Page 5 of Coach’s Pass (Twin Cities #1)

Jackson

L ast night’s dream is stuck in mind. Drowning me in its lusty fog. The last thing I remember is Austin’s dad, a walking silver fox fantasy, doing things to me that were definitely not straight. Vivid things. Leaving me to wake up with a rock-hard cock and drenched in my sweat.

I’m supposed to be focusing on my footwork and studying defenses.

Not having erotic fantasies about an older guy.

Let alone my new head coach and best bro’s father.

What is happening to me? Maybe the health department is trialing something in the water.

Some hormone-twisting, boundary-blurring shit. Because no way is this normal.

I skip the shower, brush my teeth like a madman, spitting foam into the sink as I yank open the drawer for deodorant.

I grab a granola bar off the counter and rush out the door.

Patiently waiting for the elevator. I tap the button three times.

It would take me at least ten minutes to sprint down the stairs.

One of the few disadvantages of being in the penthouse.

Ding!

I dash inside and mash the button for the first floor. Frantically slamming the close door button. “Come on, come on…”

The doors creak shut, only to ding open again on the very next floor.

And the one after that. “Jesus Christ,” I mutter under my breath, squeezing into the corner as more residents pile in, chattering about dog parks and protein smoothies.

It’s like the entire building decided to take this one elevator.

By the time I step into the lobby, it’s been a full fifteen minutes.

I check the time: 07:59. I’m utterly screwed.

I sprint onto the practice turf, the whole team staring at me. Looking down at my watch: 08:09. “Hey guys, sorry. Overslept last night,” I mutter, trying to brush it off with a smile. No one else is smiling. I scan the field, anxiously looking around for Coach Schmidt.

There he is. Right on the sideline, a tall son of a bitch.

Maybe 6’6’’? Towering over the assistant coaches.

Arms crossed, sporting black sunglasses, looking pissed.

Even sexier than his photos I dreamed about.

Strong pecs straining against his Lake U polo.

A bundle of chest hair is peaking out. Salt-and-pepper beard neatly trimmed.

Of course, I’m the dumbass who shows up late on Coach Schmidt’s first day.

“Hicks! Why the hell are you late to practice?” Coach Schmidt shouts, voice booming across the turf. The whole roster staring at me and then back at him.

I froze, utterly intimidated, my palms sweaty. “Uhhh… Sorry Coach. Alarm didn’t go off.”

Coach Schmidt strides towards me. Radiating his powerful silver fox energy. Becoming stronger with each step closer. My chest flutters. More than it ever did on gameday.

God. What would happen if I told him the truth? That I didn’t sleep because he was wrecking me in my dreams? Absolutely destroying any shred of straight boy denial that I had left. I’m sure that would go over real well at eight in the morning.

“Wholly unacceptable. You can’t even make it to practice on time for my first day? How do you think we are going to win a national title?” He hollers, his body angrily vibrating with every word he releases.

“You better get your shit together, because no starting spot is guaranteed,” he snaps, stepping even closer. “I don’t give a fuck if you were a five-star prospect or if you were the best QB in the nation last year. That’s the past. My team is looking towards the future.”

Speechless, I stand there, nodding my head.

Trying to hold back my mess of emotions just as my father taught me to.

Guilt, shame, and even arousal. The fucked-up part is I love how he is scolding me.

Wanting him to punish me. It shouldn’t turn me on, but it-so definitely does.

Coach Schmidt could tear me apart right now and I’d say thank you.

“Yes sir,” I mutter stoically. Keeping my emotions under lock and key.

Watching the flames burn in Coach Schmidt’s eyes as they hover on me. My skin itching under the spotlight.

“Since your captain decided to leisurely stroll in nine minutes late, the whole team gets to do nine laps.” Coach Schmidt roars, everybody moving at once. Afraid that he would summon a whip.

Hell, I didn’t think Austin’s dad would be like this. I expected a guy glued to a clipboard and his headset—not a real fucking alpha. With a voice that makes you scamper away like a dog with its tail in between in its legs.

Or in my case, makes your dick throb. Daddy issues really fuck you up. I need to get a grip. Before I get benched for popping a tent mid-practice.

I sprint around the field, catching up to Austin. He throws me a dirty glare. “You really had to piss off my dad on his first day?” he mutters between breaths.

“Didn’t plan on it,” I huff back. “Elevator decided to stop at every goddamn floor.”

Austin shakes his head. “You better fix it, man. He’s not gonna go easy on you just ‘cause we’re tight.

He just wants to make an impression bro.

But seriously—would it kill you to show up on time?

Looks pretty bad to the freshman if their senior QB can’t stop hitting the snooze on their alarm,” Austin jeers, picking up his pace.

“It’s just one day man. Sorry I’m not perfect.” I grind my jaw.

“What about the two days last week?” Austin snaps. “If you are serious about winning a title, you better act like it.”

I bite the inside of my cheek. He’s not wrong. Kind of pisses me off hearing it from him, not all of us had a normal, healthy father growing up.

My father was an absolute prick. Always pressuring me to go harder, throw until my arm went limp.

“Work through the pain son! It’ll make you stronger.

” I could remember him shouting in his stupid voice.

He’s coming down from Bemidji to visit for the Platte State game. I’m already dreading his arrival.

Did he help me become the best QB in all of college football?

Probably. But sometimes I envied those marketing majors.

All they have to worry about is showing up to class twelve hours a week.

The rest of the time, they’re pounding drinks at frat parties and getting blacked out at our home games. Must be nice.

I summon something deep inside me to be the bigger person, swallowing my pride and ego just this once, “Yeah dude you are right. I gotta stop making excuses. Last night I just had some crazy dreams. But I’m going to work through them.”

Austin shoots me a surprised smirk but doesn’t say anything. We keep jogging in silence, cleats hitting the turf in sync. Only seven more laps to go.

“ N ext time someone is late, everyone will be doing two laps for every minute. This program isn’t going to settle for mediocre standards. The new standard is superb. Understood?” Coach Schmidt drills into the air. Everyone, including the assistant coaches nodding their heads in understanding.

I must admit, Coach Schmidt looks irresistible when he’s angry.

The way his veins throbbed against his temple.

Sculpted cheekbones raising when he opened his mouth.

Bulge moving back and forth with each of his steps.

Commanding my undivided attention. Fuck, was he this hot in his twenties?

Or is the silver daddy thing messing with my head?

What am I even thinking. He’s twice my age. There was no way Austin’s dad could be gay, he has three kids for Christ’s sake. He could be bisexual. But I couldn’t help but imagine, would I be enough for a guy? Or would they end up cheating on me too—like Alexia and Samantha.

The rest of the practice is all red-zone and two-minute drills. I lock in. No more distractions. I show off for Coach Schmidt. Trying to make up for being late earlier. To show him that I’m not a complete dirtbag captain coasting along on pure talent. I don’t miss a single throw.

Some of the guys were obviously unhinged with nerves, dropping wide-open passes. Classic case of butter hands. Well, better now in practice than in conference play. A dropped open pass could get you benched for the rest of the game. Lake U didn’t have the luxury of playing amateurs.

Taking a long swig of water, I look up to see Coach Schmidt jogging toward me. “Good turn around today, Hicks. Didn’t know what was going to happen after your late entrance.”

My stomach flutters. “Yes sir. It won’t happen again Coach.”

His eyes linger up and down my body, making me wonder what the hell was going through his head.

“After you shower up, why don’t you come to my office? I have some plays drawn up that I was working on today,” Coach Schmidt says, jogging away before I could answer, off to chat with the other coaches.

Did he actually want to go over plays with me in private? Or is he thinking about something else entirely? Fuck if I knew. But either way, I was going.

When a man like him told you something, you listened.

You didn’t ask questions. You showed up.

Maybe it was the way I was raised. That unrelenting ache for a father’s approval that has been wired into me since I was old enough to hold a football.

An insatiable hunger that never goes away.

No matter how many trophies I brought home.

I want Coach Schmidt to see that. And fuck, maybe even call me a good boy. Something my own father wasn’t capable of.

I jog back to the locker room, peeling off my gear. Showering with the rest of boys. My headspace is fully occupied by sinful thoughts. Thoughts about Austin’s dad that I shouldn’t be having as he showers just feet away from me.

I scrub myself hard, letting the hot water scald away my guilt. Or at least try to. Making sure I clean every square inch of my body, from my armpits to my tippy toes. There’s no way I’m showing up to Coach Schmidt’s office smelling like a used jockstrap.

Whatever this meeting is about, it’s an opportunity to reset his first impression of me.