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

Austin

“Ugh I can’t believe I’m going to be on the same team as Jackson Hicks,” I groan, burying my face into the toasty-warm pillow.

I never want this feeling to end. The snugness of our shared body heat underneath the linens. Why can’t I spend the rest of my life in a ceaseless hibernation? Immune to the perils of this world, avoiding my problems for the rest of the eternity, sheathed in the arms of my British hunk.

Birthdays, Thanksgiving, and family vacations will never be the same. They will all be tainted by his blond presence, his fingers enlaced with my dad’s. His cocky smirk challenging my patience. His teeth undeniably white and parallel. Everything about him is fricking perfect.

Charlie’s arm tightens around me, his fingers leisurely tracing down the center of my sternum, ethereal and comforting. His snug muscles keep me cozy and entirely too good at making me forget why I’m pissed off. And that fuzzy dark treasure trail…

“Well, love, technically he’s just the guy tossing you the ball,” Charlie murmurs, dabbing the hair from my forehead. “You don’t have to braid friendship bracelets or anything of that sort.”

I sigh, shifting against him to snuggle impossibly closer.

“He’s got everything. First-round pick. Penthouse downtown.

And now my goddamn father? I swear, if he steals you too, I’m setting North Timber Field on fire.

All because someone has a shitty father, that doesn’t give them the right to marry their best friend’s dad. ”

Charlie chuckles in his obnoxiously posh manner. “Love, if he so much as looks at you wrong, I’ll kick a ball through his smug teeth. You have nothing to worry about.”

I twist slightly to glance up at him. The spitting image of British genetics gone right.

Dark curls are a mess, just oily enough to shine in the morning light.

His defined jaw is covered in coarse scruff.

Walnut-brown eyes, speckled with subtle amber undertones—crinkled at the corners with that signature don’t-take-life-too-seriously look.

He always knows exactly what to say to keep me from spinning out or from spiraling into a wretched pit of despair.

“I mean it,” I mutter with a sigh. “You’re the only thing keeping my brain from exploding through my skull.”

Charlie smiles, that stupid cheeky grin forcing my heart to fumble a beat. “Good. I savour being your sanity and your big spoon.”

In the offseason, my father and Jackson Hicks—yes, that Jackson Hicks—decided to take a picture-perfect vacation to Costa Rica. Somewhere between swimming with the dolphins and lounging in the equatorial sun, my dad slipped a ring on his finger. They’d known each other for barely six months.

I didn’t tell my dad to knock it off, but let’s be clear, I absolutely do not condone a forty-five-year-old father of three proposing to my twenty-three-year-old ex–best friend.

And if that weren’t enough? The football overlords in the sky thought it’d be hilarious to draft us both to the same pro team: the Minnesota Lumberjacks.

This season is going to be unbearable. Watch out folks—an Austin Schmidt pity party coming up on channel four!

I know my situation’s not much better. I’m twenty-three and shacked up with a thirty-nine-year-old, but at least Charlie’s not a father of three, my head coach, or my best friend’s father.

We just happen to be on the same football team, but at least our relationship had started before we shared the same turf.

And not to mention, Charlie isn't anyone's father.

His endearing lips envelop mine, momentarily making me forget all of my grief with the world. “I’ve only got eyes for you, darling. Not your ex-best mate or your father. Solely you love. You are simply too bloody handsome to let anyone else have you.”

I got lucky with Charlie. We met after I took a chance and messaged his headless torso, drawn in by those impeccable abs and an irresistible treasure trail.

And a hankering to get fucked into oblivion.

That first night was chaos in the best way.

The heat, the screaming, the sheets sticking to our skin.

We went at it until neither of us could stand, trading sweat and breath and every ounce of milk we had.

Rounds blurred together, each one more primal than the last.

I’m surprised somebody didn’t call animal control on us that night.

Since then, we’ve been inseparable. He’s been my security blanket in a life that’s only gotten more chaotic, and my favorite kind of trouble when I need to forget everything else. He makes me feel like I'm the only boy in the world.

I sigh against him, trying to vanish into the kiss, but my shoulder muscles are still locked up tight. Like they are deprived of magnesium or maybe some fatherly attention.

“I just… hate the way they act like everything’s fine. That I didn’t lose my best friend and my family in one fucked-up rug pull.”

Charlie leans back just enough to snuggle his forehead with mine. “Austin. Look at me.”

I do, reluctantly as if I could possibly resist his glossy corneas.

His brown eyes are tantalizingly inviting, the shade of a grizzly cub’s fur in the late summer sun.

They’re cozy and agonizingly difficult to look away from.

The same ones that shrouded around on me draft night, that lit up when I ran my first pro route in camp.

He places a hand nimbly on my jaw. “You can trust me. I’m not going to betray you. I’m not your father and I’m not Jackson.”

That stings—a spired, corrosive burn, like battery acid splashing down my throat—because he’s wholly correct. I’ve been waiting for the world to burn down in flames since the day we signed our contracts, bracing for the moment the pieces give way and come crashing down around me.

Like I'm David and the rest of the world is Goliath, letting me win, but it's never the last battle. There's always another bonfire to smother.

I break his gaze, slanting my head towards the shiny faux-wood vinyl floor, pretending to rummage for my cleats.

Charlie sighs and stands up, stretching that annoyingly perfect body, letting me catch a sight of his prominent v-line as he grabs his sports bag. “Anyway, we’ve got training camp in an hour, and I’d like to avoid running laps because my boyfriend spiraled before breakfast.”

“I’m not spiraling,” I mutter, huffing out a exasperated exhale.

He chuckles under his breath. “You’re practically twirling in place, love.”

I throw a rolled-up sock at him. “Piss off, you wanker,” I tease in a mock accent.

He catches it effortlessly, grinning as vain as a royal. “That’s the spirit. C’mon, let’s go. You and me? We’re gonna make this work. Even if your ex-best friend and your dad can’t keep their hands to themselves.”

I roll my eyes over the ceiling but follow him toward the door.

My stomach rumbles and I remember to snatch an energy bar, double checking the ingredients to make sure it's peanut-free.

Today is going to be nerve wracking enough than to worry about a trip to the emergency room.

I glance at him as I shove the bar into my pocket. “You better not make me late.”

Charlie tosses a wink over his shoulder. “I’d never ruin your punctual brand, love. Just your back. And maybe your undies…”

“Jesus Christ, Charlie.” I mumble, fumbling around my bag to make sure that my epi-pen is where it's supposed to be.

“What? Only reminding you I’m still the best kicker in the league. And in the bedroom. I could snap those undies in half right now if you want me too…”

"Maybe tonight, if you play cards right." I shove his shoulder as we step into the hallway, but my hand barely makes a dent in that smug British arrogance. “But if you tear a hamstring showing off again in front of the rookies, I’m not helping you stretch it out.”

Charlie smirks, swinging his gym bag over one shoulder. “Bold of you to assume I wasn’t planning on using the injury for sympathy head.”

“God, you’re preposterous.”

“Yet, you’re still dating me,” he zests from those posh lips as the elevator dings.

We step inside, the doors closing before anyone else can stumble in. Charlie leans against the railing, eyeing me up from bottom to top, causing my cock to spasm in my jockstrap. He's infuriating and stupidly effective at horning me up. I love it and despise it at the same time.

But mostly, I fucking love it if I'm being entirely truthful. Bursting a load always clears my head, even if it's only temporary clarity, I'll take it.

“You nervous about today?” he asks, his wooden irises glimmering from the harsh elevator lights.

I hesitate, the butterflies swoon in my belly while my blood rushes away from my head. “Nervous isn’t quite the word. I think emotionally burned out might be a better term.”

Whiplash… that’s what I’m experiencing. Grief snapping my neck one way, lust yanking me the other, anger smacking me from behind.

Every feeling wants to snag the wheel from my fingers, all of them clawing through me at once, leaving me dazed and staggering through this murk.

Sapping my bandwidth to it's last bit—down to emergency power.

Charlie nods, a mellowness breaking through his cheeky self. “Well, you’ve got me, a fricking stud with a monster of a leg. We’ll make it through whatever crosses us.”

“But what if he’s the starting QB?” I murmur.

Charlie shrugs. “Then I’ll kick a field goal so hard it knocks him on his arse, giving him a bruise he won’t forget. Purely accidental, of course.”

We step out of the elevator and stroll over to Charlie’s antique Land Rover. An absurdly ugly army-green color that’s probably leftover from the beaches of Normandy. It slowly groans to life as the gears beg to be put out of their misery.

“Still can’t believe this thing passed inspection,” I mutter, tossing my bag in the back.

Charlie grins as he slides into the driver’s seat. “It didn’t. I might've bribed the mechanic with season tickets.”

“Are you serious?” I whip my head at him.