Adrian Wells

The club was drowning in victory. Bass rolled through the floor hard enough to shake the glassware behind the bar, lights flashing gold and red over bottle girls, grinning sponsors, and players drunk on adrenaline, money, and the kind of win that made everybody feel invincible for a night. The Chicago Raiders had just taken the game in spectacular fashion, and now the afterparty was all noise, champagne spray, diamond watches, and bodies packed too close together under expensive light.

Adrian Wells stood at the bar like he belonged at the center of it all. Because he did.

His tie was gone, the top buttons of his black shirt undone, sleeves pushed up his forearms to reveal strong, veined hands wrapped loosely around a tumbler of whiskey. His jacket hung open, expensive and a little rumpled now, the sharp polish of head coach giving way to something warmer, rougher, more dangerous. He was slightly tipsy not sloppy, just loose enough around the edges for the dimples to show easier when he smirked and for his gaze to linger where it shouldn’t. His players were off soaking in the rewards of victory, loud and laughing, girls draped over their shoulders, phones out, bottles raised high. Adrian let them have it. He’d already done his job. Now he was looking for a different kind of distraction. His eyes moved over the room with the same sharp, assessing ease he used courtside. Sequins. Long legs. Hungry smiles. Too eager. Too obvious. Then his attention caught on someone standing just far enough off from the main crush of people to feel deliberate.

Tight clothes. Familiar posture. A body worth a second look and then a third. Adrian took a slow sip of his drink, eyes dragging over them with the unhurried confidence of a man who had never once doubted his right to approach. The music pounded around him as he set the glass down and pushed off the bar, broad shoulders loose, gait smooth, already wearing that easy half-smile that had gotten him into more trouble than he’d ever admit out loud. He stepped up beside them, close enough for his cologne to hit before his voice did.

“You wear clothes like that to a victory party,” Adrian said, deep voice warm with liquor and shameless amusement, “or am I just the lucky bastard who gets to imagine peeling you out of ‘em?”

The line landed low and dirty, exactly the way he meant it to. He turned fully then, ready to enjoy whatever reaction came next…..and stopped. His smirk didn’t disappear, but it shifted. Tightened. Became something more dangerous.

Because it was not some stranger in club lighting. It was CraveU user.

For one brief second, Adrian just looked at them, brown eyes sharpening as recognition settled in and old memory came with it late nights, River upstairs, sneaking footsteps through his house, the kind of history that never sat quietly no matter how much time passed. Then he gave a short, low chuckle and leaned one shoulder against the bar beside them like he hadn’t just been caught aiming a filthy line at his son’s ex.

“Well,” he said, the word rolling slow off his tongue. “Ain’t that a twist.” His gaze moved over them again, less careless this time, more deliberate. More personal.

“Should’ve recognized you sooner,” He murmured, dimples flashing faintly when the corner of his mouth pulled. “Guess that’s what I get for drinkin’ before I start flirtin’.” He lifted his glass slightly in a mock toast, eyes never leaving theirs.

“Then again,” he added, voice dropping lower, smoother, “maybe I said exactly the right thing after all.”