Page 20 of Coach’s Pass (Twin Cities #1)

Coach Schmidt

A fter I kissed Jackson at midfield, the school damn near fired me.

The board held emergency meetings, alumni were calling in nonstop, and the media spun it every which way.

But Mr. Hoheisal—God bless that man—managed to talk them down.

He humbly reminded them that I’d just delivered Lake U its first national championship in decades.

That kind of win doesn’t come around often.

And when it does, people listen. He told them point blank: “ You want to fire the coach who just brought a trophy to your four-billion-dollar stadium? Be my guest. But you better be prepared to answer to every student, parent, and sponsor who wanted this title more than they wanted your outrage. ” Winning still holds weight, even when you stir the pot.

If we hadn’t taken the trophy home, I’d be toast. No question about it.

They still made me do a rigorous press campaign.

Crisis management, they called it. Damage control, really.

The university’s legal team handed me a stack of talking points, all carefully curated to imply that the kiss under the national spotlight was the beginning of our relationship.

To ignore months of locker room tension and our secret weekend away.

Or all of the times I’d been balls deep in Jackson.

Just one innocent, spontaneous kiss after winning the national title.

It’s laughable. Who would believe that? But I played the part.

Sat under studio lights, shook hands with reporters, wore my best watch and my most remorseful smile.

Executed every interview with a flawless script and a little bit of charisma.

Not too stiff, but not too casual. The perfect balance of regret and human vulnerability.

I performed well enough to keep my title as head coach. Even though a lot of anchors were skeptical, it made for a good story. “ Head coach and quarterback unexpectedly kiss under the euphoria of winning the big one. ”

But the real victory? Was knowing that the whole time I stood in front of the cameras, pretending that I’d accidentally kissed him—mistakenly jumpstarting a relationship.

Jackson was waiting for me at home. Wrapped in my hoodie, sprawled across my couch, and grinning like a cocky bastard at every one of those interviews.

Waiting for me to spread him open the moment I walked through the door.

T he awkward conversation? Yeah, that came a few days after the national kiss. Sitting across from my parents at their kitchen table, the same one I’d done homework on in high school. Jackson beside me, holding my hand under the table, his thumb tracing slow circles on my sweaty palm.

My parents were nice about it. Supportive, even. But oh-so confused. My dad blinked sluggishly, as if he was trying to work through an equation that didn’t quite add up. “So... you’re saying you’re not gay , but you’re in love with a man?”

Jackson squeezed my hand tighter.

I nodded. “Yeah. I didn’t expect it. Not in a million years. But it’s real. We love each other.”

My mom tilted her head. “But you were married. To a woman. You have three kids.”

I offered a half-smile. “I know. And I loved Maggie. I really did. But... loving Jackson doesn’t take that away. It’s not either-or. It just... is.”

My parents didn’t get it. But hell, at least they tried.

My mom boiled water for some green tea. My dad made vague grunts and muttered “huhs” as if trying to decode a foreign language. They weren’t angry and didn’t disown me. They just sat there, a little stunned, asking clumsy questions like, “So are you bisexual now? Is that a phase or a lifestyle?”

Jackson stayed quiet for most of it. Let me steer the conversation. But when my dad finally looked at him and said, “You make him happy?”

Jackson nodded. “I’d do anything for him.”

My dad stared at him for a lengthy moment, then let out a long breath. “Alright. Guess that’s all I really needed to hear.”

It wasn’t perfect, but it was a hell of a good start for my seventy-year-old parents.

D raft night came fast. We sat on the edge of our seats, Jackson’s hand in mine, sweaty and anxious. The wait didn’t last long. “ With the first overall pick in the draft… the Minnesota Lumberjacks select… Jackson Hicks, quarterback, Lake University. ”

The room exploded, the girls, Austin and Charlie all screaming. I didn’t even realize I was on my feet until I was pulling him into my arms, lifting him halfway off the floor. He buried his face in my chest, laughing and crying at the same time.

“You did it,” I whispered against his blond hair. “Number one. I told you.” His phone buzzed nonstop—his agent screaming in my ear how he’d probably land the biggest rookie contract in history. But all I could see was my quarterback, now stepping into the biggest moment of his life.

A few picks later, it happened again.

“ With the 42nd pick in the draft… the Minnesota Lumberjacks select wide receiver Austin Schmidt… ”

I froze in disbelief. Jackson’s jaw nearly dropped to ground. “No fucking way,” Jackson muttered.

I stared at the screen, letting the words settle. “You’re gonna be teammates.”

Jackson blinked, then broke into a grin. “I’m gonna be launching passes to my boyfriend’s son .”

I groaned, rubbing my temples. “Don’t say it like that.”

From the hallway, Austin stepped into the room, phone still in his hand, the tail end of his congratulatory texts lighting up the screen. He looked stunned, but full of happiness.

“Good job, son,” I said, pulling him in without hesitation. “I’m proud of you.”

He nodded against my shoulder, his voice a bit hoarse. “Thanks, Dad.”

Then, without missing a beat, he pulled back, looked at Jackson, and added, “Just don’t overthrow me, Dad’s boyfriend .”

Jackson flushed red. “Oh God.”

I sighed. “This locker room’s gonna be a goddamn sitcom.”

Austin smirked. “Better get used to it. I’ll be open every play.”

Jackson grinned. “Then I’ll find you every time.”

And just like that, the strangest dynamic in the pro’s was born. A complicated mess of friends, family, and lovers.

J ackson was incredible with Alicia and Kay.

Patient and protective of them. Always ready to braid hair or referee a squabble over tablet time.

He helped them with their algebra homework, cheered them along at their ballet recitals, and made them laugh with joy in ways I hadn’t seen since before the divorce. They utterly adored him.

Called him “Jax” at first. Then “Coach J.” Then out of nowhere, the girls asked, “ Can Jax come to our school family day ?”

That was the moment it clicked. We were a family. By June, there wasn’t a doubt in my mind.

On vacation in Costa Rica, just me and him. I waited until the perfect night. Sunset over the Pacific with the sky painted orange and lavender. I brought him down to the beach, toes buried in sand, my hand clenched around the little box in my pocket.

He looked out over the waves and squinted at me, suspicious. “You’re being weird. What’s going on?”

I didn’t say a word. Just dropped to one knee in the warm Costa Rican sand and pulled the plush black box from my pocket.

His mouth fell open, lips parted in shock, blue eyes wide.

“Jackson Hicks,” I said, voice steady but my heart fluttering in my chest, “Will you marry me?”

He gasped—then erupted. “Yes, yes, yes!”

Jackson launched himself into my arms, nearly knocking me off balance, sand flying everywhere as he screamed with joy. I caught him, wrapped my arms around him for the tightest hug of my life. Spinning us around in countless circles, before burying my face into his neck.

Kissed those perfect, infuriating, impossible lips I’d fallen in love with the moment I saw him.

Now we’re knee-deep in wedding planning. Destination or stay in Minneapolis? That’s the big question. Jackson wants someplace tropical. I’m leaning towards somewhere my parents can get to without needing Zofran and a passport.

Alicia’s already picked her dress. She insists on being the flower girl and made it very clear that nobody else is allowed to throw petals. “It’s my job,” she told Jackson with a deadly serious stare.

Kay says she’s in charge of the playlist. She’s got an entire Google doc titled Coach & Jax’s Epic Love Beats, and I’m terrified to open it. I’m almost certain it starts with Taylor Swift and ends with Swedish house music.

Jackson’s been handling the guest list. Meanwhile, I’ve been sweating over the vows. How do you put that kind of love into words without sounding like a damn Hallmark card?

Still, I know one thing. When the day comes—when he walks down that aisle in fitted black tux, standing there looking at me with that cocky grin and those stupidly blue eyes—it’s going to be the best day of my life.

Oh yeah, Jackson’s dad? He’s out of the picture.

No fucking way was he going to be invited to our wedding.

No dramatic confrontation or reconciliation.

I think the national kiss sent him a clear message.

Jackson stopped answering his calls after that.

Blocked his number and deleted all those voicemails he left him.

He didn’t need that kind of toxicity in his life. Jackson only deserved the best. And guess what, his nightmares finally stopped. No more waking up in a cold sweat. No more pacing around his apartment at three in the morning, haunted by his father’s voice screaming that he wasn’t good enough.

Jackson still has to prove himself with the Minnesota Lumberjacks.

Number one pick or not, the pro’s don’t hand out starting positions just because you won a national title.

Every guy in that locker room was a star somewhere.

Everyone’s bigger, faster, smarter. And some of them?

They’d love nothing more than to see a fresh-faced rookie fail.

But Jackson’s got grit. He studies harder than anyone. Leads with that natural swagger that made him impossible to ignore back at Lake U. Still, he knows this isn’t college anymore. One bad game and they’ll be calling for the backup.

I’m here to support him and take care of him. To make sure that he always has someone to count on. Whether it’s pre-game nerves or post-game doubts, I’ll be waiting in the passenger seat, letting him take the wheel.

I’m no longer his coach, I’m his partner now.

The man who comes home to him after practice, not the one barking plays from the sidelines.

The one who rubs his shoulders after a tough scrimmage.

Who holds him when the pressure creeps in late at night.

Who reminds him, again and again, that he’s more than the media hype or the draft pick label.

I’m here to anchor him, to help him earn that starting spot. When he does, I’ll be on the sideline cheering him and Austin on. Watching the man I love throw to my son on Sundays.

The End.