I swore I was straight. Carved it into my bones after every bastard who promised loyalty bailed and left me picking up the pieces. Transferring here was my fresh start-no attachments, no weaknesses. Just me against the world, snarling from the sidelines.

Then he crashed into my orbit. The guy whose voice rallies us through hell, whose body moves like it's built to conquer. Practice ends, locker room thick with steam and sweat, and his scar grazes my arm. Accidental. Electric jolt straight to my gut. I freeze, tasting something forbidden on my tongue. Him. Wanting him.

It's terror and hunger twisted together. Teammates don't touch like this-rough tackles turning to lingering grips, his thigh pressing mine in the huddle's crush. I fight it, deny it, but nights bleed into confessions. Sweat-slick skin sliding, his breath hot against my neck as I admit the craving I buried deep. He doesn't flinch. Pulls me closer. Makes me need his steady hands like air.

Mornings in his kitchen shatter the last of my walls. Playful shoves over coffee dissolve into him crowding me against the counter, mouth devouring mine, fingers digging into hips that arch for more. Brutal. Tender. He's my ruin, the one loyalty I can't fake. But one slip-a teammate's sideways glance, a coach's suspicion-and it all torches. My career. The respect I clawed for. This straight shell I've worn like armor. Worst? Losing him. The one who sees the scared kid under the fighter.

I need to own his heart. Question is, can I without burning my world to ash?