Page 14 of Coach’s Pass (Twin Cities #1)

She holds out her hand for my phone and lines us up in front of the falls. “Alright, say cheese!”

Coach wraps his arm around my back, holding me tight. Making it easy to flash a wide genuine smile. She snaps the first photo, then a second, and a third.

“Gotta get your good angles,” she says with a wink, handing the phone back.

“Thank you so much,” I manage, trying not to sound as giddy as I feel.

“You boys enjoy your day,” she calls over her shoulder as she walks away.

I glance down at the photos. Coach is cheesing in every one.

And me? I’m actually smiling too. Not the press-conference or locker room smirk, but a genuine smile.

For once I look like someone who’s happy.

It hits me all at once—how bizarre this all is.

A few weeks ago I was stalking him online, fantasizing about his pictures.

Now we are official, even if only him and I knew it.

It’s a surreal feeling to have my very own photo of us together.

We linger at the falls for a bit longer, before making our way up to Split Rock Lighthouse and getting another photo of us.

Capturing the lighthouse and Lake Superior in the background.

We don’t stay long. Coach’s stomach starts growling, and he sheepishly admits he made a dinner reservation back in Canal Park.

Some Italian place with white tablecloths and a name I can’t pronounce.

I grin at him. “So… a real date then?”

He smirks. “Only the best for my quarterback.”

W e change into our finest clothes that we have available, which isn’t saying much.

For me, I throw on a white button up shirt and khaki pants with my sneakers.

It’s not exactly black-tie, but it’ll do.

Coach wears a fitted crewneck sweater with a new pair of denim jeans.

No matter what he wore, he could pull it off.

I catch myself staring as he runs a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair in the mirror.

He’s irresistible to look at, like a red wine that only improves with age.

Ristorante Boreale , an authentic Italian restaurant founded in the 1800’s from the first wave of immigrants to settle here.

Weathered red-brick exterior and elegant ivy creeping along the windows.

It’s charming. Still runs in the family, at the least that’s what the sign says.

We take a seat at a table, with white linen cloth and freshly lit candles.

Coach pulls out my chair without saying a word. I smile at him. “Chivalry’s not dead, huh?”

“Not when I’m with someone worth the manners,” he murmurs, sliding into the seat across from me.

The menu is handwritten. Pasta, lots of it: tagliatelle, linguini, stuffed ravioli, cavatelli.

“What’s good here?” I ask, glancing up at Coach.

He shrugs, eyes scanning the page. “You tell me. I’ve never been here before.” He takes a deep breath, eyes briefly closing. “Smells divine though.”

I nod in agreement, still staring at the menu. “I think I’m gonna go with the house lasagna,” I decide. “Don’t want to get too exotic. Can’t screw up a classic, right?”

Coach smiles. “Solid call. I’m going with the clam linguini. Something about seafood and pasta on the lake just feels right.”

“You’re feeling bold tonight, huh?”

He grins. “Hey, I’m here with the cutest quarterback in the country. Gotta celebrate somehow.”

That makes me blush harder than I’d like. I duck behind my menu, trying not to let him see me cheesing too hard.

While we wait for our food, the server brings over a small basket of their house garlic bread—still warm from the oven. The butter glistens on top, loaded with herbs and roasted garlic.

I tear into a piece and let out a quiet groan. “Holy shit,” I murmur, my mouth half full. “This is insane.”

Coach raises a brow, trying a bite of his own. He nods slowly, chewing with that look of deep concentration like he’s breaking down film coverage.

“That’s not garlic bread,” he says. “That’s a religious experience.”

I smirk, reaching for another slice. “Well count me in. I’m converting to Italian.”

We both laugh, leaning back in our chairs. It’s all so simple with him. No pretending or pressure. Completely natural as if we’re meant to be sitting here together, sharing garlic bread and terrible jokes.

The food arrives, and right on cue my stomach growls loud enough for Coach to raise both brows. I’m suddenly ravenous from the rich scent of the lasagna—layers of meat, cheese, and garlicky red sauce bubbling at the edges.

Coach’s plate looks... fine. The linguini is glossy, scattered with clams in open shells and a hint of lemon zest. It doesn’t smell bad, but it doesn’t exactly make my mouth water either. He picks up a fork, twirls the noodles, and slurps down a bite like he’s been starving for days.

“Good?” I ask, a little skeptical.

He shrugs, lips pursed. “Fucking delicious.” he says, then slurps down a clam with no shame.

The sound and the way his mouth moves sends an involuntary flashback through my head.

His tongue inside me—devouring me. God. My khakis are beginning to feel tight around my groin.

I shift in my seat, forcing a sip of water, trying to will my body back under control.

Maybe later, I tell myself. Right now, it’s dinner time.

Refocusing on my own entrée, I dig into my lasagna and groan moan the first bite. “Oh my god.”

Coach looks up from his linguini, eyebrow raised. “That good?”

“Better than sex.”

He pauses mid-slurp. “You take that back,” he warns with a smirk.

I grin, swallowing slowly and leaning back with satisfaction. “Alright, alright. Fine. Second place. But very close.”

He sets his fork down, eyes narrowing in mock offense. “Close? To me? You're telling me lasagna almost outperformed your coach ?”

I shrug dramatically. “What can I say? It’s got layers. Depth and structure. Just... pulls itself together under pressure.”

“Oh, I see,” he chuckles. “You’re comparing me to pasta now?”

“Technically I’m comparing pasta to you , but yeah.”

He leans across the table slightly, voice quiet. “Well, if you’re still that hungry after dinner, I might just have to remind you where I really rank.”

All of a sudden my mouth goes dry, instantly parched. I reach for my glass of water. My cock throbs under the table, pressed uncomfortably against the inside of my khakis. I lick my lips just to mess with him.

He growls, shaking his head. “Boy, you’re lucky I’ve got self-control... and we’re in public.”

I wink at him. “That’s what takeout boxes are for.”

W e barely make it back to the hotel room before Coach rips off my khakis, burying his face into my ass. Growling with hunger, like we just didn’t stuff our faces with pasta. I moan out as his tongue swipes my crease. Plunging down in my pink flesh.

“Think you can tease me at the dinner table… I’ll show you what that gets you,” he rumbles, shoving his mouth back in between my cheeks. As if this isn’t exactly what I was pinning for.

I let him devour me, whimpering to egg him on, push his tongue as far it can go. “Coach put him in,” I whimper into the pillow. Craving Coach’s dick.

Before I can take a deep breathe, Coach shoves his cock inside me. It feels incredible. Splitting my entrance, he slides all the way in, filling me up perfectly. Just like he always does. “Fuck Coach,” I moan.

“Aw babe, you feel amazing,” he growls into my ear. Kissing my neck as he molds my ass to his will. Gripping my pelvis, pumping faster, making me whelp in pleasure. My cock leaking precum onto the sheets.

I gasp, unable to think of anything except for how utterly great he is at pounding me. He knows precisely how to handle my ass. Every thrust driving further, pushing me towards the edge already.

I let out a needy whimper.

His hand clamps over my mouth. “That’s right,” he murmurs, hot breath against my neck. “Whimper into my hand, you smart-ass.”

My body trembles under him, helpless against the way he takes control. I love every second of it.

He thrusts with renewed passion, bruising my ass with his punishing thrusts. Utterly destroying my prostate with every slam. Making me cum as he owns me with his dick.

“That’s how much you love being fucked like a bitch. Coach’s bitch,” he groans, his release starting inside. Cock vibrating as it spews it’s cream into me. Feeling each spurt in my belly.

“Yes Coach!” I cry out, desperate for every spew of his milk.

“Christ, I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of fucking you,” he chuckles as he falls beside me.

“You better not,” I jest. “Can’t wait to have your dick every day.”

He wraps an arm around me, pulling me in close. “You’ll get sick of me soon enough, babe,” he jokes.

I nuzzle closer into his hairy chest, smiling. “Not a chance.”

“But... since we’re official now,” he says carefully, “I’ve been meaning to ask you about your father.”

My body tenses up. He notices then runs his hand down my back. “You don’t have to tell me everything,” he adds gently. “I just want to understand.”

I take a long breath, trying to find the right words. I look up at the ceiling, as if they might appear if I stare hard enough. “He wasn’t always awful,” I say quietly. “At least… that’s what my aunt says.”

Coach stays silent, just listening, massaging my back.

“After my mom died… something in him broke. He became angry at everything. Not just at me, but I was a kid. Always around him. At least with football, we got out of the house. The scolding and yelling on the field were more bearable. But it still hurt, still does today. He lingers in my nightmares. Screaming that I’m not good enough, to stop acting like a faggot when I broke down… ”

“Jackson… I’m so sorry.”

I shake my head. “Don’t be. Football gave me a way out. And now I’m here with you. The happiest I’ve ever been in my life.”

Coach leans in, kissing my forehead like he means it. “You’re not a burden or broken. You’re a damn miracle.”

His words don’t fix everything. Healing takes time. Scars don’t fade overnight. But I believed him, every last word. For once in my life, I look forward to the future. Me and Coach, side by side. The one guy that might be able to fix me.