Page 8 of Coach’s Son (Twin Cities #2)

Between the hikes I spot a few suits near the tunnel with a staffer.

Media relations, maybe. A couple of familiar faces from local news.

One of them laughs at something the staffer says and I swear I hear a British accent ripple back.

My stomach gives a small, stupid drop. I don’t see Drew.

Maybe he’s a thought. Maybe I’m seeing shadows.

Maybe it's the ethanol still circulating through my veins.

I shouldn't drink. The hangxiety is never worth it…

My thoughts whirl in a confusing storm. A puzzling mix of lightning and thunder. Afraid and disgusted by the thought of Charlie's brother. Yet… a bit intrigued. Is he all bark, no bite? Or would he really inject me with his egotistical impurities.

My body shivers in a rush of goosebumps. It's wrong. So wrong of me to consider—

Then Charlie passes by and flicks the bottom of my jersey with his fingers. Light contact, barely enough to snap me back to reality. “You’re moving well,” he says with a hefty bit of cheek.

“My hips are sore. Probably from last night,” I murmur.

“My love needs a cold bath after,” he says.

“I’ll supervise. Maybe pour a bag of ice to help soothe those beautiful glutes.

” The look in his eyes is pure Charlie—sweet and filthy.

It warms a spot in me that went cold at the sight of that entourage.

He gives me a lick of his lips and a raise of his brows before jogging back to the special teams area.

Okay Austin, time to lock in. I say to myself as I try to refocus on the routes.

Red zone. Tight windows. Speed compressed to quick jumps and jagged side steps.

Jackson and I build a little rhythm as we try to synchronize our vision, but I can tell there is hesitation in his throws, that he doesn't trust me like the best bros we used to be.

We get through red zone adjustments without a misread.

On the last rep I shake free in the back corner and toe-tap the pylon, to haul it in by the nicks of my feet. The whistle cuts to end the play.

Touchdown!

“Great catch, Schmidt! Everybody make sure to hydrate, we don't need any sunstroke victims today,” Coach Rourke yells. “Then jog to recovery for your respective assignments.”

I strip off my helmet to let the sweat evaporate from my skull, jogging inside to the weight room. Fuck, it's a hot one today.

I'm sweating balls, but not nearly as much as the O-line. Sweat is pouring down their backs like a gentle waterfall, their jerseys and pads entirely soaked with small puddles forming beneath them.

As I'm catching my breath, Nora from the training staff is handing out the tailored assignments to each of the offensive players.

"Hicks, straight to the bath room. Jenkins—massage for your neck.

Schmidt—" she pauses, scanning her clipboard, "—we have a special trainer in a collaboration with the Ice Devils. Head to the stretching room."

That makes me raise a brow. The Ice Devils? That's interesting… Since when do we share staff with the hockey team?

But it sounds hell of a lot better than running more routes under the sun. "Yes ma'am," I say, trying not to sound too grateful.

She points to the door. "Down the corridor, third room on the left."

I make my way out of the weight room, the fluorescent lights greeting me. I guess I'm getting a special one-on-one today. Pretty nice of them considering I'm a rookie. Maybe this organization isn't so bad after all.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. But I don't bother to look at it, a nice stretch session sounds pretty enjoyable.

Then I remember what Drew texted me earlier: Work the hips today.

I shake my head, I bet Drew was half-drunk when he sent it, chuckling into his phone before blacking out. I push the thought to the back of my mind and continue my way to open the door to the stretch room.

The door creaks open as I enter the dimly lit room. The smell of aged sweat and bleach penetrates my nostrils.

"Aye take, a seat on the mat and I'll be right there," a man with a deep voice and slight accent mutters from one of the side rooms.

"Okay…" I murmur, my stomach performing a slight knot. How many British men could there possibly be in this state? There's no way the one I'm avoiding could have slithered his way inside our training facility.

Crossing the room, I take a place on the mat, stripping down to only my shorts and my jockstrap.

It'll be a bit easier for us to get to work this way.

Make sure we use all of the time properly stretching.

And plus I can't wait to go home to see Charlie.

The sooner, the better. My nerves are too much today, sparking on overtime but ready to fizzle out.

I look down at the dried streaks of salt on my abs. Gross. My nose catches the aroma of my musk, an embarrassing smell, like aged ethanol fermented for a few weeks.

Whatever… it's not like you are fucking this trainer.

From the side room, my ears hear the man shuffling back and forth, muttering inaudible sounds to himself. What's taking him so long?

The growing minutes begin to unsettle my nerves. I roll my neck in a few circles to ease my anxiety, stretching my arms to my toes, embracing the sting of the stretch.

My mind ruminates on Drew's words: how’s it feel catching passes from dear old step-dad…

What an asshole he is, no wonder Charlie never mentions him. A cheeky bastard that's full of himself in the most dreadful way. At least Charlie's cheek is served on a golden platter of glazed crumpets.

"Oi, coming lad," the man hisses, the silhouette revealing himself at last. The snakes on his arms are unmistakable. "Heard from a little birdie you needed the assistance of a proper bloke."

My cheeks burn with an unrivaled heat. But I keep my eyes focused down. I don’t scream for bloody murder. But maybe I should before it's too late…

Instead, I inhale, channeling my focus on the mat, on my knee, on the line of my foot, and pretend the world isn't about to turn upside down from the chaos thumping in my gut.

I nod my head as his fingers circle around my calves. His touch radiates through me like an exquisite burn. My nerves are on fire, but in a strange and novel way. A honey glazed inferno. My heart races from the excitement, scared yet curious to see what I'll feel next.

"Good lad, let me take away your tension, your ache. You deserve to be loose and ready to go," he murmurs, as he works his way up to my knee and then to my exposed thigh.

This feels like the start of something I won’t be able to walk back from. I told Charlie no other man would touch me. I should shut this down. Even if it’s just supposed to be a stretch of the hips. Or a massage of my quads.

It's his fucking brother for heaven's sake…

But my legs are steamingly cooked from drills, each muscle fiber begging for attention, and Drew’s voice is enticingly low, sliding between the fragile cracks of the armor I'm trying to keep welded together. It’s not in the manner he's touching me, it's the way he's focused on my lungs, on each breath that creaks in and out of my lips.

In this moment his focus is entirely on me. Every exhale, every pulse of my heart, vulnerable to his examination. I feel like I'm under the spotlight, the main character on the stage. Like I'm the only boy in the world worthy of his attention.

Charlie's gaze has turned so different lately. He's been watching me as if he's waiting for me to fail him. Like he’s daring me to prove him wrong. As if he can't trust me. Can he? Can I resist the hands soothing my muscles? Do I want to?

I'm tired and exhausted. Don't I deserve a little bit of a guilty indulgence?

I've earned this, I've worked hard. I've had my fill of the light, but the dark? I've never explored. I've stayed away from the bad boys. The toxic sludge. But maybe the sludge will balance me out. Clear my head…

Drew's eyes penetrate my last defense, stripping away the metal parts in entirety, my hesitation swept away by his midnight black pupils. If I give way, what would he do? Would he parade me around like a trophy or would he keep this secret moment between us?

I shudder beneath his hands as they roll awfully close to my groin, my cock twitching from my nerves popping off excitedly. I let out a raspy breath, leaving my mouth open for his desire.

I hate him, I hate how arrogant this man is. How he thinks being a rude prick is perfectly acceptable.

But his hands feel like a forbidden paradise, constricting around my skin, drawing out the soreness, and replacing it with euphoric thrill. What if he's not so rude. He seems so gentle, almost soft in this moment.

I should say stop.

I should sprint to the turf to see Charlie and warn him. Warn him about the devil burrowing himself inside me, planting parasites that are leaching onto every organ. But what if it's too late…

What if I want to feel the flames… savor the burns as they ravage my skin, searing me in blissful agony.

What if I want to taste his brother's lips… just this once.

Then maybe I'll be sated, finally purge whatever venom Drew has been trying to feed into my bloodstream. I might be allergic to him as much as I am to peanuts.

What would be the harm?

"Shhhh, let me in. Give me control. Submit for a real man," he coaxes into my ear, his voice dripping with velvet.

His words send me into a trance, eager to follow every command that pours out of those perilous lips. Like a warlock putting me under a spell. One that I've accepted.

"Lean back," he commands with supreme authority, the words rearranging my perception of reality.

I obey.

Willingly.