Page 26 of Coach’s Son (Twin Cities #2)
Charlie
The crowd is roaring, axes swinging in sync, the field is tense with anticipation. First home game of the season, and the fans are crazed for a win.
And I’m crazed to kill my bloody twin. His smug ass on the sideline, bamboozling the general manager to get him a sideline pass. Fucking bollocks is what it is.
Filthy son of a bitch, boyfriend stealing twat.
He’s a slimy snake slithering on the sideline, his cheeky fangs waiting to be rearranged by my cleats. Just you wait Drew, I’ll ruin you exactly how you tried to ruin me. But I’m not giving up. I’m not the softie you are just gonna roll over and call it a day.
I don’t know what kind of venom he forced down Austin’s throat, but I’ll lather his mouth with rat poison, watch that motherfucker choke on the pellets.
If Austin wouldn’t run away every time I breathe in his direction or unblock me from his phone, we could sort this out. We haven’t even broken up properly. In my mind we are still getting it on, our relationship thrown in a scuffle by a fucking puck stopper.
Uggh I thought he’d be over these mind games by now. I know my father fucked him up and made him hate the world, but for heaven's sake his frontal cortex should have developed past that.
That thick skull should have formed the ability to empathize or at the very least comprehend that stalking and fucking your brother’s boyfriend is not normal behavior.
Oi Charlie… get your head out of your arse.
You got the whole country waiting for your—Monday night kickoff. You can’t cock this up, you’re a queer and a Brit. Two things that should automatically disqualify you from American Football. And you are as old as the queen compared to these young bucks.
The referee blows the whistle, I summon a deep breath and trot my way forward. My mind and body merge into a single flow of consciousness. My tippy toes wallop the leather into the end zone for a touchback. Bloody classic.
This is what they pay me for, a zinger of a leg, with the accuracy of a drone. The Lumberjacks haven’t allowed a touchdown return from a kickoff since signing my arse.
Roars of approval spawn in the stands.
My brother isn’t the only one that’s a sports legend in Minnesota.
Suck that, you twat.
I glance over to the sideline, Drew’s whispering some devilish sermon in Austin’s ear—probably just some more grime in an attempt to brainwash him.
Fucking bastard, wait until Austin runs back to my side, fleeing from your fangs. It’ll send him back to the bottle, incapacitating his arse for weeks. But that might be exactly what he needs to shift his focus from my boyfriend.
A bender consumed with alcohol and God knows what kind of drugs he picks up from the streets of downtown St. Paul. Pills, lines of speed, or IV injections. Nothing would surprise me.
The first half is bloodbath, the Wisconsin Cheeseheads came to play tonight. Every yard is fought for with sweat and grunts. All of a sudden the score is 14 – 14. There are four seconds left on the clock in the half.
Our offense drove us down to the forty-four yard line. A field goal from here would be a sixty-one-yarder. Normally, sweat would be dripping down my knickers in this situation. But tonight, I would love nothing more than to show Austin what a fucking hunk I am on the turf.
The Lumberjacks pay me 6.9 million per year, the highest in the league for a bloody kicker. Last season, I went for 46/48 field goals made for a 96% percent success rate. Tonight, I’ll make sure it’s 100%. Show them what a ‘washed up’ thirty-nine year old can do.
I inhale a heavy breath, letting the thoughts of Austin and Drew escape my mind, allowing my being to funnel every drop of my focus into harmony between my right foot and mind. A superhighway of nerves buzzing all at once.
The referee screams his whistle, the ball launches back from the center, Cheeseheads are blitzing on the edges. The crowd is silent.
I launch my foot, leather flying in the air. My heart flutters, this one felt a bit off. I close my eyes, waiting for the announcers to flood the air with the call.
“Folks this one is looking tight… I’m not sure—Oh wait… it sneaks right inside! It’s good!!! Lumberjacks take the lead heading into halftime 17 – 14. If there’s one thing to count on, it’s the foot of Charlie Evans.”
Ha. That makes me chuckle, the whole stadium hearing the announcers gloat my name on national broadcast. This old man still has it.
I trot my way to the locker room tunnel, fans trying to pat my back on the way, begging for me to sign their black and red jerseys. I sign a couple to be generous and continue on the concrete floor. Cleats a-clacking.
The halftime locker room meeting is only for players. Might be my only opportunity to slink a few words into Austin’s ears without Drew slithering down his back, controlling every moment of his life, like a choker managing the words that are allowed to spill from his mouth.
My eyes frantically search for Austin’s jersey, number thirteen. He’s in the far corner of the locker room, doing his best to hide from me. I snake my way through the team, trying to reach him in between Coach’s words. “Good half, but not good enough. Those Cheeseheads—”
I bump into Austin’s pads. “Hey,” I whisper.
His eyes seethe with discomfort, cold and frozen on Coach. “Not now, Charlie…”
“Then when? You’ve been avoiding me like the bloody plague. Won’t pick up when I ring or text. Scamper off like a puppy every time you see me.”
“Maybe it’s a sign. Take a fucking hint,” Austin hisses out, his words bearing an uncanny resemblance to Drew’s venom. They kind of sting, but I know it’s only from my twin’s taint, spoiling my man of his warmness.
“Don’t be a drama queen. I’m not going to give up on us—me and you, Austin. Not over whatever poison he’s been shoving down your throat.”
“Listen,” he spits out. “Well, we are done. Consider it official. I’ll send you a postmarked letter if that’s what it takes to infiltrate through your dense skull.”
His lips are under the whip of a demon, I know he doesn’t mean them. My mouth leans closer to his ear. “I’m not giving up on you. I’ll be here to pick up the pieces when he shatters you.”
“Okay…” he sighs with a look of disgust.
Fuck, he’s been warped into Drew’s orbit, sucked into his toxic sludge, a virus infecting his brain. It makes my teeth clench, makes me want to strangle my brother’s throat until his lips turn cyanotic.
Every part of me wants to argue with Austin. Wrap him up in a warm blanket and detox him from the toxins contaminating his brain. Quarantine him from the contagion. But this isn’t the right place or time.
It kills me that he’s going to have be hurt by Drew, before he believes me. All I can do is warn him—a siren wailing to deaf ears. It’s infuriating and humiliating, makes me want to hurl the contents of my stomach.
But I can’t force him to listen or kidnap him. It’ll just strengthen Drew’s suction. Instead I have to standby, watch like a fly on the wall, hoping Austin doesn’t succumb to sepsis.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” I whisper in his ear, before putting distance between us.
Coach’s voice thunders. “Let’s grate these Cheeseheads to a pulp!”
The second half floats by in a haze, we stifle their offense, grinding them down to the baseboard. A couple more touchdowns and the game ticks away to a Minnesota victory 31 – 17.
It sickens me to see Drew’s arm curl around Austin’s shoulders after the game. Embarrassing to see the rest of the guys giving me awkward looks, but no one dares to say a word. But their eyes scream the questions they are begging to ask.
Why is your twin brother fucking your boyfriend?
I shower as quickly as I can before heading back to my apartment. The urge to celebrate with the boys is completely swamped with the fact that Austin and Drew might be there, maybe kissing lips after a few drinks. The thought of it shreds me, nearly sending me to pathetic tears.
What if Austin doesn’t leave Drew? What if they get their ‘happily ever after’ that was supposed to be ours? Would Austin take him to his father’s wedding in my place? He might as well plunge a screwdriver into my eye socket if he brings that twat.
I stumble into my apartment, fury and resignation battling for dominance in my chest.
Maybe I could use some sweet relief. Maybe it’s time to move on from Austin. Release some of my pent-up cream.
I open my phone and download the dreaded orange mask. The last refuge of desperation.
Oh well. Let’s see who’s online.
A ton of faceless torsos pop up, one after another. I slide over the profiles near me.
Looking for now.
Looking for DOM TOP.
Anyone into pup play?
Down to ParTy?
Jesus Christ, I knew this was a mistake, this app is a haven for the desperate. But I suppose I’m not much better…
Against my better judgement, I continue to scroll, applying a few filters. Set my age range to twenty through twenty-six years old. That feels like a safe call. I’m not the kind of prick to take advantage of an eighteen- or nineteen-year-old.
Not like my brother.
Drew would fuck anything that bends on over in front of his cock. Probably keeps a tally on how many cherries he’s popped. Nothing’s off limits for that bloody bastard.
I shake my head, enough about Drew. My thumbs keep scrolling away.
The torsos begin to blur together. Abs, v-lines, bulges small and enormous, captions starting to sound like ransom notes. Nothing attractive about them, but then again I just need them for an hour, a warm hole to fill up.
Then a profile named Troy pops up, twenty-one, hairless as can be, five-six, the epitome of a twink with blonde hair, and lips begging for a cock in them.
Me: Hey… You looking?
Troy: Yeah, but can’t host.
Me: No problem sunshine… I’ll host you all day.
Troy: Yeah? Send a face pic.
Me: *sends pic*
Troy: Okay Sir… haha what’s your address?