walked past Liam without a word.

But as he passed, his fingers brushed against Liam’s — a touch so light it could be written off as nothing.

But Liam felt it. Every damn inch of it.

That night, the storm didn’t stop.

Liam sat alone in his apartment, laptop open, footage paused on Noah mid-sprint. The screen glowed in the dark, casting shadows that looked like guilt.

He shut it.

His phone buzzed.

Unknown Number.

 You didn’t stop me.

Another message.

What are you going to do about it?

Liam stared at the words, throat tight.

He didn’t know how Noah got his number.

But deep down, he knew he’d never blocked the door as tightly as he told himself he had.

And now?

Now it was wide open.