I've always been the guy who takes what he wants. Towering over the field. Girls throwing themselves at my feet. Straight as an arrow, or so I told myself. Then he showed up. My tutor. Half my size, all sharp edges and dry wit that cuts right through my bullshit. Those study sessions in that cramped room? Sweat hanging thick in the air, his voice a low whisper pulling confessions I never planned to give. One brush of his hand against my thigh. That's all it took for my world to tilt. Massive as I am, I let this smaller man pin me down with a look. His fragile frame against my bulk, and suddenly I'm the one begging. Yielding. Craving the stretch of his touch on places no one's ever reached.

I know the risks. Team's watching. Coach's rules. One whisper of this, and my career's toast. He's got his own walls - that guarded stare hiding how bad he needs this too. But every time his fingers trace my chest, dwarfed by the sheer size of me, I lose it. We tangle over that tiny desk, my hands engulfing his hips, his commands rumbling through me like thunder I can't ignore. Post-game highs got nothing on the hush after, limbs twisted together, his head on my chest like he belongs there.

It's wrong. Tutor and student. Straight jock shattering for a man. But damn if his obsession doesn't mirror mine. What if the scandal hits? What if he pulls back, leaves me wrecked and wanting? Or worse - what if I can't stop, even when it all comes crashing down?