Page 7 of Coach’s Son (Twin Cities #2)

Austin

I wake up to the odor of our sweat and the faint throb behind my eyes that tells me I didn’t nearly drink an adequate amount of water before bed.

Charlie’s arm is sprawled over my stomach, burning against me like a coal furnace in the slumps of a blizzard.

His morning breath rasps against my neck.

For a minute I stay in place and try to hold the tranquillizing peace dearly in my chest. Then the memory of the gala replays in my mind.

Drew’s mischievous grin and all-consuming dark brown eyes. So, so, similar to Charlie’s, but nearly pitch black with a manic spark. Pupils fully dilated and ready to gorge on whatever they desired.

Last night I knew he wanted me. Probably just to piss off his twin and free himself of his blessed poison that he couldn’t wait to release in any warm body that moseyed on by.

I bet he'd shag anything with their khakis halfway down.

More egregiously, I couldn’t believe he saved himself as a contact in my phone. The audacity—snatching it straight from my hands, like a wolf lodging its teeth into a lame sheep. No hesitation or shame, just claiming what he wanted and tarnishing me with his number.

Calling him a narcissist would be polite. A deranged egomaniac would be be far more accurate—with a chuckle that's more akin to the low growl of a hunter relishing the chase than one for amusement at the dinner table.

There’s something wrong with him, a peculiarity that gnaws at my psyche, similar to an uncanny white noise that won't cease—like a constant ringing of growling tinnitus. I can’t put my finger on it, only that he feels like a shadow-version of Charlie.

Same nose, same cheeky grin, but grislier.

A dangerous reflection covered in ink, every tattoo a bad omen disguised as satanic art.

If Charlie is the angel of light, then Drew is the patient grim reaper standing behind him, waiting for the opportune moment to drain the life from the next victim. I’m sure he found a poor soul to torment last night, probably forgetting me altogether.

Let's hope…

I slide free from Charlie’s well-built arms and stumble into the kitchen, the cool floor is a shock to my feet, a stark contrast from the warmth of the bed.

Through the window, the Minneapolis skyline is hugged by a dense fog.

The city is beginning to stir to life. Buses honking their horns, jackhammers chipping away at concrete, and bicycles ringing their bells.

The fresh mist fills the apartment with a nourishing and clean scent, similar to the smell of the ground after a recent downpour.

I need some coffee. It always helps to clear my head.

I lean on the counter and wait for the machine to sputter life into me.

If only they could push coffee through an IV line, I’d sign the waiver in an instant.

Some quality robusta beans grind away as I push the double-shot espresso option and close my eyes to hide from the light.

While I try to awaken my eyelids, my phone lights up. A text from a new contact.

Drew – Better Twin: Sleep tight, wide receiver? Work the hips today. You’ll thank me. XoXo your fav twin.

I should delete it. Block his number. However, for some reason I don’t. Instead, I let the screen go dark, face down, the words pressed to the counter.

Charlie strolls in yawning, wearing some old running shorts and nothing else, hair a feral mess, left cheek creased from the pillow. He takes me in and his mouth quirks. “Morning, gorgeous. You look half-alive.”

“Quarter,” I say, handing him a mug. “Your brother is a walking hangover.”

He snorts, takes a swallow, then steps between my knees while I perch myself on a stool next to the island. “My brother is a cautionary tale in what not to aspire to.” His knuckles peruse my jaw. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” I sigh, dizzying thoughts dashing through my mind. “Last night was… a lot.”

“Mm.” He kisses my forehead, then the corner of my mouth, lips tender and sweet as ganache. “Training will help. Sweat the poison and the prat out of your system.”

"Let's pray to the Almighty it does…" I mutter, only to be met by the delight of his mouth indulging in mine as sparks jolt through me. "I feel lighter already."

We dress and head for the Land Rover. Luckily, the engine rumbles to life, for one more day. Charlie gives the cracked dash an affectionate pat. “Knew you wouldn’t betray me.”

“I’m not sure it’s loyalty. It’s fear.”

“Gah gah gah,” he mumbles, merging onto the interstate.

We don’t talk much on the drive. He hums something old and British. Boots, I think?

Meanwhile, I stare out at the river and let the current swim through my head.

If only I were a piece of driftwood, aimlessly drifting my way south to the Mississippi Delta.

To be one with the swampy estuaries of the bayou.

To dissolve into nothing. Willingly allow the salt to erode my fibers.

To have no thoughts or desires. Just to exist as a piece of nature and then return to be re-formed in another life…

My Dad texted after the gala last night. A photo of him and Jackson at some sponsor table. Matching smiles, matching evergreen ties. Proud of you son. See you soon at my place for dinner.

I didn’t reply. I will eventually. When I feel like it.

When I have the emotional energy to focus on myself, not being constantly sucked up by the chaos swirling around me—draining my battery one percent at a time, but never recharging.

No matter how long my brain is unconscious or getting fucked into another universe.

I have enough to worry about. There’s no time to ponder what my life will be like when Jackson officially becomes my stepdad.

Before I know it, the creaking Land Rover is pulling into the training facility, the air smells like freshly cut grass and burnt rubber. Reporters are out by the fence again, squabbling for any tidbit of preseason info in the slow July news season.

The locker room is buzzing with the essentials. Rap music blaring, guys wrapping their cleats, a few towel whips that could be considered hazing.

I pull on shorts and a practice tee under my practice pads, cracking my neck to loosen my shoulders. As I'm tying my laces, Earl Jenkins walks by with his chin high and jaw tight. Sporting an arrogant swagger that pretty much says: fuck you, rookie.

He doesn’t stop to chat or give me a nod. Just keeps on strolling like the smug son of a bitch that he is.

Fine. I won’t look at him either. He won’t be so cocky once I take his starting spot.

Jackson’s voice rises over the music.

“Schmidt,” he calls across the bench. “You ready to go today?”

I meet his eyes and keep my face blank. My old beer-pong partner now throws to me for a paycheck and takes my dad on date nights. What a sick joke. There should be a wiki page for surviving this kind of dark alternate universe.

“You know I’m always good to go,” I huff, shaking my head.

“Excellent,” he says. “Coach wants us on point for the red zone install.”

Charlie strolls over to my side with his helmet tucked against his hip. He gives Jackson a pleasant nod, then offers me a glance that says chill the frick out. “See you on the field, love,” he says, giving me a good boy pat before heading off for his kicking drills.

Out on the field, the sky is a hard azure and the turf shimmers from the rising sun. Not a cloud to notice in the sky. The offense splits up for warm-up stretches: knee kicks, hip twists, ankle rotations. I catch myself over-stretching, feeling the burn of yesterday’s lactic acid.

“Loosen, don’t force,” one of the assistant coaches yells. “Save the juice for the one-on-ones.”

I nod and shake out the tension. It slides right back in when I glance across the field and spot Charlie nailing kicks through the uprights. He looks natural in that space—set, swing, pop, net. A kicking machine with monstrous quads.

“Receivers,” Coach Rourke shouts, clapping his hands. “Work the choice tree. Hicks, you’ve got them for the first sequence.”

We roll through releases and break points.

Stems short and long. I keep my head in the footwork.

Plant, cross, press. I let speed carry me into space, then snap my eyes to the ball.

Jackson’s throws rip through the air. On the third set he spirals one high over the middle and I go up.

My fingers snatch the leather as I smash against the turf, dark green streaks smearing against my practice jersey.

“Good hands, Schmidt,” Jackson praises with a grin.

Yeah whatever… I know he doesn't mean it. Just trying to butter me up a little. Nice try. As if that will make everything a whimsical fairytale. No way in hell am I going to dance along with Jackson Hicks as Cinderella. No way his feet would fit in those delicate glass slippers.

On the sideline, I grab the plastic bottle, squeezing ice-cold water right back to my uvula.

Jenkins steps in beside me, sweat beading through his beard.

He's close enough for my nostrils to whiff in his putrid body odor reeking of moldy draft beer and garlic. “You keep on catching the easy balls,” he taunts, eyes pinned on Coach, “and they’ll start feeding you the hard ones.”

“That's the point,” I rumble, letting on an exasperated sigh.

He gives a slight, condescending nod. “The point is being where they need you, when they need you.”

I glance at him. “Copy.”

Thanks for the obvious tip. Jackass…

We jog back out. The world condenses to cleats and breath and the thud of pads. I run the choice against a nickel I abused yesterday. I sell the slant, then break out under his hand and find Jackson’s eyes. Ball’s on me as I turn. Feet in. Tap-tap. Coach Rourke’s whistle chirps.

“Sharp,” he calls. “Schmidt, do it again with the Z tag. Jenkins, you’re up next.”

We reset. The ache in my hips nags enough to register in my brain. I shake it off though. I’m fine. I'm better than fine. I'm on fire today.