Page 3 of Coach’s Son (Twin Cities #2)

He answers with his cheeky grin. The one that somehow lives in midfield at the fifty-yard line between charming and infuriating.

The one that’s led to him stuffing me full and getting under each other’s skin more times than I can count.

It’s cocky and maddening, but irresistible.

And it’s the same damn look he gave me the first night we met.

As if the stars decided I was his. That grin made me fall in love with him. And maybe his package helped as well…

I twist in my seat, glaring at the cracked dashboard. “Christ, it reeks of diesel and sweaty jockstraps in here.”

Charlie smirks. “Aroused, are we?”

I groan. “I said diesel, not dominate me.”

He winks. “Same difference.”

I shake my head, slumping deeper into the passenger seat as the Land Rover lurches onto the road. “I don’t know what’s worse,” I mutter. “The fact that this thing still runs, or that your ego gets a little boost every time it does.”

Charlie hums thoughtfully. “Both are true miracles. Mechanically and sexually.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet,” he says, taking a sharp turn that nearly sends me flying out the door, “you’re still here. Riding shotgun. Suffering through my scent and outdated suspension.”

“I’m here because we’re contractually obligated to be at training camp.”

“Oh, is that what you tell yourself?” he quips. “Because from where I’m sitting, you keep looking at me like you want to climb into my lap.”

I scoff, but my ears are beet red. He’s not wrong. He rarely is when it comes to the effect he has on me. Charlie makes me feel complete and cherished. That I’m more than Brad Schmidt’s son. More than the nuclear fallout of a splintered family and a broken bromance.

If it weren’t for him, I don’t know that I’d have survived last season—let alone come out the other side still catching leather.

Charlie may act like a charming, posh jerk half the time, but behind closed doors?

He’s the loving man who cooks you a homemade broccoli quiche when's the world has put you through the wringer.

Who holds you in the quiet moments when words entirely disappear from your vocabulary.

The loving man who remembers your go-to latte order when your head is in a tizzy from caffeine withdrawals.

“I’m trying to emotionally prepare for seeing Jackson again,” I grumble, eyes fixed out the window, admiring the freshly paved interstate that cuts through South Minneapolis, giving way to Bloomington. “Not get seduced in an ancient death trap with wheels.”

Charlie clicks his tongue. “That’s funny. Because I’m doing both quite well.”

“Unbelievable,” I mutter.

“Devastatingly talented,” he corrects, giving me thigh a squeeze while biting his lower lip, revealing his snatching teeth.

“Don’t worry, love. When Jackson starts being arrogant and cocky, just picture me naked in nothing except for a speedo, my prick seesawing back and forth.

I guarantee it'll work like a lucky charm.”

Wildly inappropriate advice. It’s also probably the only thing that’ll keep me sane today.

Charlie pulls the Land Rover into the private lot behind the stadium, past the security gate. He throws it into park, killing the engine with a rusty sigh. “Ready to show the Lumberjacks what you’re made of, rookie?”

I glance out the windshield at the training facility. Cameras and reporters eager to get a glimpse of how the pre-season is shaping. Teammates who already know my last name and probably think they know the whole story. I swallow against the dryness consuming my throat. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

We climb out of the deathmobile, the summer air is seeping with humidity and tension. I barely have time to shut my door before Charlie comes around and smacks me hard on the ass.

“Oi,” he says with a grin, “tight end.”

“I’m a wide receiver smart ass,” I mumble, licking my lips.

“Not from where I’m standing," he gestures south with his eyes.

I give him a look of disbelief, but he’s already walking toward the entrance, that cocky strut on full display.

I shake my head with a smile forming at my lips. This cheeky motherfucker is really going to leave me in the dust huh…

He knows he’s the best kicker in the league, even though he’s thirty-nine years old. He only has a few years left, before he would be forced out to ride the glorious waves of retirement. He’s filthy loaded, but I don’t know what he’ll do when he loses his pro-identity.

How does anyone just switch up after having the same job for almost twenty years, to then doing nothing? That's a situation screaming adjustment disorder.

Fuck, I can't wait to retire. To sit there and watch shitty daytime television. Laughing and acting like it's the worse thing ever taped, but secretly indulging in every second of its terribleness.

Only a few decades to go… if I'm lucky. And don't get cut from the roster.

The worse part about being a rookie is that you have to prove yourself over and over. Everyone is rooting for you to fail. It pisses me off that everyone questions if you are ready. If I wasn't ready, what did I just waste the last four years doing?

I jog a few steps to catch up, the weight of my duffel straining into my shoulder.

My stomach’s tight. Not from nerves exactly, but from everything this season represents.

My dad’s engagement. Jackson’s smug face waiting in that locker room.

The way everyone’s going to be watching us like it’s some sick reality show, waiting for a fight or a breakdown—or both at the same time.

Not to mention the wedding, which my father expects me to suffer through like nothing’s wrong. Like him fucking Jackson isn't morally wrong on twenty different fronts. Or doesn't defy every societal norm.

Oh yes father. Let me just walk down the aisle, tossing rose petals for the guests like a flower girl. Let me be the perfect son—complicit in your love for my ex-bestie.

I would love nothing more father.

Charlie glances over. “Try not to brood too hard your first day. It’ll ruin your skin. You are too beautiful to have wrinkles as a flaw.”

“Why are you so annoying this morning?”

“It’s my way of making you horny and superbly focused.” He says with a wink that almost forces me to pull my jeans down and moan into his fingers.

If only the paparazzi weren't here…

I snort. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yet, you’re still shagging me,” he clicks his tongue, pompous as can be.

I roll my eyes, but it doesn’t stop the phantom of a smirk from tugging at the corner of my mouth. He bumps his shoulder against mine, a meager nudge, firm enough to remind that he's here, by my side. That I’m not running solo in this fucked-up circus.

You can’t exactly be holding your boyfriend’s hand walking into practice.

Not when half the league still side-eyes you for being openly gay.

Not when the cameras are already camped out front, itching for something to spin for ESPN.

So, we settle for shoulder bumps and winks instead of interlocking our tongues.

Quiet gestures tucked between locker room swagger and the touchy subject of sexual orientation with a roster of alpha men.

It's quite comical though how a lot of these guys would stick their dicks in any warm hole if they had the chance. Athletes aren't known for being the most faithful in their marriages.

We make our way to the locker room to change, picking up our pace.

Neither of us wants to be late for the start of practice.

It reeks of a pungent cocktail of soiled underwear, ego, and man sweat.

Not awful, actually a great smell when you are in the mood.

Whiffing in all of the testosterone from the studs that the roster is loaded with.

Charlie gives me a quick once-over as I tug off my shirt. “Careful, love. You keep sniffing the air like that and people will start asking questions.”

I roll my eyes. “They already are.”

He smirks, popping open his locker. “Let ’em. They’re just jealous you’ve got the best view in the room.”

I glance around at the half-naked bodies stretching, strapping on pads, cracking jokes with towels around their waists. A few dicks swinging freely. He’s not wrong. But I’m not here to admire the view or the meat.

I’m here to make a statement, starting today.

Show everyone that Jackson Hicks isn’t the only rookie that came to earn a starting job.

I might’ve gone in the second round, but that doesn’t mean shit now.

I’m going to show every coach and scout that they overlooked the wrong guy.

That I should’ve been first off the board.

That I’m not just Brad Schmidt’s son or Charlie’s boyfriend or Jackson’s past.

I’m a damn weapon. A beast on the turf. I’m going to prove it starting today.

My first target? Earl Jenkins.

Dude is in his late thirties. A veteran for sure with lots of experience, but last year he had his worse season since his rookie year.

When you play wide receiver, time isn’t your friend. At almost forty, in WR years he might as well start applying to nursing homes. You lose a step here and there. Cuts aren’t as sharp. Hamstrings tighten, and when they tear, a recovery takes weeks or months instead of days.

I’m not here to be mentored by a salty bastard clinging to his glory days. I’m here to take his job. To push him so hard in drills he either levels up or tears his meniscus trying. That’s the game. I didn’t claw my way through college ball and personal hell just to keep the bench toasty warm.

I jiggle my neck, it's time to get my head in the game.

Charlie and I jog onto the turf, cleats biting into the freshly mowed grass.

Jackson’s already on the field showing off his talent. Tossing graceful spirals with his perfect fuck-you attitude. Everybody’s watching him, making him thrive on the attention. And of course, he got number seven for his jersey. When the hell would his luck run out?

My dad and the whole state giving him the golden boy treatment. He could fumble the ball four times in a game and I'm sure they'd blame the O-line instead of him.

Meanwhile, they give me unlucky thirteen like some kind of twisted inside joke.

I'll prove them wrong.

Charlie jogs beside me, eyes flicking toward the quarterback show happening downfield. “There’s your step-dad-in-training,” he mutters.

“Don’t,” I say through clenched teeth.

We start drills, and I accidentally trip Jenkins a couple of times. Not my fault he’s about as graceful as a baby giraffe on ice. On the next rep, I haul in a tight sideline catch, my toes dragging just inside the chalk.

“Watch it, rookie,” Jenkins mutters as he jogs past, brushing his shoulder hard into mine.

I toss the ball back to Jackson. “Maybe try staying upright next time. Less of a tripping hazard for both of us.”

He clenches his teeth, his forehead vein nearly popping. “You won’t be talking like that when I’m WR 1.”

“Guess we’ll see,” I say, lining up for the next snap, already itching to burn him again.

The rest of practice blurs into a rush of routes and catches.

I’m in the zone—clean breaks, sharp cuts, glue hands.

Every rep feels like I’m proving that I deserve a starting WR slot.

Jenkins can bark like a flailing seal all he wants.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Coach Rourke’s approving nod more than once.

On the last series, I haul in a high ball in the end zone, keeping my feet in by a whisper. Whistle blows. Touchdown!

“Nice work, Schmidt,” Coach calls out.

Even Jackson, standing by the huddle with his helmet under one arm, gives me a grin. “Not bad, rookie. You keep that up, and I might actually trust you on third down.”

“High praise,” I shoot back. Perhaps, Jackson wouldn’t be unsufferable to play with this year.

“Hey, love!” Charlie’s voice cuts through the chatter as he jogs up, that easy British lilt somehow making everything sound romantic. “You ready for the gala tonight? Finally meet my twin, Drew?”

I wince, my teeth coming together. “Oh shit—that’s tonight?”

“Don’t tell me you forgot. I’ve been talking about it all week.” Charlie grins, cracking his neck. “He’s not mysterious, he’s just—uhhh different. Same face as me, mind you, but you’ll see the rest isn’t remotely the same.”

“Different how?” I ask, my stomach crimping with curiosity.

“You’ll find out soon enough.” He drapes his arm over my shoulder, pulling me in close enough to smell the faint trace of his cologne under the sweat. For a second, the whole field disappears in his embrace. “Wear that suit I like. The navy one. Gives you a bloody swell swagger.”

I snort, trying to hide the way my chest flutters under his touch. “Pretty sure your tux is going to outshine me.”

“Don’t worry darling with a face as gorgeous as yours, it doesn’t matter what suit I wear.”

I watch him jog off toward the locker room, helmet dangling from the tips of my fingers.

There’s a strange, restless buzz in my chest. The gala’s supposed to be another charity event—raise a stupendous amount of money for developing a treatment for Celiac’s.

Drinks, fancy food, maybe a few photos for the press, but now all I can think about is meeting the other Evans twin.

Same face, but a whole different storm. Twisted and malignant, a tumor on society that somehow learned to skate.

If Charlie’s a beautiful sunny day at the park, Drew’s the swirling darkness before a tornado. The type that tears through without a moment’s warning and leaves nothing but disaster in its wake.

Sleeves of black ink slither up his arms like snakes, hiding God knows how many sins beneath. He’s got a merciless reputation for hitting as hard off the ice as does on it, and the kind of arrogance that clears a room. A personality that constricts around your throat like an anaconda.

And yet, there’s something about Drew that mystifies everyone.

Making them stare when they shouldn’t—like when you see a burning car wreck on the highway or a video of an old lady getting mauled sideways by a ferocious bear.

Poor souls can't help it. Drew’s dangerous and magnetic in all the wrong ways, possessing the ability to pull any sucker into his charming orbit while destroying them.

When he’s finished with them, they say: thank you.

That’s what I’ve heard from Charlie. And knowing him, it’s probably the polite version. Which is why I’m already dreading the first hello.