Page 19 of Coach’s Pass (Twin Cities #1)

Coach Schmidt

R oad games are always tough. Hostile crowds that hate your guts. Booing fans in your face from the minute you step off the bus. But this time, it isn’t the crowd I’m worried about. It’s the field chemistry between Austin and Jackson.

After that night at the pub, things seemed stable. Tense but manageable. I still wasn’t sure how it would translate under pressure. Would Austin hesitate on a block? Would Jackson avoid passing his way? Would a sliver of resentment crack open at the worst possible moment?

But they didn’t show it. Not on the field where it counted.

They played like pros. As if none of the off-field drama ever happened.

We cleaned up Central Illinois. Wiped out the rest of the conference.

One win after another until the season blurred into a highlight reel.

ESPN starting a documentary on our unprecedented season.

It’s like I blinked and there we were—under the lights in Pasadena . The national goddamn championship.

A re-match between Lake U and Dakota State.

Of course it had to be them, our tightest game from the regular season.

They’d clawed their way back into the playoff picture, winning out the rest of their schedule.

Got lucky, too. Skipped the conference finals thanks to some last-minute Big Twenty tiebreaker rule.

If they had made the finals, no way they’d be standing across the field from us tonight.

I let Jackson call the plays. Fuck Greg, his ass is fired tomorrow. If I let the offense run solely on his scheme, we'd be lucky to be above a .500 record.

Jackson's ready for the big leagues. And damn, does he deliver. From the first snap, we smother them. The offense clicks like a machine. Defense reads their plays like they got ahold of their playbook. Dakota State doesn’t even see it coming.

By halftime, the score's lopsided. By the fourth quarter, it’s merciful.

It wouldn’t be proper to call it a contest.

Our defense doesn’t let them find the end zone.

Not once. A measly field goal is all they manage.

Pity points so they don’t go down in history as the only team to be shoutout in the finals.

The final whistle blows and the scoreboard reads what we’ve all been dreaming about: Lake U 31 — Dakota State 3. National Champions.

It doesn’t feel real at first. The players splash cold water over me. Confetti cannons go off. My players scream and hoist the trophy, slapping my back, pulling me in for photos. But my eyes aren’t on the cameras. I only have one thing on my mind—Jackson Hicks.

He’s standing near the fifty-yard line, the trophy raised high above his head like a goddamn king. I don’t think, I let my heart take over for once.

Before I can summon a rational thought, I sprint over to him, encapsulated with tunnel vision.

My heart’s pounding louder than the crowd, and without a word, I grab the back of his neck and kiss him.

Right on the mouth. Right in front of a hundred thousand screaming fans and every camera in the country.

Letting the world know exactly who I’m taken by.

Fuck he tastes delicious. His lips are frantic for my touch. Kissing me like it’s life or death. And for a split second, I don’t give a damn about contracts or headlines. I don’t care about Austin, ESPN or the fact that I’m twice his age.

The crowd explodes. Deafening cheers rising like thunder. Phones are flashing. Reporters yelling from the sidelines. But all I can think about is the man in my arms. My quarterback: Jackson Hicks.

My lips stay on his, claiming him in full view of the world.

Somewhere up in the booth, the announcers laugh with surprise. “Well folks,” one chuckles, “this might be a college football first. A head coach kissing his quarterback at midfield. And honestly? We’re here for it.”

“Jesus, Coach… you outed us to the whole country,” Jackson grins.

Smiling back at him. “That’s how much I love you.”

The sideline’s chaos now. Cameras closing in. Teammates cheering. Somewhere on the field, I’m sure Austin’s jaw is on the floor. He would get over it though. In fact, he’s probably kissing Charlie right now.

Jackson’s father is probably having a stroke in the stands. Seeing his son kiss another man, center field, with the entire country for an audience.

Pressing my forehead to Jackson’s. “I think I turned our entire world upside down.”

“And yet,” I add, “it’s never felt more perfect.”

I exhale through a shaky laugh, pulling him into my arms. My voice against his ear. “You realize I’m about to get grilled by every sports network in the country.”

He smirks mischievously. “Guess I’ll have to dial up my charm during the interviews. Protect your reputation.”

“Christ,” I chuckle, shaking my head, already imagining the press conference fiasco.

I carry him back into the tunnel, arms wrapped tight around his waist, his head buried against my neck. The roar of the stadium muffling into echoes down the concrete hall. Jackson’s clinging tight to me.

We fucking did it, National Champions. And somehow… I got the man of my dreams too.

Then I set Jackson down on the bench. He’s grinning like a madman. Lips bruised from kissing. “We really did it Coach. We won.”

I nod, trying to hold back tears. Joy, fear, and pride all swarming together inside my core. “Yeah we did.”

He blinks up at me. “You okay?”

I laugh shakily. “You know what, I don’t give a fuck if they fire me.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

Sitting next to him on the bench, my hands splayed across his thighs. “Let them tear up the contract. Let them call it scandal. I’d do it all again. In fact, I would love to do it again, as long as it's with you.”

Jackson kisses me, his fingers running through my hair. “Then let’s go down in history together.”

Our lips find each other again, this moment is perfect. His mouth tastes of sweat and victory. Jackson and I, out and proud.

There’s no going back now. Not after we made out in front of the entire country on a live national broadcast. Every sports desk in America will be dissecting this by morning. They’ll freeze-frame our embrace, speculate about our future, debate whether love like this belongs in college football.

Let them. The world can either accept us for who we are… or ban us from ever touching a football field again.

I don’t care. I’ve spent my whole career chasing this moment—the national championship. Building rosters and tearing my hair out over busted coverages or third-down conversions. Second-guessing every damn decision, but none of it feels as meaningful as being with Jackson. Not even fucking close.

I glance at him, his blue eyes burning with joy. If it all ends tomorrow… fine. As long as I get to walk beside him, hand in hand, through whatever hell or glory comes next?

That’ll be better than winning ten goddamn national titles.