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I’m drooling over her centerfold when a man browsing the magazine section fixates on Aurora’s enticing figure. Possessiveness takes me, and I grab the stack of magazines, preventing him from having one. I glare at him, and in return, he side-eyes me as if I’m deranged.
And maybe I am, because I feel ownership over a cover model who rejected me.
Boy, did I fuck up with her. Or maybe I could’ve fucked up even better?
Now I’m regrettingnotgetting an escort pregnant.
Iamderanged.
I wantto think my time with Aurora is worthy of bragging rights, but unfortunately, I have no one to brag to except Jackson. With him, it’d be unprofessional to say anything, at least where others could hear.
Although he makes it extremely difficult not to throw it in his smug face.
It’s my first day, and of course, I can’t resist the temptation when I enter the locker room and see Jackson’s cubby proudly showcasing Aurora’s magazine photos. One, which I don’t have, is a centerfold of her in a transparent crop top, with her back arched to highlight her beautiful breasts and peaked nipples, and unbuttoned Daisy Dukes.
Jesus, she’s a wet dream.
“Do you typically display pictures of the women who dump you, O’Reilly?” I ask, my voice tinged with amusement and maybe slight bitterness over him having a photo I lack.
Silence permeates the locker room, and all eyes turn to us.
His face contorts with anger, his muscles tense. “What the fuck did you say?”
I hold my ground, a self-satisfied smile curving my lips. “You heard me.” I tilt my chin toward the collage of swimsuit and lingerie pics. “Does that shrine remind you she dumped you?”
He smirks. “I’m displaying pictures of my future wife. Jealous,Coach?”
I swell with possessiveness that grows stronger and stronger every time I reminisce about my encounter with Aurora. “Not at all. Why would I be? Those pictures are as close as you’ll ever get to her.”
We stare at each other, neither one of us backing down.
The door to the locker room opens, and everyone’s attention is diverted to an older man who strides in with all the confidence of someone who owns the place.
Though I know he doesn’t.
Jackson’s attitude shifts. His shoulders become rigid, and a grimace crosses his face. He turns his focus to his cubby and rifles through his bag, seemingly preoccupied.
The other players follow suit, engaging in similar behavior to distance themselves from our unexpected visitor. Their discomfort is palpable, and as a coach, it’s my responsibility to ensure a positive and safe environment.
I know that sounds hypocritical after I was goading Jackson, but so be it.
“Can I help you?” I interpose between the man and my captain, who he’s walking straight toward.
“I’m here for my son.” He disregards my presence, not even acknowledging me.
Fuck that. This ismylocker room. “Sorry, but family members are not allowed in the locker room. It’s strictly reserved for players and coaches.”
His eyes connect with mine, and he raises a condescending brow. “Coach Blackwood, I presume. I’m Police Commissioner O’Reilly. I’ve always had access to the locker room. Ask anyone.” A fake smile spreads across his face, and he gestures around the room.
“I don’t need to ask because it stops now. I need the team’s full attention. I’m sure you can understand.” I match his condescending attitude, crossing my arms over my chest.
“No, I don’t understand.” A sneer tugs at his upper lip. “I’m here to support my son.”
“I can see where your son gets his bullying from, which is another reason you’re not to be in this locker room. If I have to ask again, I’m calling security.” My frustration mounts, and I sense Jackson shifting behind me.
“Are you serious right now?” It’s almost eerie how his features and arrogant tone mirrors his son’s.
“Yes, and I’m also revoking whatever other privileges you think you have. Like everyone else, you need to support Jackson from the stands.”