Page 29 of Coach (Shady Valley Henchmen #8)

Este

Consciousness came in bursts of pain and confusion.

There was a burning in my lungs and an ache in my throat. Like I’d run a marathon. But also had a cold. Then, God, then there was the screaming pain to the side of my face and the jackhammering of a migraine behind my eyes.

A chill had crept into my bones, making my body rack with shivers. Everything around me felt cold and smelled damp.

I tried to lift my hands, to press them into my eyes to try to ease the throbbing headache. My wrists met resistance.

My mind reeled back.

To a bunker.

To bound wrists.

To two scary men looming over me.

It took a few seconds for my mind to catch back up, flipping through the memories that occurred after being dragged down to the bunker.

The negotiations, the tense ride home, the night of sleeplessness. Then, the next day, the money, work, the wonderfulness with Saul, followed by the awkwardness that still made my heart crumble despite my confusion.

Then, yes.

My dark home.

Trix on the floor.

Moving shadows.

Him .

My eyes flew open, but the brightness all around me was like knives stabbing my pained eyes, making me squeeze them shut again.

But I couldn’t keep them closed.

Not when I had no idea how long I’d been unconscious or what had been happening to me while I was.

I inched my eyelids open, ignoring the sharp stabs of pain and the nausea that rolled through my stomach, making bile rise up my throat.

It felt like it took a lifetime for my eyes to adjust.

But when they finally did, my stomach sank and twisted.

Because I was in a prison.

One that explained all the long days and nights of hammering, sawing, nailing, and sanding.

Coach Dover had been building a place where he could keep me. Not just for a few terrifying hours, but for an extended period of time.

What should have been cinderblock walls were instead bright blue and yellow soundproof tiles affixed to sheets of plywood.

The color choice wasn’t lost on me.

It was the old team colors.

The same colors I’d been wearing when he’d seen me for the first time.

Beneath me was unexpectedly soft, and when I looked down, I saw a mattress sitting on the cold cement floor.

No sheet.

No blanket.

The pillow behind me had no cover.

Everything smelled musty and dirty.

Now, it seemed, even I did.

My gaze slid to my wrists, finding zip ties around them.

Further down, my ankles had two interlocking zip tie cuffs as well, pulled so tight that I worried about circulation.

Not that circulation was at the top of my list of worries. Not as I heard the stomp of footsteps directly above my head.

What was he doing?

Getting supplies to torture me with?

My lower lip trembled, wondering what his plan was now. He’d never gotten me alone long enough to do any kind of real damage.

Was he going to hurt me? Rape me? Keep me like a girlfriend for days? Weeks? Months?

Would anyone ever find me?

Tears welled up and flooded my cheeks before I could try to stop them.

I turned my head, using my shoulder to wipe them away.

This was no time for tears. If I had any hope of getting out of here, I had to keep my wits about me, stay sharp, and look for any opportunity to get free.

I let my eyes slide closed, focusing on my breath, releasing all of the panic, all of the useless what-ifs .

Only when I didn’t feel dizzy with worry did I let my eyes open again.

Just as I did, I heard my name.

“Este!”

Saul .

Saul was at my door.

Sucking in a breath, I opened my mouth and screamed.

Once.

Twice.

Saul’s voice moved overhead, walking through my apartment, hopefully finding Trix.

Trix .

I screamed and screamed.

I pleaded for Saul to just sense I was right there, below his feet.

But… nothing.

Eventually, everything went silent in my home above me.

Saul was gone.

He wasn’t coming to save me.

I comforted myself with the knowledge that he would save Trix, that he was likely already halfway to the emergency vet with her.

If Saul wasn’t going to save me, I had to try to save myself.

I shifted up, forcing my bound legs beneath me, allowing me to look around the basement.

Coach Dover had spared no expense with the soundproofing tiles. They were floor-to-ceiling on every inch of the basement, covering the ceiling above me.

Something about the space felt wrong.

I mean, aside from the soundproofing, the staged house, complete with a tiny kitchen, dining space, living room, and a makeshift bathroom. Makeshift, because there must not have been any running water in the basement.

So instead of a flushing toilet, it seemed to sport a composting one.

A giant plastic container of sawdust sat beside it.

There was a small cabinet with a washbasin and pitcher sitting on it.

Beside that was what I assumed was supposed to be the bath.

All it was, in reality was a kiddie pool with a shower curtain half pulled around it, and a bucket with a camping shower wand hanging out of it.

It was absurd to feel relief at a toilet and the potential of not stewing in my own filth for who knew how long.

It not only meant dignity, I reminded myself, but each item in the basement that wasn’t just bare cinderblock walls and cement floors meant I could potentially find or craft a weapon.

I couldn’t imagine that my old coach would spend every moment with me. He had to pay for the house, for one. There had to be some sort of job allowing him to afford that.

Sure, maybe he had cameras, but if I was smart, I could find a way to forge the weapon before he could stop me.

I was about to try to knee-walk across the basement when I heard a loud groaning sound, a click, footsteps, and another groan, followed by more steps.

He was coming.

He was already here.

“You’re awake,” Coach Dover said as he clumsily made it to the lowest step, his gaze fixed on me. His one leg had a bulge around the thigh from where he’d patched up the screwdriver wound.

A chill washed down my spine at seeing those damn see-through eyes pinned on me.

“Do you like what I’ve done with the place?” he asked, tone light, friendly.

I wanted to rant, rave, scream, spit, fight.

But if he was being calm and friendly, I figured my best bet was to mirror that back to him.

Because this wasn’t the same old Coach Dover; this version of him had clearly been hitting the gym. He’d shredded a bunch of weight and added on a ton of muscle.

A man that big with that much strength was really, really dangerous.

As sick as it made me feel, I made my voice sweet, almost a little coy.

“I like the colors. They’re… nostalgic.”

“Speaking of,” he said, pleased that I’d made the connection.

He walked over to a small chest and pulled out something that had my blood turning to ice.

My old soccer uniform.

He took it?

He kept it?

“Oh, wow,” I said, trying not to let my voice wobble.

“I have a lot of good memories of this uniform.”

“Me too,” I lied.

“You were so easy to track across the field. All that red hair…”

Coach Dover stroked the material as he said this, his eyes far away, lost in a memory.

I sat there quietly, letting him have it.

The less time I had to engage with him, the better.

“And then that school took it all away from me.”

The tension in his jaw had my spine snapping straight. His meaty hands curled hard into the material of the uniform. I couldn’t help but imagine those same hands grabbing me, squeezing me.

I had to try to calm him back down.

“How long did it take to get all these foam tiles up?” I asked, angling my head up to pretend to admire him, but I was carefully tracking him in my periphery.

“The tiles didn’t take too long. It was the rubber inserts and plywood that took a long time. I never really worked with tools before. I’ve always admired how good you were with them.”

From all the times you watched me without knowing, you freaking creep .

“My grandfather taught me.”

I hated even allowing him to know anything about that good, sweet, loving man. But whatever it took to keep him from suspecting that I was just looking for any opportunity to escape.

“My grandfather was a drunk.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“We used to watch the game together.”

“Soccer?”

To that, he snorted. “No, he said that wasn’t a man’s sport. I had to watch that in private.”

“That’s a shame. Some of the best athletes have been soccer players.”

“He never saw that. Did yours?”

“He was at every one of my games.”

“Not at college.”

“He passed away.”

“Oh.” Coach Dover looked uncomfortable at that, like I’d ruined the mood. Not the whole kidnapping and binding me thing, but talking about my grandfather passing.

“Did your parents approve of you playing soccer?”

“Oh, no. I never played. Not as a sport anyway.”

“Really? I never would have guessed.”

“I was pushed into football. I had the frame for it.”

“Basketball would have worked too. You’re tall,” I added. It was a fact. Judging by the way he puffed up at it, though, he clearly took it as a compliment.

“It always worked in my favor,” he agreed.

“Did you play in college?”

“Yeah. I didn’t get a scholarship, though.”

“What’d you get your degree in?”

“Sports science.”

“But you’re not working as a coach anymore?”

“No. No, I have more important things to do.”

Like build an actual prison .

“You’re not working now?”

“I am. I work from home.”

“Oh, that’s handy.”

Dammit.

That squashed any hope that he might leave each day, giving me a chance to escape without him chasing me down.

Oh, well. I would just have to… sneak out without him knowing. Or, I don’t know, knock him over the head or something.

I would figure it out.

I had to.

“More time to spend with you.”

Oh, joy.

“Um, Coach?” I asked, making my voice even sweeter.

“George,” he corrected. “I want you to call me George.”

“George,” I said, the name unnatural on my lips. “I was wondering… do you have any acetaminophen?” I asked.

“Acetaminophen?” George repeated.

“My face and head really hurt,” I explained, gesturing with both my hands to my head.