Page 18 of Coach’s Son (Twin Cities #2)

Austin

The forest is absent of feathered chirps, my feet snapping the twigs and padding the pine needles deeper into the earth.

I can’t help but look back at the sound of every breeze gliding through the canopy.

Making sure that no one is trailing me, that Drew isn’t stalking me from behind an enormous cottonwood, plotting to kidnap and blindfold me to bring me back to his lair full of God knows what kind of devilish trinkets.

It is a struggle to keep my eyes open this morning. I may have managed a couple hours at most. When you have to rest with one eye open it doesn’t allow for the best beauty sleep. Pair that with paranoia ringing through my skull like a telemarketer who won’t stop calling… well you get the idea.

My head swivels at every creak of the tamarack trees, the spongy ground hardly providing much foundation for their roots.

Earlier this morning, I swiped one of my father’s credit cards, buying a single-person kayak, large enough room to fit my bag and not much else.

The Boundary Waters are a slew of pristine wilderness, old-growth forest mixed with an endless number of sprawling lakes. Impossible to navigate by any means besides a canoe or kayak. A few packs of wolves roam the woods, but they are nothing to worry about compared to the real predator on my tail.

The air shifts with an ill wind. I couldn’t see him, but I know he’s on his way, like a bloodhound that won’t lose the scent. A madman with his target set on my back, crazed with the infatuation of sinking his teeth in my flesh.

But I’m not going to buckle. Not to his words, or his sinister touch. No matter how close he presses, no matter what tricks he uses to twist my body against me. I won’t give him that satisfaction. No way in fucking hell.

I’d rather watch him unravel, screaming in pure rage, than concede to his sinful fantasies. Better to let him choke on his own desire than feed it. Whatever he dreams of doing to me will stay locked in his head, rotting there, because I refuse to make his tormented reverie my reality.

My feet trudge along the swampy trail for what seems like hours under the ominous gloom of the sky.

Clouds threatening to unleash their droplets, their contour a heavy hue of gray.

My ears pick up the rumbles of thunder in the distance.

Not very welcoming conditions for my first day in the wilderness, to say the least.

I suppose I should set up camp, before I’m drenched in nature’s piss. My eyes stumble across an inviting clearing, large enough for my two-person tent, a fire pit already embellished in the ground with some decent-sized rocks.

Before I know it, my boy scout skills prove themselves handy, I pop the tent, starting a small fire in between the stones for a bit of warmth before the downpour wreaks havoc on my temperature.

Christ, I should have brought a book or a crossword, something to occupy my mind, instead of letting thoughts of him fester in my brain like a million abscesses harboring infection all at once.

My mind’s stuck in a labyrinth, trying to find my way out, but honestly a mouse would have a better chance than me.

How comical. I laugh at myself out loud, the sound serrated and crazed, like some lunatic imprisoned in an asylum. To imagine only days ago my biggest stressor was my father marrying Jackson. That felt catastrophic enough—world ending in itself.

To now being stalked by my boyfriend’s psycho twin brother. Oh, how the tables have turned.

When life throws you acid-soaked water balloons and they burst across your skin, eating your flesh alive, what else can you do but curl up and sob?

Perhaps shrivel into your insulated sleeping bag, praying for the faintest smidge of comfort, daydream that all of this will go away as I wander into fairyland.

As the tears stream down my cheekbones, the rain begins to spat against the canvas of the tent, resembling the shatters of bullets.

Winds increasing in ferocity, wailing savagely through the tree branches.

Timberwolves baying in the distance. A chorus that makes the whole wilderness feel complicit in my fear.

What did I do to deserve this? To deserve my very own stalker?

One that is irresistible in all physical aspects, but is a monster in mind and soul. But maybe his warmth would soothe my ache, how terrible could his arms be?

I take a swig from my water bottle. I could just be dehydrated, causing me to consider these delirious ideas. If I let the monster in, would he ever leave? Or would he scrounge for every morsel?

The spinning hamsters inside my head are disrupted by a novel smell, one that reeks of beasts.

Outside the tent I hear rustling, coordinated padding across the pine needles. Too light to be human feet and there’s many of them. Too gentle for a bear, in these woods it has to be timberwolves. A pack looking for their next meal.

Boy, are they going to be disappointed when they find out there’s not much blubber on me, just lean muscle.

Fuck Austin, there are literal wolves outside your tent, now is not the time for your stupid humor.

I slow my breathing, trying to gather my composure, except my pulse is galloping a million beats per minute—like a wildebeest trying to outrun a jackal.

Fear begins to set in, and all I have for my last supper is a peanut-free granola bar. Fuck me.

Sweat beads from every pore, plopping down from my armpits. Then I hear the growl. A primal, bone grinding sound and unmistakable. Must be the alpha wolf, sniffing for weakness. It wouldn’t take him long to find the lukewarm pile of it inside the tent, cuddling its sleeping bag like a bitch.

But what else could I do besides pray mercifully for the first time in my life?

I bet there’s four or five of them circling the tent, eager to sate their rumbling tummies.

Even if it is only one, I didn't exactly come equipped to slay wolves of the forest. It would be impossible to outrun them, even climb a tree. I’ve never done that before in my life and I don’t think I’ll magically pick up the talent in the nanosecond before they shred my ass to pieces.

I’m sorry Charlie. God, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have run away. I should have had the balls to tell you the truth about your brother, how much I wanted his disgusting dick, that I was over your sweetness. Tired of your sugar-sweet devotion that was giving me cavities, bordering on a root canal.

So now here I am, ready to meet an early grave, like the world’s worst camper. No eulogy or priest to bid me farewell, just a wolf’s snout gnawing at my thighs like a drumstick. A fitting exit for a coward. But I digress.

Maybe they’ll write a tribute to me in the front page of the newspaper: Pro wide receiver, son of Head Coach Brad Schmidt, mauled to death in a rare wolf pack attack. Sources say he was found zipped inside his sleeping bag resembling a koala clinging to its last patch of eucalyptus.

That would be quite a legacy to leave behind. Years of bruises, sweat, and tears culminating in a feast for the wolves. An ending that would surely make Drew snicker, while Charlie drowns the city of Minneapolis with his tears, filling all of the lakes to the brim.

Who would be a better lover, a silent lethal man that could penetrate your last defense with a glance or a golden charmer who’s ears are open for every minor gripe?

What a pathetic last thought. Maybe I deserve this.

I hear the wolves treading closer, ready to tear down the thin wall that stands between us. Their vicious growls increasing in volume, ravenous groans reverberating against the nylon, sending shivers through the shards my soul.

If only I would have climbed in the passenger seat, tasted Drew’s lips, allowing his venom to seep into my blood—I would live to see tomorrow.

See another sunset, or Jackson’s smart-ass grin.

Anything but the end, especially one ensured to be full of pain as they rip into my flesh, their sharp canines keen for every drop of my blood.

I hear a rip as one of the wolves paws at the tent with their sharpened claws, refusing to wait a second longer, their snarls more terrifying than ever.

The muscles of my heart are galloping, cardiac fibers preparing to tear from the stress.

That would be an infinitely more merciful way to go, than to embrace those snarling razors.

My lungs inhale one last surrendering breath as the pristine amber eyes meet mine, pointed ears welcoming themselves inside, irises wild and primal. All they see is helpless prey and a dinner buffet. Probably wondering what a lucky treat we’ve stumbled upon.

Then a yelp breaks the chorus of the primal growls, the rattle of a gunshot follows, then another, followed by desperate whines from a wolf's snout. The amber-eyed beast withdraws from the tent, but not before offering me a menacing glare, realizing it has lost its free meal ticket.

I whisk in a breath of brisk air, wind twirling inside the tent, a wave of relief admonishing over me.

Who fired those shots? Is it going to be a more devious predator, more starving than the timberwolves? Or maybe it is a good Samaritan out hunting these woods.

I stay still, frozen as a stone sculpture. My ears pick up plods of sinister feet rambling towards me, each step growing in its intensity with no attempt of deception, the opposite in fact. They want me to hear them.

It must be Drew.

Before I realize it, he’s poking his head in the gash, his dark eyes ripping me apart, before his lips part. “You stupid boy.” He shakes his head, setting the rifle down. “You were on the verge of death, about to be ripped to ribbons by a pack of bloody wolves.”

I open my lips to speak—