Chapter 2 The Captain Watches
Elias POV
The afternoon sun had begun to dip low over Ridgeway University’s quad, casting long shadows across the brick paths. Leaves rustled gently in the cool breeze, falling in scattered clumps along the edges of the walkways. Most students had retreated to dorms, libraries, or the stadium, but I moved deliberately through the quiet space, letting my presence be felt without needing to announce it.
My skirt swayed with every step—a muted swirl of scarlet against the gray stones—and my boots, though scuffed and practical, carried the kind of soft rhythm that drew attention whether anyone admitted it or not. I didn’t need anyone to watch. I needed him.
Noah Carter.
I had been aware of him all day, of course. It was impossible not to be. Even from a distance, even when surrounded by his teammates and the safe cocoon of his girlfriend’s proximity, he radiated the kind of controlled energy that made everything else in the quad blur. I watched the way he moved, long legs striding purposefully, shoulders squared, his posture immaculate even under the weight of practice bags slung across his back.
I let my eyes trace him for just a second longer than necessary. He noticed.
I could tell because his stride faltered ever so slightly as he passed near me. Just enough for me to see the flicker of something behind his eyes—a hint of recognition, a ripple of unsettled thought. It wasn’t curiosity; it wasn’t casual acknowledgment. It was awareness, sharp and piercing, the kind that made a person question the very rules they had built around themselves.
I smiled lightly, tilting my head in a gesture that was neither flirtatious nor dismissive, just… deliberate. He didn’t respond, at least not outwardly, but I could feel it. That subtle tightening of his jaw. The quick glance that caught mine, fleeting but unmistakable. My pulse lifted—not with fear, not with shame—but with that familiar thrill of being seen exactly as I wanted to be.
I had known from the start that Noah would be a challenge. That was the part I liked best. Desire was always complicated with him. And he didn’t just resist because he was disciplined or responsible. He resisted because he couldn’t reconcile the image of himself with what he felt—what he had felt every time our paths had crossed over the last two years.
And now, in my red skirt and boots, he couldn’t pretend anymore.
I made my way to the edge of the quad, where a quiet bench sat partially shaded by a low branch of an old oak tree. Ivy would have been here if she weren’t buried in her laptop, probably messaging me updates on the latest gossip around campus. I liked to be alone sometimes. Solitude made me more visible. It made me more potent, more untouchable in a way that no one could accuse me of.
Noah passed again, this time a little closer, a little slower. His gaze flicked toward me, then away, then back. I caught the corner of his mouth twitch—he was fighting a smile or an acknowledgment, some reaction he wasn’t supposed to have.
And I waited.
He couldn’t help himself. He never could.
I was aware, always, that he had his girlfriend. A relationship that was stable, predictable, publicly approved. I wasn’t about to undermine it by being desperate or obvious. Desire could be a slow burn, subtle as it needed to be, and I had all the time in the world. All I needed to do was exist. Be seen. And be irresistible.
The Captain’s practice would start soon, a ritual I had observed enough times to know the schedule by heart. He always warmed up near the east end of the stadium, stretching methodically, running drills with precision, sweating under the fading sunlight, muscles flexing in controlled rhythm. Everyone else called it discipline; I called it anticipation. Because every movement he made there, every commanding gesture toward his teammates, was another opportunity for me to remind him—without speaking—that I existed, and that he couldn’t ignore it.
I lingered by the bench, letting the wind play with the edges of my skirt, pulling it slightly, making it ripple around my legs. I didn’t hide my presence. I let the sunlight highlight my hair, the gloss on my lips catching the fading rays. The world could look all it wanted; Noah would see. And I would make sure he remembered.
It didn’t take long.
From the corner of my eye, I saw him step onto the stadium turf, team behind him, drills beginning. He was focused, professional, moving with the effortless grace that earned him admiration across the campus. And yet, something shifted when our eyes met for the third time that afternoon. Something unspoken passed between us. He knew. He knew that I knew. And that knowledge changed everything.
I leaned back on the bench, one hand brushing the soft fabric of my skirt, the other tucked lightly into the sleeve of my oversized sweater. Comfort and control. That was my style. It made me feel untouchable, even when every nerve in my body screamed for attention.
Time passed. The sky turned from gold to rose to dusky violet, and the stadium lights clicked on one by one, illuminating the field with a soft artificial glow. I remained at the edge of the quad, watching, waiting. He ran drills, called out instructions, corrected a teammate’s stance. Discipline was effortless for him, but it didn’t erase the tension. I could see it in the way he adjusted his posture, the microsecond of hesitation before his gaze flickered in my direction, the clench of his jaw when his girlfriend called him from the sideline.
I understood all of it. I had studied him for years. Every twitch, every habit, every tell. And now, more than ever, I had the upper hand. Not by force, not by coercion, but by presence. By being exactly what he could not ignore.
By being me.
Even as night settled fully, even as most students retreated indoors, I stayed. I remained visible, radiant in red, boots beside the bench, sweater loose around my shoulders, hair slightly mussed from the wind. The quiet hum of the campus at twilight wrapped around me, warm and soft, protective and intimate.
I imagined him walking over. Imagined the words he would choose. The apology, the hesitation, the denial. I imagined it because I had rehearsed it countless times. And I smiled, knowing that when it happened, when he finally stepped out of the safety of routine and into the risk of desire, it would feel inevitable.
It was not about conquest. It was not about trickery. It was about truth. Visibility. Being the one constant that he could not ignore, could not pretend didn’t exist. And slowly, inexorably, he would bend toward it.
I didn’t know how long it would take. Could be days. Could be weeks. Could be a moment of weakness that he didn’t even recognize as surrender. I didn’t care. I had patience. I had presence. And I had a memory that would haunt him until he admitted it to himself.
By the time the campus fell silent and the night fully claimed the quad, I rose from the bench, boots back on, skirt swaying softly with each step. I had walked past him that morning. I had walked past him again during the afternoon. And I would walk past him a thousand more times if necessary.
Because some things—some people—cannot be ignored.
And some mistakes—some irresistible, devastating mistakes—cannot be unmade.
Noah Carter was about to learn that lesson.