The Game

𝟏𝟗

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑵𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒕𝒆𝒆𝒏 - 𝑱𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝑳𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑩𝒂𝒃𝒚 

The second that shower wall was out of my view, I dropped onto the bench like I'd been hit.

Fuck.

I scrubbed my hand down my face, trying to shake it — that image burned in my skull. I hadn't meant to see her. I hadn't wanted to see her like that... but God, once I did...

I tilted my head back, blew out a breath through my nose.

Her skin was slick and flushed from the heat, little rivulets of water running down her curves like they'd memorized the path. Those legs — damn. Lean and toned but still soft. Waist pulled in like a secret. Stomach flat with just the right dip of abs. My mind stuttered on her chest — perky as hell, full enough to cup, and her nipples...

"Don't go there," I muttered, tapping the back of my head against the wall.

But I was already there. The picture of her was etched into my fucking soul now. The way she gasped, how her eyes widened when she caught me staring — how quick she was to clutch that towel to herself — but not before I saw everything. Every single inch.

And let's not even start on that ass. I'd already noticed it before, sure — I'd be lying if I said I hadn't. But wet? Glowing under that fluorescent light? My self‑control was on life support.

Every time I blinked, the image of her under that water burned brighter, sharper — the way steam curled around her skin like it belonged there, the water sliding over her stomach, across the tiny ridge of abs, down the arch of her back. I could still see the soft bounce of her breasts, the tight pink peaks of her nipples, the way her waist curved in before flaring back out into that ass. It was a loop on repeat, a highlight reel my mind wouldn't stop playing no matter how much I begged it to stop.

I dragged a palm over my face and muttered under my breath, "Chill. Chill. Chill..." like saying it enough times might make it true. With my other hand I shifted myself inside my waistband, pressing down, trying to will the blood to go somewhere else — anywhere else — before she walked back out and saw me like this. I wasn't about to have Aliya step out, still damp, and catch me standing here with a full‑on hard‑on like some creep.

I squeezed my eyes shut, reaching for anything else to think about. Plays for tonight's game. The smell of the gym floor. My grandmother's kitchen. Homework. Anything. But every time I tried to pivot, she flashed back in my head clearer — her hair curling wet at the ends, her mouth parted in surprise, the slick of water running down her ribs. It wasn't even memory anymore; it was fantasy, filling in gaps, making her arch a little more, her skin glow a little hotter.

I groaned under my breath, jaw clenched. "Get it together, Chris..."

I pressed my palm harder against myself, like pressure alone could flatten the problem. My thighs twitched. My heartbeat echoed in my groin instead of my chest. The harder I fought it, the worse it got. She wasn't fading; she was vivid. Her hips, the soft dip at her waist, the way she'd gasped and clutched the towel — it all replayed like some slow‑motion highlight I'd never seen before.

I tilted my head back against the locker, staring up at the stained ceiling tiles, breathing through my teeth. Be cool. Be normal. Coach. Plays. Free throws. Anything.

And then her face would pop up behind my eyelids, wet curls framing her cheeks, lips glistening from steam, eyes wide and a little shy. That vision didn't cool me down — it only made the ache worse.