Page 1 of Coach’s Son (Twin Cities #2)

Drew

You know that feeling when you’ve lured someone into your bed and you can see the fear in their eyes, torment tangled with fraught hunger?

That’s the Goldilocks zone. Nummy as the creamy custard bleeding out of a freshly fried Bismarck, piping hot from the fryer.

The viscous custard melting away on the tip of my tongue as it breaks down.

Bit by bit. Doesn’t matter if it’s some blonde damsel from the hotel bar or a poor sod in the back alley swearing blind they’re not into me.

That frantic, drumming heartbeat sprinting beneath their skin, pulsing under my palms, exposes the truth their mouths can’t admit.

They want me. They ache to slobber up the salt on my skin. Whether it's behind a dumpster with their trousers around their ankles or bent ninety degrees over the edge of my kitchen counter.

The galloping thuds are a beautiful sound—reminiscent of black mares trampling across the Earth under the midnight moon.

Heavenly hymns pattering to my eardrums. Evidence that agony and desire can exist in the same gasp.

Their despair and ache are solely for me.

I make them convulse, make them question what is going to happen to their very existence, what led them to this profound moment, shackled to my delight.

Sweat beads on their temples, veins bulging on overdrive.

Glossiness overtakes their vision. Their lips parting wide in anticipation of my blissful touch.

Wide enough to envision the plea of desperation jolting down through their core.

Forcing them to question whether it’s terror or desire gorging them apart.

Devouring every fabric of their internal matrix, until they cry for me to answer the paradox ripping their universe apart.

I see the world through their eyes, whether they are ice blue or a peculiar shade of hazel.

Pupils dilate all the same, incapable of telling a lie.

They aren’t sure to be afraid of the ropes dangling in my bedroom or whether to savour the fact that I’ve chosen them.

Their bodies cramp between flight or surrender, every nerve down to their tippy-toes screaming to run while their hearts beg them to stay.

No one can resist Drew Evans. By the time I’ve had my go, they’re heaving, begging, sloppy for another taste. It’s bloody pathetic, but admittedly I love it. Fucking gets me there like nothing else can.

I adore their poor souls pleading for more, as if another round is going to cure world hunger and fix every broken part of them. As if it'll mend the scars they’ve endured.

I don’t blame them. I’m pretty fucking fit.

My sleeves have been cultivated over years.

Black snakes crawling up my arms. I’d bang myself too if I could.

I’m flawless in every way imaginable. Perfectly hung and always landscaped, a smoking fresh mullet, paired with perfect teeth. Pretty damn rare for a Brit.

You know the NHS doesn’t cover dental; most chaps in my year couldn’t smile in their official photos from how crooked their smiles were.

That brings me to my tosser of a brother. A piss-poor coward.

I’m not like my twin Charlie. He parades around with this image that he’s a golden boy. A rule follower. Kicker of the year, knight in shining plated armor. Truth is, he’s a fraud. A disgraceful sham of a brother, hiding behind posturing smiles and loyalty, but underneath it all, he’s weak.

If only everyone knew the truth of our childhood, they wouldn’t even compare us…

I’m the opposite. I don’t follow rules. I don’t need the world’s approval to validate me.

I take what I want, when I want it, and if that makes me the villain, so be it.

Charlie wants people to adore him. I want them to fear how much they crave me.

How much they squirm away from the snakes, but can’t help themselves at the same time.

Their mouths froth like bubbles in a tub.

You think it’s going to be intense. The sacred act.

Twenty minutes later, Blondy is drenched in a cesspool of her own filth, screaming like I’ve given her salvation.

Answered every prayer she’s ever muttered.

Meanwhile, I feel nothing. A black oblivion.

Only the same hollow pit gnawing at my gut, void of anything except contempt.

It's always the same. No one brings me satisfaction. I feel a sliver of joy, but only when I see the fright in their eyes.

“Alright, lass, time to hit the road,” I mutter, disgust seeping off every word.

She whines, clinging. “But… what about you?”

“I’m fine.” I grab my vape, blow a thick blue razz cloud straight into her face, watching her flinch as the smoke carries the truth—that she was never more than a distraction.

A terrible one at that. She doesn’t deserve for me to finish.

She sure as hell doesn't deserve my seed. “Now get the fuck out of my flat.”

“Okay, Mr. Grinch.” She huffs, scooping her clothes off the floor. “So much for St. Paul’s hottest bachelor.”

She’s right about one thing. I am the hottest and richest bachelor in St. Paul, probably in the entire Midwest if I'm being completely honest. But that doesn’t mean I’m the nicest. Niceness is for Charlie, for losers who need to be liked.

Me? I don’t give a fuck about her feelings.

She should be grateful she even got this far, that she had the privilege of touching me.

To indulge in the pleasure of stroking my abs.

Most women only get to scream my name from the stands while I’m on the ice, basking in the roar of the crowd.

Allowing me to feed on their desperation before I make the game-saving block.

Ms. Blondy stumbles out of my flat, stripper heels clacking down the hall like a walk of shame.

“Thank the Lord,” I mutter, slamming the door and twisting the lock shut. Last thing I need is her getting second thoughts about crawling back in. If she did, I might just have to toss her off the balcony and be done with it.

I don’t have a second to waste—my time is precious.

Turning toward the liquor cabinet—my altar—I grab a crystal glass etched with my initials.

I splash in a double pour of vodka. Only the finest for the hottest. Right from the United Kingdom—Britain’s best. I tip it back and let it carbonise down my throat, savouring the burn as it claws its way through my chest. Pain dressed up as pleasure.

My favorite emotion, second only to fear.

I wish I could feel it, so the next best thing is dealing it out.

Spreading it across the table like I’m running blackjack in some Prohibition-era casino, every hand a gamble with me holding the deck.

I watch who folds too early, who’s stupid enough to bluff, and who’s desperate enough to beg me for another hit, knowing it’ll bleed them dry.

Just like an addict chasing the dragon, only to blow their last vein. The last track giving way to defeat.

That’s the rush. The split second they realize the game was rigged from the start. That I was never playing fair. Drew Evans always comes out victorious.

I take another swig of my neat vodka and puff out an obnoxious cloud, hotboxing my flat. My world, my rules. If the sprinklers go off, so be it. That’s what insurance is for. I pay enough for the fricking premium. About time they pay out.

What a scam insurance companies are, you pay out your arse and your premium only goes up and up.

Those cheap bastards… at least I don’t have to worry about being sober for the next few months.

The offseason. Until October.

My favorite stretch of the year. No games, no travel, and no cameras up my bum begging for any part of me. I'm sure they'd sell photos of my feet if I let them.

Being off the ice gives me plenty of time to sharpen my teeth and wank off to my heart’s desire. Free time to torment my baby brother, to make sure he’s not getting too cozy or too bloody sappy with the latest love of his life.

Charlie thinks he’s found forever. Poor bloke, strutting around high on the world, as if he’s a duke who’s finally found his duchess.

Or maybe a B-list wide receiver in his case?

Makes me chuckle. I’ll show him how fragile forever is.

Shatter his glass fantasy into a trillion bloody pieces.

I’m the bastard who’ll keep him in check.

That’s what brothers are for, especially since we share the same nose, lips, and abs.

Forever isn’t real. It’s a made-up fairytale for children.

He should thank me. I’ve saved him from marrying so many fucking losers over the years. Even torpedoed his first so-called girlfriend.

Charlie is about as straight as a figure eight. His voice isn’t as alto, a tad more annoying than mine. Imagine a hyena in the realms of puberty, shrieking how marvelously they can kick some leather. That’s Charlie.

Back in our formative years, I’d catch him staring at the lads a tad too long. Eyes locked on their groins and their behinds, painfully obvious what he was fishing for.

I kept my mouth shut about it back then for the sake of brotherly love. Or maybe I was clever enough to save it for blackmail. Either way, it didn’t take him long to come out and embrace his lifestyle once he hit the pros. Golden boy finally giving himself permission to shine.

Doesn’t bother me none, I’m happy to dabble with both teams. Why limit yourself? As long as they’re whimpering under me, I don’t give a toss if they’re wearing work boots or glass slippers. I can't say no to a carpenter's fit arse arched over the hardwood or a Cinderella mopping the floor.

Because in the end, everyone breaks the same once I’ve got a few ropes around their limbs.

My father is a terrible man, but he taught me one thing: you take what you want.

What the world owes me.

I can’t wait to meet his new little love bird.

Get close enough to breathe in his nerves, to whisper filth in his ear while Charlie’s not looking.

Leave shadows in the cracks of his golden facade, remind him that the world he’s clinging to is nothing but smoke and mirrors.

I don’t even know the lad’s name yet, but I already know the truth: he isn’t good enough for my brother. No one ever is.

They never want Charlie for Charlie. They want the status and glitter that comes with being tied to the best kicker in the league.

They’re all parasites, bleeding him dry one smile and martini at a time.

And Charlie, poor sweet Charlie, is too blinded by his own need to be loved to see it.

Picture a kitten without milk or its mother, meowing for the slightest morsel of attention.

Pitiful and desperate, am I right?

So, it falls to me. I’m the one who must protect him—by burning the fantasy to the ground before it takes root, setting the luscious vines on fire before they thicken like concrete. I’ll ruin his lad. Shred every chimaera, every golden promise, until all that’s left is the futile truth.

If Charlie’s heart is going to break, it’ll be under my hands. That’s the least he deserves. I can’t allow him to forget about me. He never cared about me when we were children and I intend to never allow him to forget what he owes me.

I’ll peel back the shine, strip his lad down to his rawest edges, show him what festers beneath all that blind devotion and pretty-boy charm.

I’ll dig until I find the cracks, and then I’ll pry them wide open.

By the time I’m finished, Charlie won’t be staring at some golden forever.

He’ll be staring at a wreck—his wreck. A trembling cheater who can’t meet his eyes without remembering how exquisite it felt to fall to the heathen.

That’s mercy, in my book. Malice dressed up as love, charity-wrapped in the truth no one else is brave enough to give him.

I'll be the one to drive the shank through his heart. Show him that dear old Drew hasn't forgotten his sins.

I'm the only one ruthless enough to prove forever is nothing but flimsy porcelain waiting to be thrown against the floor.

I'll show him how much reality stings. How much it can really burn…

I want him to suffer the agony of a million wasps injecting their venom simultaneously around his heart. The pain of a thousand sins that need to be repaid in gut-wrenching screams. For him to be lashed with endless nightmares. To see him weep at my feet, begging me to stop my malignant crusade.

To experience a sliver of what I endured, while he slept at ease. While I was tortured across the hallway…

My mouth salivates, picturing his eyes as he witnesses his loss. His lad in my sheets, branded to my liking. Golden tears pooling in my brother's eyes, his chest quivering as he loses control.

He's too much of a pussy to do anything about it. He knows I'll smack him one in the jaw if he so much thinks about stopping me.

I drag in a puff, blowing out the vapor into the darkness of the night. Horns blaring and innocent couples strolling beneath me. The distant roar of the Mississippi echoing to my balcony. So many potential victims…

My nostrils whiff in their frailness. Their desire to please me. But I've got my target set.

I think the lad’s name might be Asteroid? What kind of bum-fuck name is that? His parents better be astronomers or some shit, because that’s a bloody miserable way to live.