All Chapters of Taming the varsity player : Chapter 61 - Chapter 70

MIKE ​The silence in the main house was suffocating. ​It was 1:30 AM. I stood by the marble island in the dark secondary kitchen, stripped down to a black athletic tee and sweatpants, holding a glass of ice water. My chest still burned from two hours of frantic, mindless lifting in the home gym, trying to burn off the restless, bitter energy that had been gnawing at my throat all day. ​Every time I closed my eyes, all I saw was Eloise sitting on our patio earlier. ​And right beneath that, like a heavy, sickening lead weight in my gut, was the memory of Lora’s apartment. The cheap, lingering scent of her perfume. The instant, soul-crushing regret that hit me the second it was over. I had ruined the only pure thing in my life, stepped across a line I couldn't uncross, and now I was drowning in it. ​The soft click of the side door breaking the silence made me freeze. ​Soft, hesitant footsteps padded across the hardwood floor toward the kitchen. I turned around just as Eloise walked

ELOISE ​Caleb’s family home in Oakridge was practical, cozy, and practically glowing with Christmas lights strung along the porch railing. The moment I pushed the front door open, the scent of roasted garlic, cinnamon, and pine hit me like a warm blanket. ​"El! Get in here!" Caleb called from the kitchen, wearing a ridiculous apron that said The Chef is Always Right. ​I set my dish of warm baked macaroni on the counter, but as I turned into the living room, my steps hitched. ​Sitting on the leather sectional were Chad, Jake, Mike—and right near the fireplace, Allie Grace. ​Great. The whole high school varsity lineup. ​Before the awkwardness could settle, the front door chimed again. Jax walked in, looking ridiculously handsome in a fitted charcoal turtleneck and dark coat, snow dusting his black hair. The moment his baby-blue eyes found mine across the entry hall, a lazy, dimpled smile spread across his face, instantly cutting through my tension. ​"Hey, Vance," he murmured, ste

ELOISE ​The bass resonated through the floorboards of the glass-walled penthouse overlooking downtown Nashville, vibrating all the way up into the soles of my heels. ​Jax had completely outdone himself. The private floor was bathed in warm, moody ambient lighting, standard black-tie attire softened by overflowing platters, endless champagne flutes, and a sprawling outdoor terrace that gave a panoramic view of the glowing city skyline below. ​"Okay, I have to hand it to your guy," Caleb whispered, leaning against the marble bar with a glass of sparkling cider in his hand. He gestured toward the crowd with his chin. "When Jax Cole throws a party, he does not mess around." ​I chuckled, taking a small sip of my drink, my fingers absentmindedly rising to trace the tiny gold piano pendant resting against my collarbone. "He really doesn't." ​Across the room, David Miller—Jax’s best friend and Belmont power forward—was currently holding court near the pool table, regaling Chad and Jake w

MIKE ​The hum of the fluorescent lights in the away locker room was buzzing right against my temples. ​The air smelled like floor wax, fresh sweat, and icy Bengay. I sat on the wooden bench, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees, slowly wrapping black athletic tape around my ankles. ​Across the room, Chad threw his gym bag against a locker with a loud thud, looking over at Jake, who was lacing up his sneakers. ​"Bro," Chad started, leaning against the steel locker doors, his eyes shifting over to me before dropping his voice slightly. "Did you see Jax and El kissing on New Year's Eve? On the penthouse terrace?" ​I didn't stop wrapping the tape. My hands stayed steady, though a tight, familiar pull hit the left side of my chest. ​"I saw," I said quietly, tearing the end of the tape with my teeth. ​Chad blinked, exchanging a stunned, wild look with Jake. "Whoa. Wait... did Mike Weller suddenly become mature? Because the old Mike would’ve punched the absolute hell out of Cole

MIKE ​The morning had passed in a blur of gray fog. ​My mom had spent the night in my guest room, completely drained, falling into an exhausted, tear-streaked sleep. I’d forced myself through the motions—waking up early, walking into morning shootaround, sitting through two hours of lectures—all while feeling completely detached from my own body. Every time Coach called a play or a professor asked a question, all I could hear was my mother's voice echoing on my apartment floor: He had the nerve to register under Mr. and Mrs. Weller. ​By 3:00 PM, right after taking a fast, scalding shower in the athletic facility, I threw on a hoodie, grabbed my keys, and drove straight to Oakridge. ​I didn't go to the house. I didn't want my mom to know. ​I pulled my sports car into the executive lot of the Weller Development building, stepping into the glass-and-steel skyscraper that my father had spent thirty years building. My chest felt so tight I could barely draw in a full breath as the pri