Chapter 78 Luke

Chapter 78 Luke
Luke 

⛸️

The last zipper on my duffel bag closed with a satisfying zip. 

That was it. Everything I needed for a week was packed. 

My parents hadn't even questioned the "Airbnb with friends" story, just handed me a wad of cash and told me to be safe. 

They trusted me. It was almost funny. 

Mitch was taken care of, his allowance for the month already in his pocket, told I was going on some solo trip to clear my head before the real pressure started. 

Mercedes hadn't crossed my mind in days. My slate was clean.

My phone buzzed. Outside.

I grabbed my bag and headed down the stairs, taking them two at a time. Through the window, I could see her black Escalade, it looked expensive and powerful, just like her. I pushed open the front door and stepped into the cool autumn air.

She was leaning against the driver's side door, arms crossed, watching me with an intensity that made my skin prickle. She was wearing dark jeans and a simple gray sweater, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. She looked casual, but her eyes were anything but. They were devouring me.

I tossed my bag into the back seat, the thud of it hitting the leather echoing in the quiet street. I slid into the passenger seat, the familiar scent of her car—leather and her perfume—immediately wrapping around me. The moment my door clicked shut, I heard the distinct thunk of the locks engaging.

I didn't hesitate. I leaned across the console, closing the distance between us, and kissed her. It wasn't soft or questioning. It was hard, possessive. A claim. I pulled back, my breath coming a little faster.

She let out a slow, satisfied sigh, a small smile playing on her lips. "I missed that," she said, her voice a low hum.

I couldn't help but smile back, a stupid, wide grin that I couldn't control. "Yeah?" I said, my voice rough.

She just nodded, her eyes still locked on mine as she put the car in drive and pulled away from the curb. 

The neighborhood I'd known my whole life started to blur past the windows, but I wasn't looking at it. 

I was looking at her, at the way her hands moved on the wheel, the confident set of her jaw. 

I felt a surge of something so powerful it almost hurt—pride. She'd chosen me. Out of everyone, she wanted me.

The drive was quiet, but it wasn't an uncomfortable silence. It was charged. Every time she shifted gears, her arm would brush against mine, sending a jolt straight through me. 

She'd glance over at me every so often, and each time, her eyes would linger a little longer, a little darker.

"You have no idea what this week is going to be like, do you?" she finally asked, her voice breaking the silence.

I shook my head, my throat suddenly tight. "No idea."

"Good," she said, a genuine smile finally breaking through. "It's better that way."

Her house was tucked away on a quiet street, shaded by big old trees. It wasn't flashy, but it looked solid. Permanent. As she pulled into the garage, the door closing behind us with a final, heavy thud, I felt a sense of finality. Like I was stepping into a different world, and there was no going back.

We got out, and as I grabbed my bag from the back, she came around to my side of the car. She didn't say anything, just crowded me against the car door, her body pressed against mine. She tilted her head up, her eyes searching mine.

"Before we go inside," she whispered, her hand coming up to cup my jaw, her thumb stroking my cheekbone. "I need you to understand something. This week, there's no one else. No team, no parents, no Mercedes. There's just you and me. My rules. My world. Can you handle that?"

I didn't have to think about it. The answer was the most natural thing in the world. I nodded, leaning into her touch. "I can handle it."

"Good boy," she murmured, the words sending a shiver down my spine. She leaned in and kissed me again, slower this time, deeper. It was a promise. A branding. When she finally pulled away, I felt dizzy, breathless.

"Let's go inside, Luke," she said, taking a step back and holding out her hand. "Your new life for the week is waiting."

I followed her inside, the door clicking shut behind me with a sound that seemed to echo in the sudden quiet. 

My first thought was that it didn't feel like a coach's house. It felt like something out of a magazine. 

Everything was clean lines and neutral colors—soft grays, whites, and natural wood. The floors were some kind of dark, polished stone that felt cool even through my socks. 

There wasn't a single thing out of place. 

Not a stray cable, not a stack of mail, not even a scuff mark on the wall. It was the kind of clean that felt deliberate, like a constant, quiet assertion of control.

I dropped my duffel bag by the door, the thud of it hitting the floor feeling loud and clumsy in this perfect space.

"Well?" she asked, a small, knowing smile on her lips as she watched me take it all in.

"It's... really nice," I managed, feeling like a kid who'd just tracked mud into a museum.

"Come on," she said, taking my hand. Her fingers laced through mine, cool and firm. "I'll show you around."

She led me through the living room, pointing out the "sound system" and the "automated blinds" with a casual air that made it clear this was just her normal. 

The kitchen was insane—all gleaming stainless steel and white marble countertops with not so much as a crumb on them. 

She showed me the backyard, which had a perfectly manicured lawn and a stone patio with a fire pit. Upstairs was more of the same: a sleek office, a guest bathroom that looked like a spa, and finally, the bedroom.

The master bedroom was huge, with a king-sized bed covered in what looked like a thousand soft gray pillows. The entire far wall was one massive window, looking out over the trees in her backyard. 

But what caught my eye was the walk-in closet. 

It consisted of rows of clothes perfectly organized by color and type. And on one side, hanging all by itself, was a crisp, blue and white hockey jersey. 

My jersey. Number 17.

My breath hitched. Seeing it there, in her space, felt more intimate than anything we'd done so far.

She saw me looking and squeezed my hand. "I told you," she murmured, her voice right next to my ear. "I'm a fan."

After the tour, we ended up back in the kitchen. She was leaning against the counter, all relaxed confidence, while I felt like I was still trying to figure out how to stand without breaking something. The air between us was thick with all the things we weren't saying.

I cleared my throat, trying to sound casual. "So, what are you wanting to do? We got plenty of time together or whatever."

She pushed off the counter and closed the distance between us in two steps. She stopped so close I could feel the heat coming off her body. She reached up, her fingers tracing the line of my jaw, her touch sending a shiver straight through me.

"Oh, Luke," she said, her voice dropping to that low, husky tone that made my stomach clench. "We have all the time in the world." Her eyes, dark and intense, held mine. "But first, I think we need to get you out of those travel clothes. And then... I'm going to teach you exactly what it means to be in my house. Under my rules."

She leaned in, her lips brushing against my ear. "You're going to learn so much this week."

⛸️

The ceiling fan spun in a slow, silent circle above me. Each rotation was a perfect, steady arc. Everything in this house was like that—perfect and steady. 

I was on my back, the cool sheets tangled around my legs, my skin still humming. My mind kept trying to tell me that this should feel weird. Lying naked in bed with my coach. A woman almost thirty. 

But the thought just skittered away, replaced by the solid, warm weight of her arm draped across my chest. 

It didn't feel wrong. It felt safe. 

She'd told me I was mature for my age, that I was basically a man already, just waiting for my birthday to make it official. 

And she was a trusted adult. She knew what was best.

She'd also told me that no one could know. The world wouldn't understand. They'd see the numbers—17 and 28—and they'd twist it into something ugly and wrong. 

It was better this way, she'd said. Just for us. A secret. Our secret. 

After, when we were both breathing hard, she'd asked me out. "So, Luke Holman," she'd whispered, her lips against my temple. "You want to make this official?" 

I'd just said, "Sure." What else was I supposed to say? So I guess that made us a couple. The word felt foreign and exciting in my head.

I shifted slightly, and her arm tightened around me. I turned my head to look at her, her face peaceful in sleep. I reached out and gently tapped her shoulder.

Her eyes fluttered open, immediately focusing on me. A slow, sleepy smile spread across her face. "Hey, you."

"Hey," I said, my voice quiet in the dim room. I hesitated, chewing on my bottom lip. "So, like... what am I supposed to tell people? If, like, they see us together or whatever? Or find out about the age gap situation?"

She propped herself up on an elbow, the sheet falling away to expose her shoulder. She looked at me with a patient, almost amused expression, like a teacher listening to a student's question.

"Well, first of all," she said, her voice calm and measured, "no one is going to find out if we're careful. But for the sake of argument, what kind of 'people' are we talking about? Your friends or strangers?"

"Yeah, I guess," I said. "Like, if we posted a picture on Insta or something. They'd be like, 'Who's that?' And I'd have to say, 'My girlfriend,' and they'd be like, 'How old is she?' and it'd be this whole thing."

She reached out and smoothed my hair back from my forehead. "Luke, we're not 'posting a picture on Insta'," she said, a hint of a laugh in her voice. "That's not what this is. This is... private. Special. It's not for other people to consume or comment on."

"Oh," I said. That made sense, I guess. It was more mature that way. "But what if someone sees us? Like, at a restaurant or something? What's our story? Are you, like, my aunt?"

She let out a soft laugh, a real one this time. "Your aunt? No, honey. We don't need a story. We just don't put ourselves in that position. We go to places outside of town. We stay in. And if someone does see us, we're just two people having a meal. It's none of their business."

"Okay," I said, though a knot of anxiety was still tight in my stomach. "It's just... my friends are all, like, on TikTok all the time. They'd probably find a picture of you from somewhere and be like, 'Dude, she's a MILF.' It would be a whole thing."

She blinked, a flicker of confusion crossing her face before she smoothed it over. "A what?"

"A MILF," I repeated. "You know, like... Mom I'd Like to... uh..." I trailed off, suddenly feeling like an idiot.

"Ah," she said, her expression unreadable. "Right. Well, we're not going to worry about what your friends on TikTok have to say. Their brains are still developing. They're children, Luke. You and I... we're on a different level. We don't need to validate what we have with their approval or their trends."

She leaned in and kissed me, soft and slow. "The only thing that matters is what's real, right here. Between us. It doesn’t leave this room. I could get in a lot of trouble, and then your chances for the draft would be zero to none. Do you understand?"

I nodded, the knot in my stomach loosening. She was right. They were just kids. I wasn't. Not anymore.

"Good," she whispered, pulling me closer. "Now, stop worrying. We have the rest of the week to figure things out."