Page 24 of Coach’s Son (Twin Cities #2)

Austin

The room is dark and reminiscent of our musk from last night. Light is beginning to peep in through the windows. I can’t miss practice today. Drew smoothed things over with Coach, put together some story that bought us some time, but that goodwill won’t last forever.

Drew parades around like he’s the big bad wolf, but the more I get to know him, the answer is simpler.

He’s never had someone to show him what comfort is.

Not the physical fucking, but the true grace of someone not wanting to be with him for being a legend on the ice.

To love him for who he is, the soft man behind his ink and venomous eyes.

He doesn’t need another hookup or another conquest. He needs someone to love him for who he is, not for the pucks that he blocks.

To tell you the truth I feel the entropy between us, the chaos of molecules rumbling back and forth. Attempting to harmonize for an element forged out of denial and lust.

And how can I forget, he’s a fricking god in the sheets, confident and ruthless, everything that Charlie isn’t. A viper with rapturous cream, a poison I simply can’t resist.

But at the same time, I can sense him allowing me in. Slowly infiltrating his force field of darkness, letting in slivers of light one toothy smile at a time.

A person can only go on for so long, before they snap. I couldn’t imagine how long he’s been on this with the mentality. Torturing Charlie for decades, when he just needed someone to focus on. Someone to love.

He shifts in the sheets next to me, those dark eyes blinking awake. “Hey sleepy boy, how are you feeling?”

“Like an all-star.” I admit, sheepishly.

After he fell asleep, I watched his chest rise and fall, how gentle he looked when he wasn’t on the hunt. A man resting so peacefully, after catching his prey. His snakes at rest.

“Swell, you fucking deserve it. Every bit of rest the world can provide.”

“I wish I could sleep all day, next to you…” I groan, burying my head into the pillow. “But practice. The team is going to be wondering where the hell I’ve been.”

Drew smirks, propping himself on his side, that mullet spiking out like a dark halo outlining his skull. “Well I’ll be there watching you in the stands, making sure nobody gives a bloody problem. You got your first game in a couple days huh?”

His tone is slightly teasing, but also serious.

The same one that used to scare me paired with those slithering snakes that paint his arms. It wouldn’t surprise me if he was serious.

I could definitely picture him hopping down onto the turf and landing a kick to someone’s balls without a second thought.

“Yeah we got the Wisconsin Cheeseheads coming up. It’s going to be tough a border-battle. It always is. Fans might burn down the stadium if we lose.”

He chuckles, as if that would bring pleasure to his soul. The fans grabbing Molotov cocktails, glass shattering in a riot of rage.

“Then don’t lose, Lover Boy. Show them what kind of magic you got in those buns. Let them see how much horsepower those quads have. Remember you are with a legend now.”

His words send weird pings of joy through me. “Oh really, when did that conversation happen?”

“In my head.” He snickers, his arm wrapping around my torso, squeezing the edge of my nipple ever-so delicately. A sensation so euphoric, I could explode.

“After you get my name branded into your skin tonight, you’ll be mine—forever and always,” he growls, lips nuzzling my ear.

Am I fucking crazy that I don’t want to say no? That I actually want his signature blazed into my skin… A permanence that can’t be revoked. It’s insane and reckless… and yet the thought drives me wild.

“You got a place lined up?” I ask, like I’m already consenting to his crazy fucking idea.

“Oh baby, don’t you worry about that,” he purrs, offering me his tenderness. “Let’s get you to practice before they boot your pretty arse from the roster.”

I sigh, rolling my shoulders. “Ugh. I suppose.”

How the hell am I going to focus on routes and catching the ball, when my mind is dead set on Drew Evans.

My King.

I step into the locker room, my eyes trying not to stare at the half-naked studs that I call my teammates.

My nostrils pick up the familiar jock musk and laundry detergent scent.

The usual locker room cocktail seared into my memories after years of playing football.

My pulse jumps, because I know the inevitable is coming.

Charlie.

I’m doing my best to avoid Charlie at all costs. My heart somersaults at the thought of what I’d say when he corners me. What excuse I’d muster. I’ve never been great at confrontation. My strategy’s always been the same: ignore, bolt in the opposite direction, and pray we both develop amnesia.

I’m halfway into my pads, when Jackson strolls over, his lowers abs exposed.

“Hey Austin, you’ve been good? Charlie been going kind of… crazy. Says you guys had some stuff happen?”

Of course, Charlie couldn’t help himself but involve Jackson and probably my father. Such a baby, like a preschooler tattling when someone snatched his favorite toy dinosaur.

“Yeah, everything is good. We are just taking a break. You know Charlie—he’s dramatic.”

“Alright dude. He seemed kind of worried after you left in the middle of the storm. If you ever need anything, please let me know. I know things are kind of tense between us, but I don’t want it to stay that way…”

“It’s going to take time Jackson. Imagine if I was engaged to your dad…” I huff, my last straw of patience being drawn.

“Ope. Okay. Sorry for trying to extend an olive branch. See you on the field,” he mutters, before walking out the door.

Fuck… I didn’t need to be an asshole, but I don’t need him patronizing me either. Like I’m a charity home renovation project needing rehabilitation. What I do need, is for him to admit how fucking insane it is that he’s fucking my father and acting like I should be their biggest cheerleader.

Sure Jackson, let me turn on the stereo and break out in dance. Give me five.

Whatever… I throw on my shoulder pads and make for the tunnel to the turf. Maybe a day on the field is the perfect distraction for my fucked-up headspace.

My eyes spot Charlie in the periphery. My pulse stutters, throat gulping, but my feet putter faster to meet the rest of the offense on the turf before he can drag me into his cesspool of self-pity.

I can’t deal with his moping today. Maybe tomorrow. Or next year. Hell, punting it indefinitely sounds an excellent game plan to me.

The rest of practice goes smoothly, Drew watching from the stands, hooting like a devil in the church attic at every catch I make. Admittedly, I’m kind of on fire. My hands haul in every spiral Jackson zings my way, my feet stutter-step leading me to the end zone a couple of times.

Even Jenkins gives me a nod of approval. He’s a miser who hates my guts, so that’s saying something.

At this rate, there’s no question whether I’ll be a starting wide receiver, it’s more so if I’ll be wideout number one, two, or three. But that’s up to Coach Rourke to decide.

If he wants to beat the Cheeseheads, he better make me WR 1.

The air is slightly humid from the persistent mist of the day, Drews pulls the Range Rover into a grimy strip mall, the majority of the storefronts look half-abandoned with two-by-fours guarding the windows. Victims of crime. North Minneapolis at its finest.

A man is pacing back and forth on the corner, a worn hoodie covering his face and a hand in his junk, pants nearly on the ground.

Don’t get me wrong—some parts of North are thriving and coming back, but it has it’s reputation for a reason. The homicide and crime capital of Minnesota.

He turns off the ignition in front of a ratty looking tattoo parlor, North Star Sleeves. The neon light is out for all three of the S’s.

“This is the place?” I mutter, I would never drive in this lot myself, but it’s completely on vibe for him.

“Yeah they do the best artwork in the tri-state area. You won’t find anybody with more talent unless you go to Chicago and get lucky they aren’t too faded.” Drew snickers, obviously enjoying the bit of anxiety this place gives me.

“Huh. I guess we’ll find out.”

We step in the door, a bell ringing, the scent of stale cigarettes is overpowering.

Death metal music controls the atmosphere as a guy with bleach-blonde mohawk walks up, his face loaded with piercings—eyebrows, nose, lip, not to mention his gauges stretching both ears.

Hopefully this man never needs to go through an MRI machine.

“Look who it is,” he crows, a grin splitting those lip rings. “Drew fucking Evans.”

“Long time no see Razor,” Drew says back.

Razor laughs, slapping his palm against Drew’s shoulder. These two must go way back. If I’ve learned anything about him though, it’s probably best not to ask questions that I don’t really want to know the answers to.

“So what can I do for you today?” Razor asks, eying me up, like he knows I’m an innocent vanilla cupcake, surrounded by red velvet, just waiting to be devoured.

“Well we are here for a very, very special tattoo for my lad.” Drew says with a sinful smirk, his forearm grasping my side, staking his claim.

Razor’s eyebrow arches. “What kind of artwork did you have in mind?”

“My signature blazed across his back.”

My heart races with a surge of adrenaline, epinephrine gushing to my noggin.

Logically, I know I shouldn’t go through with this, but when Charlie sees it—the permanent ink of his brother’s claim.

It’ll be worth the sting of a burning tattoo gun.

To show him what a pussy he was to leave me in the woods.

He didn’t dare to venture out to try and rescue me.

“Oh wow, a bit possessive aren’t you.” Razor jokes, his eyes twinkling in comprehension of our dynamics.

“I suppose you could say that,” Drew replies, tilting his head toward me. “But look at this—”