Page 17 of Coach’s Pass (Twin Cities #1)

Jackson

I ’m on my way to pick up a chicken burrito, but my mind’s nowhere near food. It’s stuck on Coach. The way he kissed me last night, the way we didn’t finish. My body still aches for him. For the way he touches me. Then right on cue, my phone buzzes.

Coach : Hey are you free? Meet at Stone Arch Bridge? Downtown side .

My heart skips a beat. I don’t hesitate. I pivot on my heel, turn around in the other direction, burrito forgotten. I’d walk ten miles barefoot just to see him. Hear him growl my name into my ear. Fortunately, it’s only a ten a minute walk from my current location.

Me : Be there in ten!

I spot him loitering near the start of the Stone Arch Bridge, shoulders hunched, hands in his pockets, looking stressed, but still sexy as hell. The noon sun is shining brightly over the Mississippi River below us.

“Hey Coach.” I say, my voice teasing. “Are we playing in public today?”

“Not today Jackson.” He hesitates for a second. “I told Austin. About us…”

I stop a few feet from him, the smirk dying on my face. The buzz in my body goes cold. “You… what? ”

Coach doesn’t meet my eyes. He stares out over the river, hands buried deep in his jacket pockets. “He confronted me. Said he had a feeling. That Duluth wasn’t a coincidence.”

“And you just told him?”

“I didn’t plan to,” he mutters. “But I couldn’t lie to him. Not after everything. He came to me with his own truth, and… fuck, Jackson, it felt like the least I owed him.”

I step closer, heart racing for a different reason. “How did he take it?”

Coach Schmidt exhales slowly. “Like a punch to the gut. Called me selfish. Said I always make things about myself. That I pushed his mom away. He left before I could fix it.”

“Are we done?” I ask. “Is that what this is?”

He looks over at me for a long second. Eyes tired and sullen. “No,” he says. “We’re not done.”

“Then why does it feel like we are?” I whisper.

He takes a cautious step forward, lowering his voice. “Because I’m scared. Of what this is turning into. Of what it’s already cost me.”

“I didn’t ask for any of this to be easy, Coach.” I swallow the lump forming in my throat. “But I’m not walking away unless you make me.”

We stare at each other across the chill of the bridge, the city noise fading behind us. “Then let’s keep walking,” he murmurs. “Let’s walk through a gameplan of how we could make this work.”

I nod my head; I’d do anything to stay with Coach. I couldn’t go back to the empty shell of a person I used to be.

Coach took a deep breath. “He told me something too. Said he’s gay. That he’s been seeing someone.”

I blink, surprised. “Really?”

Coach nods. “Yeah. Charlie Evans. Kicker for the Lumberjacks.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “Charlie Evans? He’s like... what, almost forty?”

“Thirty-nine,” Coach says. “I asked.”

There’s a long pause as we both take it in. The weight of it all. How messy everything has become.

“How’d you take it?” I ask carefully.

“I told Austin I was proud of him. That it took guts to tell me.”

“Coach I have an idea. We need to show Austin that we love each other. That we have a connection. That we aren’t just some locker room hookup. Why don’t we get dinner with him and Charlie?”

“That’s actually a good idea Jackson.” He strokes his beard. “Are you thinking a pub?”

“I wouldn’t be opposed.” I laugh.

T he Red Lion, a Minneapolis staple if you are looking to enjoy British cuisine. The aroma of fried cod and malted vinegar fills the air. Coach and I sit at a corner table eagerly waiting for Austin and Charlie to show up. Hopefully we will keep our relationship and season intact after tonight.

“Appetizers?” Coach asks, trying to act casual.

“Let’s wait,” I murmur, eyes fixed on the door. “Let’s see if they actually show.”

I know it’s fucked up that I’m screwing his dad.

No way to sugarcoat it. But God, I hope Austin forgives me.

I didn’t want to just fuck his father, I wanted to go to the movies with him, go grocery shopping as we banter if we should get organic or non-organic spinach.

I wanted to experience life with him, not be stuck behind closed doors and restrained to weekend getaways.

Then I see them. Austin and Charlie holding hands, laughing at something they whispered to each other. Comfortable being themselves in public. Looking truly happy.

It stings a bit, watching Austin so at peace, when Coach and I are still walking on eggshells. But I push that down. Tonight’s not about comparison. It’s about wading our way through these murky waters.

Coach straightens up and waves them over. “Over here!”

Charlie leads the way with his bomber jacker and confident swagger, a bright grin on his face. He’s surprisingly youthful looking for being nearly forty years old. Flawless pale skin, incredibly defined cheekbones, and dark black hair that matches Austin.

As they reach the table, Charlie opens his arms wide. “Come on now, we might be family soon. It’s Evans family tradition,” he laughs. He pulls Coach into a hearty embrace, then me. I pick up on his citrusy cologne.

“Cracking choice, this,” he says as we slide into our seats. “Proper pub feel. Reminds me of the ones back home. Just needs a dartboard and some old lad swearing at the football match on the telly.”

Austin settles in beside him, less apprehensive than I expected. He offers me a half-smile—not fully forgiving by any stretch. Things are still going to be complicated.

Coach Schmidt clears his throat. “We figured if we’re all going to navigate this... situation, might as well do it over some fish and chips.”

Charlie lifts his menu. “Ooh, a delightful surprise, they’ve got butter chicken. Loads better than some fried fish. Now we’re talking. Nothing brings people together like a bloody curry. My mum swears that it can solve any family drama. Well, that and a few pints.”

We all laugh. I’m grateful that Charlie is a warm and outgoing guy. If he weren’t this easygoing, this charmingly British, tonight might already be a dumpster fire.

Charlie catches the eye of our bartender like he’s been here a hundred times. “Sir,” he says with a grin, “can we get one family-sized order of butter chicken, a pitcher of your foamiest draft, and a pan of bread pudding for the table?”

The bartender lights up. “Absolutely, Charlie.”

Austin gives Charlie a nudge. “Ordering for the whole table now?”

Charlie shrugs playfully. “You want peace between men? You feed ‘em. Butter chicken and naan works better than therapy, I promise.”

Coach chuckles beside me. “Can’t argue with that logic.”

Charlie is absolutely right. The rest of the night flies by perfectly.

We demolish the creamy butter chicken and the soft naan.

Downing pint after pint. Stories get told.

Jokes get better the more we drink. Even Austin starts to relax.

I catch him smiling at his father once or twice when he thinks no one’s looking.

Charlie keeps the energy light, refilling glasses and cracking jokes. By the time we’ve scraped the last spoonfuls of bread pudding off the plate and polished off two more pitchers of beer, we’re all a little tipsy and bellies full to the brim.

Coach snatches the bill off the table before anyone can argue. “My treat. Consider it... conflict resolution tax.”

We all have to Uber home, none of us are exactly in the best shape to drive. Austin and Charlie in one. Coach and I in the other. The moment the door shuts, I slide against him. Rest my head on his chest, right between his pecs. Right where I’m supposed to be.

“That went pretty damn well. Don’t you think?” Coach murmurs, resting a hand on my thigh.

I nod, my cheek brushing his beard. “I don’t think it could’ve gone much smoother,” I say with a laugh. “I mean, I half expected Austin to throw a pint in your face.

He lets out a chuckle. “Would’ve deserved it.”

Coach’s hand starts to massage my thigh, inching closer to my entrance. I gasp, eyes darting to the front seat. The Uber driver says nothing, oblivious with his eyes on the road or just pretending not to see.

“The only thing that can make tonight better is a taste of my quarterback.” He whispers in my ear.

I tremble with his words. My cock throbbing instantaneously, thinking about him spreading me open and thrashing his tongue against my rim. Taunting me before sliding inside. To make me feel whole and stuffed.

“Coach,” I whisper, glancing toward the front seat. “We’re not alone.”

His hand doesn’t stop. He strokes my cock through my pants. Leisurely dragging his palm along the length of my cock. “Then you better be a good boy and keep quiet,” he groans. “We’re almost back to your place.”

I bite my lip to hold back my moans. My hips instinctively leaning in towards his grip. I can’t think of anything except for me owning me.

The driver pulls up to my apartment. Coach hands him a hundred dollar bill as a tip. “I appreciate you respecting our privacy.”

“Yes sir, understood,” the Uber driver nods, gladly pocketing the tip.

Coach’s hand gives my cock another squeeze. “Let’s go. I can’t wait another fucking second.”

We make it to the elevator before he shoves me against the wall, burying his tongue into my starving mouth. I whimper and go limp as he takes control. Knees nearly giving out. The elevator stops. Coach breaks the kiss just in time.

Ding.

The doors slide open and three frat guys stroll in.

They look suspiciously at us, before going on their phones.

Coach stands tall beside me. His eyes looking me up and down, pausing at my ass, before licking his lips as we slowly ascend to the twentieth floor.

Fuck, I want him to keep going. Let these three jocks watch.

They’d probably want in. Might have a circle jerk about it later tonight. Stroking themselves raw while Coach Schmidt slams me against the wall, grinding his cock on my ass and whispers filthy shit into my neck. Or maybe that’s just my imagination, being drove crazy by Coach right now.