Page 7 of Coach’s Pass (Twin Cities #1)

Jackson

I jerk awake covered in sweat, sheets stuck to my slick body, pulse thrumming in my ears.

The dream starts sweet with Coach inside me.

Splitting me open for the first time with his cock.

Filling me in ways I’d only dared to imagine after feeling his bulge for the first time a few weeks ago.

But sweet dreams quickly turn into a nightmare.

Coach fades and my dad’s voice takes over.

I’m back in sixth grade, his yelling echoing through my skull.

“Throw harder, dammit!”

“Quit throwing like a pussy!”

“Stop your fucking cry!”

I choke on a sob, sniffling as I wipe my nose with the back of my hand. Pulling the covers tighter around me, trying to calm my breathing. But the tremble in my chest won’t go away. Not after hearing his voice.

Even if it was a dream, it felt too real. The way he used to stand in the bleachers, barking at me like I was some delinquent soldier instead of a twelve-year-old kid. Every throw either not fast enough or too far off target. And God help me if I broke down in tears.

Pressing my palms into my eyes, I’m done crying over my terrible excuse of a father. I’m not that twelve-year-old kid anymore. Twenty-two, a grown-ass man. Starting quarterback of a top-ten team. ESPN’s darling draft prospect.

Yet, none of that mattered to him.

I roll over and stare up at the ceiling, trying not to think of the boner between my legs. Morning wood, still lingering from the first dream. Why did I have to have an emotional breakdown on game day of all fucking days. Only twelve of these were guaranteed in a season.

I groan, shoving my face into my wet pillow. My cock pulsing beneath me. Desperate for Coach’s slightest touch. Just a finger would release me from my agony. Or even some praise. Call me a good boy . Give me an ounce of validation.

My stomach twists in a knot. I shouldn’t want this. Not from any guy, but especially not from Austin’s father. Jesus, if Austin found out what happened between us, he would lose his mind.

Shit. What time is it… I reach for my phone, tapping the screen until it wakes up. 09:58

I hover my thumb over Coach Schmidt’s contact. He said to text him if I needed anything. I almost text him. Something chill like Morning, Coach. You up? Come on over and fuck me?

My cock twitches at the thought of sending it. I stop myself. I’m not that impulsive.

Instead, I tap open my camera roll. Scroll until I find the picture I took of him during film review.

Snuck it while he was focused on adjusting the projector.

His forearms veins bulging and sleeves ripping around his biceps.

Specks of silver in his beard reflecting the light.

His polo gapes at the collar, dark chest hair visible beneath the undone buttons.

I know I shouldn’t have it. Deleting it feels impossible.

My hand slips under the covers, still slick with the mess of my sweat. I stroke myself slowly, biting my lower lip as I stare at the photo. Not even two minutes in and I’m panting again. Whispering his name in my head. Coach Schmidt… fuck me like you did in my dream…

But then I hear his voice again.

“Quit your fucking crying. You aren’t some faggot.”

I feel my cock go limp, mood officially killed. As if my father poured a bucket of ice straight onto my chest from four hundred-miles away.

I roll over and scream into my pillow, biting into the foam.

My cock begging for attention. My heart aching even more.

Coach would never talk to me like that. Never humiliate me the way my dad used to.

Brad is commanding, but well intentioned.

I wanted Coach to use me—love me in all the ways my father couldn’t.

U nfortunately, my father’s coming into town today for the Platte State game. I haven’t been sleeping much the past few nights. Just the thought of seeing him is making me spiral.

Before my mother died of colon cancer, back when I was a toddler, people say he used to be kind. I barely remember her face. Just framed photos in our living room in Bemidji. Smiling images of a woman who feels more akin to a stranger than a mother.

What I do remember is my dad’s voice. Always enraged. Screaming at the neighbors to shut their dog up or he’d blow its head off with his shotgun.

That was my lovely childhood. No sweet lullabies or bedtime stories. Just constant fear.

Whenever I broke down in tears as a kid, I ran to my Aunt Katrina for comfort. She’s the reason I’m still here. Filling in as the mother I never had. Comforting me as I cried onto her shoulders.

That reminds me—I should text her.

Me : Hey Auntie, are you still coming into town with my dad?

Katrina : Of course, honey. I wouldn’t miss your season opener. Love you and see you

Katrina : PS: I made special reservations for lunch at Mill 3

Truth is, they did have the creamiest wild rice soup in the Twin Cities.

And I really do love my Aunt Katrina. If she wasn’t going to be there, I wouldn’t survive lunch with my father.

I have no idea how she managed to sit in a car with him for six hours straight.

That would be my personal hell. Six hours of getting torn down.

“Take the goddamn hit.” Or, “That was a pussy throw. Do fucking better.” He’s never once had something kind to say. Not a single word of praise in my life.

Maybe he was just bitter he never made it to the top.

A hometown hero in Bemidji, sure—led the team to a state championship.

But the best scholarship he landed was D3.

He didn’t have the talent to go any further.

So, he funneled that resentment into me.

Pushed me every damn day of my childhood.

Broke me down, physically and emotionally.

Good riddance to all of it. My personal goal? Never step foot in that house again.

Fuck it’s almost time. I whip out my phone to call an Uber to North Loop.

A cushy neighborhood that used to be an old industrial hub on the north side of downtown Minneapolis.

All of the old grain warehouses were converted to either up and coming restaurants, spin studios, or overpriced loft condos.

My phone chirps.

Uber app: Your driver Jake will be there in 15 minutes. Please be ready for pickup.

I grab my keys, wallet, and shove my phone into my pocket.

Step into the elevator, taking a long breath as anxiety starts to coil in my chest. It climbs higher the lower I go, each floor drop ratcheting the tension tighter.

By the time the doors slide open into the lobby, I’m already sweating. My phone chirps again.

Uber app : Your driver Jake has arrived in a white Toyota Camry.

I spot the sedan at the curb and climb in, sinking into the plush seats.

“Mill & Beam, huh? Heard that place is pretty solid,” Jake says a little too enthusiastic for my taste.

“Yeah. They’ve got good soup,” I mumble, not in the mood for small talk.

“Oh yeah? Good to know. My missus loves a good soup,” he says, grinning as he slides on his sunglasses.

We pull onto Washington Ave, crossing the Mississippi River. Water gushing along the banks after a heavy rainfall last night. Before I know it, he pulls us up to Mill & Beam. The moment I’ve been dreading.

“Thanks,” I mutter, handing him a five for the ride. At least he picked up on the hint and dropped the small talk.

Outside the restaurant, the sidewalk’s mostly empty. Just one guy walking two golden retrievers, their tails wagging like life’s perfect. No stress, no pressure. Just simple, happy vibes. I wish I knew what that felt like.

I step in through the massive doorway, held up by old timber.

The smell of the restaurant is enticing.

A rich garlic cream aroma whiffing through my nostrils.

My stomach growls, having skipped breakfast. Or was it my nervous growls?

It doesn’t matter. I stroll into the restaurant.

There they are. Sitting in the corner, they already have an appetizer of kimchi garlic wings in front of them.

Of course he didn’t wait. My dad has never embraced the concept of considering others.

My fuckface of a father and my sweet Aunt Katrina.

Complete polar opposites. I have no idea how they are brother and sister.

She waves the moment she sees me, that warm smile of hers cutting through the tension.

Meanwhile, my dad doesn’t even look up from the menu.

As if what he’s ordering matters more than his only son showing up.

I stroll over to the table, putting on my fake smile. Maybe today he’ll be different. Nicer or gentler with his words. Offer me some kind words in prep for the game. Just one kind word. That’s all I want.

“Hey boy.” My father glances down at his watch. “It’s 12:04. Why the hell are you late? I raised you better than this.”

I sputter, but the words won’t come out. My cheeks flushing red with heat. No “ Hey son, good to see you” . Just straight to being an asshole.

“Gerald, be kind to your son,” Aunt Katrina says gently, catching the embarrassment written all over my face. “We’re here to support him. City traffic’s hard to predict. It’s not like Bemidji, where rush hour means a farmer hauling hay down the road.”

“Well, if traffic’s so predictable, maybe try leaving on time next time,” he grumbles, eyes still locked on the menu.

I swallow against the dryness in my throat, “Anyways, thank you both for coming down for the game. It means a lot to me.”

“Of course honey, your father and I are both here to support you,” my aunt says as she leans in to give me a kiss on the cheek.

Her embrace makes me flutter inside, a cozy and enchanting feeling. And just for a second, I let myself dwell on what it might’ve been like to have a mother growing up. To have one parent that wasn’t verbally abusive.

“You been studying Platte’s defense?” my father questions. “They should be a piece of cake.”

“Yes, dad,” I mutter.

Did he think I was an idiot? That I didn’t watch any film beforehand?

He scoffs under his breath, still not looking at me. “Well, don’t get cocky. That’s how you lose games. Thinking you’ve already won before the whistle even blows.”

I grind my teeth. My nails dig into my thigh under the table.

It doesn’t matter that I’ve been studying Platte State’s defense since June. Or that I broke every school record he ever dreamed of. In his eyes, I’m still some dumb kid with something to prove. Still not good enough.

Aunt Katrina senses it. She reaches across the table, resting her hand gently on mine. “I saw your interview last week, honey. You handled that reporter so well. Calm and collected. Just like your mom used to be.”

A flash of warmth hits my chest.

Then my father snorts. “Media’s easy when they toss you softballs. Try getting grilled after a pick-six. That’s when we’ll see what you’re really made of.”

I glare at him, my appetite vanished. The chicken wild rice soup arrives. I don’t even bother with it.

He jabs a kimchi wing into his mouth, sauce dripping down his fingers. “You should bulk up more, by the way. Your throws are clean, but your arm’s looking thin this season. Are you even lifting on off-days?”

That’s it, I’m done with this fucking lunch. It’s always a mistake trying to get through his brick of a head. I knew I shouldn’t have come.

I push back my chair, the legs scraping hard against the polished concrete floor. Everyone in the restaurant stares and I don’t give a fuck.

“I train every damn day. I break records every season. And all you ever do is sit there and talk shit like I’m a goddamn disappointment.”

He doesn’t even raise an eyebrow. “Watch your tone.”

“I’ve been watching it my whole life.”

Katrina reaches for me, voice soft and pleading. “Jackson, please—”

“I’ll see you at the game,” I huff, grabbing my jacket. “But I’ve got plans with the team after.”

I turn and storm out the restaurant, my heart pulsing in my throat. My head’s in a full on tizzy. Thoughts crashing into each other and nothing makes sense. I couldn’t play like this. Coach Schmidt might be able to calm me down.

I pull out my phone, thumbs trembling.

Me: I don’t know if I can play today.

The message sends. I stare at the screen, instantly regretting it. I shouldn’t have texted him. He’s probably in a staff meeting. Or going over plays. Or too busy to deal with a panicked quarterback having a meltdown over his father.

But then—

Coach Schmidt: Where are you? Tell me where you are, son.

That word. Son. It punches the air right out of my chest. I blink, my throat tightening. My dad’s never once called me that without it sounding like a threat.

Me: Mill & Beam. I’m outside. Just left lunch with him.

Coach Schmidt: Stay there. I’m on my way.

I sink down onto the curb, elbows on my knees, trying to breathe through the chaos in my chest. Praying he’s not mad when he gets here.

A few minutes pass. Then I hear it. Tires crunching along the curb. A black Tahoe rolls to a stop in front of me. The passenger window lowers. “Get in,” Coach says.

His voice is strong and confident, but not angry.

I slip into the passenger seat, “Thank you for picking me up…,” I mumble, letting out a sigh of relief.

Coach Schmidt keeps his focus on the road, hands firmly on the wheel. His cologne whiffing through the cabin.

“You needed someone,” he says promptly. “I’m your Coach. It’s my job to take care of my players. Especially my star quarterback.”

We drive back in silence, I couldn’t help myself but to appreciate his physique as he drove. Forearms flexing as he turns the wheel. Bulge jiggling in his groin at every sharp turn. Thinking about Coach is the only thing that takes my mind off my father.

My apartment building comes into view. Coach pulls into the loading zone, turning on the hazards. “Alright Hicks, see you at 3 at the stadium?”

“I don’t know if I can play today. My headspace is so fucked up,” I mutter, burying my face into my hands.

“Come on Jackson, is there anything I can do to help? We need you out there today. ESPN Reporters are begging to talk you.”

“Can you help me up to my apartment?” I ask.

“Of course, whatever you need from me.” He rumbles in a sweet manner.

We stroll into the elevator, starting our ascent. “Thank you again for picking me up. Sometimes my dad just makes me shut down.”

Coach nods his head, flashing me a smile. The elevator dings, it’s my floor. “Let me walk you to your door.”