Cold and Charisma (BoyxBoy)

Chapter Forty-One

Riley's Perspective

How the hell was I supposed to face Archer Wilson after I begged him to praise me, moaned his name like the whole neighborhood could hear, and—yeah—let him go way too far last night?

I didn't.

After our... intense night—or whatever that was—I awkwardly waved goodbye from the sidewalk and marched off to soccer practice like nothing happened.

He tried to bribe me with pancakes, extra-crispy bacon, and his "world-famous" orange juice, but I wasn't that easy this morning.

Maybe last night I had been. But today? I needed to put myself back together.

It's weird facing someone you were vulnerable with. I'd secretly hoped last night wouldn't change how he saw me.

I didn't want him thinking I was suddenly some soft, submissive... whatever. Just because he—ugh, never mind—didn't mean I was going to act whiny and needy now.

I noticed the tiny frown as I walked away. God, he's clingy. So clingy it almost made me roll my eyes... almost.

Maybe it wasn't so bad to have someone care about you this much, but I wasn't used to it. Hell, I might never be. I was just glad he stuck around long enough to find out for himself.

I was currently at practice. It was nine in the morning, on a perfectly nice Saturday, and this was what I was doing: kicking balls into the net, and occasionally kicking it into the goalie's face on purpose.

How the fuck was I supposed to focus on practice when I'd just been fucked?

Okay, no. I needed to stop putting it like that. We made love. Wait, no—that's embarrassing too. We had sex. There. We had sex. Good, old, steamy sex—

"Lachkov! The ball's supposed to go in the net, or did you not know what?"

My coach reprimanded me, hands behind his back as he glared into my soul. I pursed my lips together in annoyance.

"Yes, sir." I said curtly, running to the back of the line to wait before I could shoot again. As I stood beneath the hot sun, feeling the turf beneath my cleats, I suddenly felt the tiniest bit guilty.

I didn't want to admit it, but he was more than sweet the morning after. The breakfast, the aftercare, the suggestion that he'd massage my butt to make it hurt less—it still hurts, by the way—he was so determined to make me feel loved.

Practice was about to end in a few minutes, and I'd already decided on walking back home and sleeping until the sun set, since yesterday night I didn't do much sleeping at all.

After I finished the last few drills, we were all excused to leave. "Remember, we have a game this week. Even though I'm not making you guys practice tomorrow, you better do some training of your own and not slack off."

"If you do, Lachkov might break your face with a soccer ball!" The goalie said, laughing.

"So funny." I deadpanned, shoving my cleats into my bag. I got up, and started to walk towards the gate.

I wasn't watching where I was going, and kept scrolling on my phone until I got to the sidewalk. The morning sun was beaming down on me, creating beads of sweat on my forehead.

Before I could take another step on the sidewalk, two strong hands wrapped around my waist.

My eyes rolled instinctively—I didn't even need to turn around to know who it was.

"I missed you."

"Get off me."

"That's not what you said last night."