All Chapters of Taming the varsity player : Chapter 21 - Chapter 30

​MIKE ​The morning mist hadn't even cleared off the gravel driveway when I stepped out of the main house. The air was sharp, biting at my bare neck, but I barely felt the cold. I had a black travel mug of coffee gripped tightly in my hand, my large knuckles white against the metal. I hadn't slept. Not a single wink. Every time I closed my eyes, I kept seeing the pale, terrified expression on Eloise’s face when she crashed into Jake on Monday, and the absolute wall of ice she had built between us in the AP English classroom yesterday. ​I leaned against the hood of my sleek black sports car, my golden-blonde hair messy, my piercing blue eyes locked onto the front door of the guest cottage. I was waiting. ​At exactly 6:40 AM, the wooden door clicked open. Eloise stepped out, her canvas backpack slung over one shoulder, her frame completely swallowed by a dark, oversized crewneck sweater. Her copper waves were tied up in a loose, hasty bun, a few stray curls framing her face. She look

​ELOISE ​The silence inside the estate’s private multi-car garage didn’t feel like the suffocating, heavy isolation of the guest cottage. It smelled of premium leather, rubber tires, and the faint, grounding scent of cedarwood that seemed to follow Mike Weller everywhere he went. ​The far end of the structure had been converted into a high-end training space—polished hardwood flooring, a professional-grade breakaway basketball hoop, and walls lined with mirrors. ​I sat on a high metal swivel stool near the edge of the court, my legs tucked up under me. I was still wearing his oversized grey t-shirt, the fabric draped like a protective tent over my cotton shorts. My damp copper waves were piled loosely on top of my head, a few stray curls bouncing against the back of my neck as I watched him. ​Swish. ​The crisp, clean snap of the net echoed through the cavernous room. ​Mike was in absolute, hyper-focused motion. He didn't have his varsity jersey or his usual sleek sports gear on

​MIKE ​The quiet hum of the mansion’s central air was the only sound echoing through my bedroom at midnight. I sat on the edge of the mattress, my varsity jersey finally tossed onto a chair, leaving me in just a pair of dark grey sweatpants. I was slowly unpeeling the thick white sports tape from my right hand. ​Every pull of the adhesive sent a sharp, biting sting through the raw stitches Eloise had set into my skin, but I barely registered the pain. My mind was stuck in a loop. I kept seeing the way her hazel eyes had softened in that neon-lit diner when I held her hand, and the fierce, burning determination that had replaced the terror in her posture. ​A soft, sudden vibration from the nightstand broke the silence. ​I reached over, grabbing my phone. It was a text from Coach. ​Vanderbilt scouts just left the athletic office. They didn't just flag your name, Mike. Head scout wants a formal dinner with you and your family tomorrow night. The contract is basically on the table.

ELOISE ​The silence of the bedroom on the edge of the Weller estate was always heavy, but tonight, it felt thick enough to suffocate. ​It was 2:47 AM. I lay perfectly still on my twin bed, staring at a water stain on the ceiling that I had memorized over the last five years. My window was cracked open just an inch, letting in the damp, crisp night air and the distant, rhythmic hum of the Atlantic crashing against the Oakridge cliffs. But the cold air wasn't doing anything to cool the liquid heat still humming beneath my skin. ​I lifted a trembling hand, my index finger gently brushing against my bottom lip. It was still swollen. Still tingling. ​Mike had kissed me. ​The memory reeled through my mind in an unstoppable, agonizing loop. It hadn’t been anything like kissing Ethan. Ethan’s kisses had been practiced, polite, and safe—like a soft acoustic melody I had memorized just to feel normal. But Mike… Mike had been a torrential downpour. His hands had locked into my hair with a

​ELOISE​The roaring engines of the country club crowd faded into nothing as the sleek, matte-black sports car wound its way up the narrow cliffside ribbon of asphalt. Up here, away from the blinding arena lights and the heavy, suffocating expectations of the Weller name, the world seemed to slow down.​Mike pulled the car over onto the gravel overlook, the tires crunching to a halt just feet from the wooden security barrier. Below us, the vast expanse of the Atlantic Ocean stretched out like a sheet of dark silk, swallowing the final, bleeding colors of the sunset. Crimson, bruised purple, and burnt gold painted the horizon, reflecting off the water and casting a warm, cinematic glow over the hood of the car.​It was beautiful. Peaceful in a way Oakridge rarely allowed itself to be.​Mike killed the engine, the sudden silence inside the cabin filling with the soft, rhythmic sound of the waves crashing against the jagged rocks down below. For a long moment, neither of us moved. Then,