Page 6 of Yes, Coach (Bratton Hollow #1)

Taryn

I don't sleep.

Not even close. I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying every second of what happened in Coach Reynolds' office. The way his voice went all rough and commanding. The feel of his hands on my skin. The word "Daddy" falling from my lips like it belonged there.

Coach : Sleep well, baby girl. Dream of me. - M

I stare at the text until my eyes blur, then type back.

Me : Can't sleep. Too wound up.

His response is immediate.

Coach : Good. I want you thinking about what's going to happen tomorrow night.

Me : What IS going to happen tomorrow night?

Coach : Everything. Get some rest. You're going to need it. Sweet dreams, baby.

I press the phone to my chest and squeeze my eyes shut, but it's useless. Every time I close my eyes, I see his face when he called himself my Daddy. The dark promise in his eyes. The way he looked at me like I was something he wanted to possess completely.

Around 2 AM, I give up and pad to the kitchen for water. Mom's door is closed, and I can hear the soft hum of her oxygen concentrator. At least one of us is getting some sleep.

I spend the rest of the night alternating between panic and anticipation.

What if I'm making a huge mistake? What if someone finds out? What if I'm not what he wants when it really matters?

But then I remember the way he touched me. The way he said "mine" like it was a fact, not a game. The way he made me feel small and safe and cherished and sexy all at once.

By morning, I've made up my mind. Whatever happens tonight, I'm all in.

School drags by like molasses. I catch glimpses of Coach Reynolds in the hallway, and each time our eyes meet, I feel that familiar flutter low in my belly. He doesn't acknowledge me beyond a professional nod, but I see the heat in his gaze. The promise of what's coming.

My phone stays silent all day, and I start to wonder if he's changed his mind. But then, right as the final bell rings with me still sitting at my desk in study hall, I get a text.

Coach : Wear a dress. No bra. Panties are okay. This time.

My tummy does fifty somersaults, then my phone dings again and I make this involuntary chirping sound.

Coach : And I’d love to see a smile, you deserve to always be happy.

Heat floods my cheeks as I read it, and I quickly shove my phone in my backpack before anyone can see. The casual authority matched with this soul-deep nurturing vibe he gives makes my knees like noodles.

I race home and tear through my closet, which admittedly doesn't take long since I own exactly three dresses. One is for church (too formal), one is from sophomore year homecoming (too fancy), and one is a simple sundress I bought at Target last summer with babysitting money.

It's navy blue with tiny white flowers, hits just above my knees, and has buttons down the front. Easy to take off, just like he said.

I shower and shave everything twice, then spend twenty minutes staring at myself in the mirror. Without a bra, my nipples are visible through the thin fabric, and the knowledge that he specifically requested this makes my entire body flush with heat.

"You're going out?" Mom asks when I come into the living room. She's curled up on the couch with her nebulizer, looking smaller than usual.

"Just for a little while. Study group." The lie comes easier than it should.

"You work too hard, baby. You should be out having fun, not always studying or working." She reaches for my hand. "Promise me you'll do something just for you once in a while?"

If only she knew.

"I promise, Mom."

"Good. And Taryn? You look beautiful. That dress is perfect on you."

The drive to the address on my GPS takes fifteen minutes through winding country roads. I've been to this part of town before for babysitting gigs, but I've never paid this much attention like I’m leaving mental breadcrumbs. I need to know my way back, with or without my phone guiding me.

My heart is lodged in my throat as the GPS on my phone announces I’ve arrived at my destination and I turn the wheel of my Honda to the right and along a long gravel driveway.

The house is set back from the road, a generous rustic wood ranch with a porch along the entire front, all shaded by hundred-year-old oaks and towering pines like the house is being wrapped in a hug by nature.

I sit in my car for a full five minutes, engine running, trying to work up the courage to get out. This is it. Once I walk up to that door, there's no pretending this is some innocent, misunderstood flirtation.

My phone buzzes.

Coach : I can see you sitting in your car, baby girl. Come inside.

That gets me moving. I grab my purse and walk up the porch steps on shaking legs, but before I can knock, the door opens.

And there he is.

He's changed out of his school clothes into jeans and a black t-shirt that clings to his chest in ways that should be illegal. He’s still one hundred percent NFL stock, with biceps bigger than my thighs, thick muscles that brace between his neck and shoulders and a grid iron walk that makes me absolutely melt.

His hair is slightly damp and messed up, like he's been running his hands through it, and his gray eyes are dark with something that makes my breath catch.

"You're beautiful," he says simply, bringing a hand to cover his mouth for a second, and the way he's looking at me makes me feel like the most desirable woman in the world instead of an eighteen-year-old girl in a Target dress.

"Thank you, Daddy." The title feels natural now, right.

Something shifts in his expression at that. "Inside, baby. I want you in my home."

I step past him into a living room that's surprisingly cozy, but what catches my attention are the plants. Lots of them, lined up on windowsills and tucked into corners, all thriving and happy looking.

"Plants?" I say, raising an eyebrow. "Not exactly what I pictured in Coach Reynolds' bachelor pad."

He runs a flat hand back and forth over his pecs, looking almost embarrassed. "They don't talk back. Don't need much either, just water and light and a minimal amount of attention."

He closes the door behind me as I step across the wood floor into the living room, toward a massive snake plant by the window, its thick leaves standing at attention like little green soldiers. "This one's impressive. What kind is it?"

"That's, uh..." He clears his throat. "That's Andy."

"Andy? Like, that's the species name?"

"Andy Reid." His cheeks actually flush, and it's adorable. "The thing's impossible to kill, outlasts everything else, tough old bastard. I, uh… I name them."

I snort, pressing my fingertip to my mouth on a giggle. "You named your snake plant after Andy Reid?"

"Don't start." He swallows, scratching the back of his neck, looking sheepish but so sexy.

"Oh, I'm definitely starting." I move to the next plant, a delicate little thing with purple flowers. "Let me guess... this pretty one must be Tom Brady?"

"Hell no. That's Pete Carroll. Looks all sweet and innocent until it takes over your whole damn garden."

I let the belly laugh come out without muffling, and there’s a satisfaction in his eyes that hits me bone deep. "Okay, so where's Brady then?"

His tongue glances his teeth as he shakes his head.

"On my desk at school. Or he was, anyway. You ran your fingers along his leaves, and I got mad. Damn near killed the thing until I forced myself to give it to Jim… Um, Mr. Turner. We talk football together and his science class needed some fucking greenery. It wasn’t the damn plant’s fault, but I couldn’t stand looking at it any longer. "

I start to laugh, but then catch the look in his eyes and realize… He’s serious. He got that jealous because I touched a plant named Tom Brady?

Why do I find that so flippin’ sexy?

"And...” I have to force myself to remember to breathe. “Bill Belichick?"

"Kitchen. The Ficus. Stubborn as hell, thrives on neglect, still outperforms everything around it."

The fact that he knows all their personalities, that he's put this much thought into plant-football metaphors, is somehow the most endearing thing I've ever heard.

"Turn around." He shifts forward, and I can tell the plant conversation is over. He makes a spinning gesture with his hand over my head.

I turn my palms up, doing a slow turn, letting him look his fill. When I complete the circle, his jaw is tight and his hands are clenched at his sides.

"Fuck, you're perfect." He reaches out and traces one finger along the neckline of my dress. "Did you follow all my instructions?"

"Yes, Daddy."

"Show me."

My cheeks burn, but I reach up and undo the top button of my dress, letting it gape open enough to show that I'm not wearing a bra. His sharp intake of breath makes my nipples harden.

"Good girl." He steps closer, close enough that I can smell his cologne and the faint scent of soap. "Are you nervous?"

"A little."

He steps closer, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "Good. You should be. Do you know why?"

I shake my head.

"Because I've been thinking about this moment for months.

Ever since you started running the track where I could see you.

About having you here, in my space, with nowhere to run.

" His thumb traces my lower lip, and I think back to the first time I ran that track, wearing booty-hugging running shorts just for his eyes.

Barely eighteen. "About all the things I'm going to do to you and do for you. "

My breath catches. "What things?"

"Patience, baby girl." His hand slides to the back of my neck, fingers tangling in the hair at the back of my neck with a soft tug.

Just enough to let me know things are changing.

"First, I need to know you trust me. Completely.

Because once I start touching you the way I want to, I'm not going to want to stop. "

"I trust you, Daddy."