I have hidden my hunger behind the quiet intensity of a sideline observer, pretending Lorcan Wilder's on-field command is all I see. But the nights in the equipment storage room have revealed his need for surrender, and now I cannot look away from the way he offers his bare ass for the discipline I direct.

The sharp sound echoes against the locked door as I guide the rhythm, my fear of never being seen mixing with the thrill of controlling his performance anxiety. The rival scout is close enough to end the season and this fragile bond, and every command I give leaves another mark I will make him show me. How far will we go before someone else opens that door?