Todos los capítulos de Taming the varsity player : Capítulo 11 - Capítulo 20

The rhythmic, low thrum of Ethan Grey’s motorcycle engine died down as he idled smoothly right outside the towering, black iron gates of the Weller estate. ​"Here we are," Ethan said, his voice a comforting, warm resonance through the cool night air. He kicked the stand down and turned around, his soft, tousled dark curls catching the silver glow of the moon. His hazel-brown eyes looked incredibly gentle, his signature faint dimple flashing as he reached out to help me unbuckle my heavy black helmet. "You sure you don't want me to drive you all the way up to the front porch? It's a pretty dark walk." ​"No, it's fine, really," I murmured, managing a soft, genuine smile that felt completely foreign on my face after the brutal day I’d had. I slid off the back of the bike, my 5'9" frame stretching out in my oversized charcoal-grey crewneck and leggings. My ginger hair was a bit messy from the ride, wild copper strands escaping my claw clip. "The walk helps me clear my head. Thank you

​The rhythmic, low thrum of Ethan Grey’s motorcycle engine died down as he idled smoothly right outside the towering, black iron gates of the Weller estate just as the last purple hues of twilight were swallowed by the night. Ethan killed the engine, letting the bike coast to a smooth halt on the gravel.​"Thanks for the ride, Ethan," I said, sliding my helmet off and carefully holding my half-finished strawberry milkshake. My cheeks were still flushed with a warm, happy glow from our afternoon at the studio.​"Anytime, rockstar," Ethan smiled, his soft dark curls bouncing slightly as he took the helmet from me. But instead of revving the engine to leave, he lingered, his warm hazel eyes scanning the dark driveway before landing back on me. He rubbed the back of his neck, a sudden, curious tension settling over his handsome features. "Hey, Eloise... can I ask you something? Since you're living on the estate and all."​I blinked, surprised. "Sure. What's up?"​"What's it actually like?

​The quiet hum of the central air conditioning was the first thing that drifted into my consciousness on Sunday morning. I opened my hazel eyes, blinking at the unfamiliar luxury of the main mansion’s guest suite. I rolled over, the silk sheets rustling around me, and immediately caught the lingering scent of cedarwood and leather. ​I was still completely drowned in Mike’s massive black-and-gold varsity jacket hoodie. ​I sat up, pulling my knees to my chest. My thoughts immediately drifted to the middle of the night—the quiet stillness of the bathroom, the meticulous way Mike’s large, calloused hands had wiped the sticky liquid from my face, and the rough honesty in his voice when he sat on the edge of my mattress. ​He admitted he cares about me. ​The thought made a strange, fluttering ache bloom deep in my chest. He hadn't been the arrogant, untouchable king of Oakridge High last night. He had been soft. Gentle. He had bared a piece of his real self just to make sure I felt safe

The heavy double doors of the Elm Street sports complex thudded shut behind us, cutting off the crisp afternoon air. Inside, the massive gym echoed with the high-pitched squeak of sneakers, sharp referee whistles, and the heavy, rhythmic pounding of basketballs. The state select scrimmage was in full swing. ​I walked into the lobby, Ethan’s hand resting protectively against the small of my back. He had insisted on walking me in, his flannel shirt open, his posture relaxed but completely steady as he navigated the jock-heavy environment. ​Out on the court, Mike Weller was a force of nature. He was glistening with sweat, his jersey clinging to his broad, athletic chest as he drove past a defender, elevating effortlessly to slam the ball through the net with a ferocious, ringing rattle of the rim. He looked impossibly dominant, a golden king in his element. ​But the moment his sneakers hit the hardwood on the descent, his piercing blue eyes snapped toward the entrance. ​Mike froze.

​The harsh, metallic rattle of the public transit bus was a brutal reminder of the world I actually belonged to. ​It was barely 6:30 AM on Wednesday morning, and the sky over Oakridge was wrapped in a heavy, suffocating grey mist. I sat by the scratched window, my knees pulled tight against the seat in front of me. I was wearing a dark charcoal oversized crewneck sweater that completely engulfed my tall frame, paired with wide-leg chocolate brown corduroy pants and my favorite worn-out leather boots. My copper waves were claw-clipped securely at the back, but I felt entirely exposed. ​I had slipped out of the estate’s guest cottage before the main mansion had even begun to wake up, deliberately dodging the sleek sports car that usually waited near the gates. I wasn't just avoiding Mike in the hallways today; I was avoiding him at home, too. Walking out onto the gravel path in the freezing dawn light was the only way to ensure I wouldn't be forced into his passenger seat. The memory