Page 3 of Coach’s Pass (Twin Cities #1)
Jackson
I stumble into the bar, vision blurry as my head races with dozens of conflicting thoughts. I feel torn apart, but free at the same time. As if Alexia cut the last frayed rope that was holding me back.
Ralph’s is our go to spot for cheap beer and a greasy appetizer. A budget friendly place to fill your stomach while getting a decent buzz on. And conveniently a great place to drown out a heartache with a few pitchers of whatever’s on tap.
I slide into the corner booth and slam right into Dylan, our team’s gigantic center and easily the biggest guy on campus.
He’s out and proud with his sexuality, which I’ve always respected.
Yet, he stills maintains this rigid aura of masculinity.
Kind of paradoxical to me, but I usually didn’t ask questions. But tonight? I don’t give a fuck
“Jesus, Hicks,” he grunts, scooting over an inch. “Rough day?”
“Something like that,” I mumble, grabbing the pitcher and filling a glass to the brim. “So Dylan, what’s it like being with a guy?”
“I don’t know. It’s chill. But inside? Feels unreal,” He laughs with a nonchalant shrug. “I’m surprised you asked. Didn’t peg you as the curious type.”
I take a long sip of my beer. Maybe I should give it a try… “Do you and your boyfriend tie each other up, you know for the down and gritty?”
Dylan nearly spits out his beer. “Damn straight to the point, huh?” He wipes his mouth with back of his hand “We’ve dabbled, he loves that shit, makes him hard as a rock when I even mention it.
But just depends on the mood.” He took a big gulp of his brew, releasing a tremendous belch.
If he didn’t say anything, I wouldn’t have guessed in a million years that Dylan swung for the other team.
“Why do you ask? Thinking about switching teams?”
I shrug, trying to swallow the lump in my throat. “Just wondering. Trying to understand what the hype is about.”
Twirling the beer in my glass, watching the foam settle. Am I the problem between me and Alexia? It’s starting to feel that way. Maybe I’ve just let myself be too vanilla—too damn rigid. Constrained by the molding of my father, always doing what he expected of me. Never deviating from his standard.
But what has that ever gotten me?
Heartache and a shattered ego. I’ve been playing it safe for too long. Afraid to color outside the lines. Terrified that what I want might not match what my father expected of me.
Who would it hurt if I explored some of my own desires?
I glimpse over at Dylan; he looks completely relaxed. Comfortable in his own skin. I envy that.
“What else do you guys do?” I ask, staring up at the spinning ceiling fan. Spreading myself out in the booth. Grunting in my throat. One of those classic straight-guy power poses.
Dylan smirks, picking up on my shift in position. “You sure you wanna know QB? Could change everything that you know about sex…”
I snort, shifting again, my jeans suddenly tighter than they were when I walked in. “Relax. I’m not about to turn gay overnight.”
“Didn’t say you were,” Dylan shrugs. “The right guy can make you rethink the whole playbook.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, taking another swig of beer. “Just curious. Figured it wouldn’t hurt to ask.”
He leans back into the booth, “Curiosity’s how a lot of guys start. You’d be surprised how many straight dudes want to know what it’s like to let go a little. I’ve had a couple threesomes with guys from the team.”
I swallow a big gulp, the beer suddenly hitting harder on an empty stomach. Eagerly waiting for Dylan to continue.
Dylan shifts closer to me, stretching his burly arm against my shoulder.
“Typically, after a long day we will sixty-nine each other to see where things go, sometimes it leads my tongue right to his bum.” Dylan grins, waving for another pitcher of beer.
“Love eating him out. Makes him squirm all over my beard.”
“I love making him whimper,” he adds. “Seeing him lose control, knowing I’m the reason for it. Whine and beg me to go further with this bad boy.” He stuck out his girthy tongue. A hell of a muscle.
I’d never even considered that guys might do that—lick each other’s hairy rims. I felt my cock twitch in my jeans. What the fuck. Christ, why is this turning me on?
“That definitely sounds interesting.” I mutter, letting out a laugh to keep it cool. Hoping the table would hide my boner aching uncomfortably against my denim jeans.
Jesus, when did I get this hard?
Dylan leans back against the booth, his right arm still lingering close to me. “You sure? Cause you look kind of intrigued.”
My stomach growls audibly with hunger and anxiety. “Bro, I’m just trying to get to know you more,” I say, laughing awkwardly, trying to steer us back into safe territory.
“You know my ass pretty damn well. Always got your hand back their waiting for some leather,” He rumbles, before letting out a raucous laugh. “Jackson, I’m just fucking with you. I know you are a straight shooter. Just giving you a hard time.”
I let out a sigh of relief, praying that it didn’t sound too obvious. “Hey, can you let Ryan and Austin know I’m not feeling too hot? I’ll catch them tomorrow.”
“Yeah dude, I got you. See you at practice,” Dylan mumbles, mouth half-full, stuffing French fries into his face. As if the conversation had never happened.
Tell that to my throbbing cock.
Probably just blue balls. I haven’t cum in nearly two weeks. A personal record, which is saying something for a guy like me. Thank God I have my own place.
One of the perks of being a starting QB—Lake University covers my apartment on their dime. Not just any place either. Mine was the damn penthouse. Top floor, twenty stories up with pristine views of downtown Minneapolis. And a balcony big enough to host half of the team on it.
I kick off my sneakers and flop onto the mattress. Pull out my phone. Maybe I should do some more research on Austin’s dad. AKA—check out everything that pops up on Google.
Okay Brad Schmidt. Let’s see what you’re hiding…
I type his name into the search bar and hit enter. Coach Brad Schmidt. First result is his official Gulf State University profile. Second is an old ESPN article from Gulf State’s conference championship. Third is a photo gallery.
Jesus Christ, Austin’s dad could be an over-forty model.
Looked even better in these photos than when I saw him briefly at the press conference.
Tanned by the gulf sun, a lusciously full black beard speckled with silver.
A full head of hair slicked back, matching his beard’s speckling.
Tall and muscular too. Hell, he might even be taller than me.
And the way his tight-ass coach’s polo outlined every indent on torso? Fuck me. Biceps large enough to bench me effortlessly. Pecs obviously hard. Forearms of pure muscle. Why is Austin’s dad so sexy?
Feeling my prick throb and grow again, I let out a frustrated groan.
No way. I’m not getting a boner to Austin’s dad.
This just isn’t right. I throw my phone down, closing my eyes.
But I couldn’t get his picture out of my head for some reason.
My brain keeping his image on a constant rewind. Like a slideshow I can’t close.
Wondering how hairy he would be underneath his polo. Would his hair trail down to his groin? How deep his voice would be.
I might have a case of daddy issues. Scratch that—I definitely do.
When your old man raises you more like a prized racehorse than a son, it kind of rewires your whole idea of affection.
Mine only ever showed interest when I was breaking passing records or stacking trophies on his shelf of Hicks Family Glory .
Love? That wasn’t a part of the training regimen.
He didn’t give a damn if I was tired or in pain.
His idea of parenting was barking drills from the bleachers and telling me to stop throwing “like a faggot.” By the time I hit middle school, I stopped expecting fatherly hugs or kind words of encouragement.
I learned to settle for a “Good job son” if I brought home a trophy.
Or when I told him that I won my starting high spot as a freshman, “I’d expect nothing less.
” It was pointless trying to impress him. But God, I still tried.
So yeah, now I crave the attention from older men when they actually give a shit about me.
Coach Henderson? He was never shy with praise.
Always gave me the kind of validation I never got at home.
Truly a genuine guy, hope he’s sober these days.
Nothing ever happened between us, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t let a few of those buried thoughts linger longer than they should’ve.
And no, I haven’t gone to therapy about my daddy issues. What are they going to do? Tell me to find myself a strong silver daddy to cuddle me at night and validate my feelings? Yeah right, no one is rooting for a queer quarterback. Not in D1 football.