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“Down!” Scott's voice rang out.
I shifted my weight. Across the line, Michael Mackenzie had sent his absolute best pass-rusher to line up directly opposite me. Michael was testing me.
“Set... HUT!”
The world exploded into cracking plastic. The defensive end tried a brutal spin-move to blow past my left flank, but I was faster. I anticipated the rush perfectly, planting my boots like concrete pillars and shoving my palms violently into the defender's chest. Crack. I completely erased the guy, giving Scott a perfectly clean pocket.
Scott fired a bullet down the sideline. Greg Bennet caught it in stride for a massive first down.
For the next five plays, I played the game of my life. I was a stone wall. Michael’s defense threw everything at me, stunts, blitzes, bull-rushes, and I flattened every single one of them. I was completely dominant, proving to everyone, including Sig watching from the stands, that I was no longer just a grunt in Michael’s old kingdom. I was the master of my own line.
With less than a minute left, Scott threw a touchdown pass. Our team took the lead, and the stadium went wild.
But a king doesn't dethrone easily.
With forty seconds left on the clock, Michael Mackenzie took the field for the final drive. I could only watch from the sidelines, chest heaving, sweat dripping down my neck.
Michael looked up at the scoreboard, completely unfazed by the crowd or the pressure. He caught my eye from across the turf and gave a slow, arrogant nod, the nod of a boss who still knew exactly how to command a room.
Michael didn't even look at our pass-rush. With cold, surgical precision, he shredded our secondary. Three perfect passes. No hesitation. He operated like a machine, finding the tiny cracks in the coverage that only a genius could see. With two seconds remaining, Michael delivered a devastating, forty-yard touchdown bomb right into the corner of the end zone.
Game over. Michael's team won.
The whistle blew, and the stadium erupted. I sank my hands onto my hips, automatic and exhausted, tasting the bitterness of the loss. I had played a flawless, perfect game. I hadn't allowed a single sack or pressure all night. I had shined brighter than anyone on the turf. But Michael was still the King.
As the teams began to clear the field, Sam rushed over to Michael and waved for me to join them. I nodded, but didn’t rush to follow, looking back up at the stands instead. Sig hadn't left. He was still leaning against the railing, staring down at me. There was no mockery left in his face, only an intense, lingering look of absolute submission to the raw power I had displayed out there.
“George, let's go for drinks!” Sam shouted from across the grass. I pulled off my helmet, the sharp, medicinal sting of the wintergreen liniment radiating from my skin as the cold night air hit my neck. I was bruised, beaten, and aching from the war on the turf. I wasn’t really all that torn up about losing the game to Michael Mackenzie. But Sam was over the moon. The sheer glow on Sam’s face in Michael’s company reminded me that his captain mask was slipping. He was still entirely under Michael Mackenzie’s spell. I wouldn’t do it, but Sam would probably throw a game just to earn Michael's approval. Good thing Michael would never ask him to.
Chapter Eleven
Santiago
The fabric of the tailored suit felt stiff against my skin as I walked down the length of Silvercastle Docks after the mock trial rehearsal with my pre-law group. I could have gone back to my room to change, but I didn’t have the patience. I was desperate to see him, desperate to prove to him that I was ready. But as the wooden planks of the gangplank creaked beneath my dress shoes, the wool suit hugging my body made me feel like I was bringing myself back to him like an offering.
When I finally reached Heavy Anchor 72, the hatch was already unlocked, waiting, inviting.
I carefully stepped onto the deck, watching my balance on the swaying timber. My breath already felt uneven as I pushed the hatch open. The heavy wood groaned, announcing my arrival as I stepped down into the enclosed, golden warmth of the cabin.
The scent hit me instantly; cedar, rain, tobacco smoke, and the deep, masculine heat of George’s skin. The small space felt even tighter tonight. George was sitting on the edge of the leather couch, still wearing his gray training sweatpants, a white towel draped around his massive, muscular shoulders. He had been waiting for me.
I stood by the threshold, my chest heaving under my pressed white button-down, my fingers trembling slightly as I kept my hands at my sides.
George didn't move. He just leaned back against the cushions, his dark eyes tracking every slow line of my suit, from the sharp lapels down to the polished leather of my shoes. A low, dangerous smirk carved into his face. When his large hand reached across the table for a pack of cigarettes—
“You are an athlete. Should you be smoking?” I asked, trying to find a footing.
He chuckled, clutching the pack and leaning back into the couch. “Is that why you came here, Santiago? To warn me about my health?” He deliberately put a cigarette between his lips, but he didn’t light it.
I forced my jaw to set, holding his gaze despite the liquid heat pooling heavy in my lower stomach. “I came to tell you that you lost the game.”
“Wasted a trip then. I know how to read a scoreboard,” George smirked, standing up.
The movement was a slow, overwhelming display of size. His bare chest and massive shoulders completely eclipsed the lamplight as he stepped out of the cabin's galley and directly into my personal space.
“I thought football was the only thing you were good at. Guess not,” I mocked, even though I had watched him flatten monsters, protect his line, and display a terrifying, magnetic brand of raw power on the field that had left my throat dry and my pulse racing.
He frowned, then that slow smirk returned as he stepped closer, hovering completely over me. “Is that why you dragged your imported boots onto my boat? Thinking football is my only skill? Or because you witnessed me not lose a single yard on my line?” I tried to step back, but the hard wood of the cabin door was already flushing against my shoulder blades. I was trapped.
