Page 1 of Coach's Son
Chapter 1
Drew
Youknowthatfeelingwhen you’ve lured someone into your bed and you can see the fear in their eyes, torment tangled with fraught hunger? That’s the Goldilocks zone. Nummy as the creamy custard bleeding out of a freshly fried Bismarck, piping hot from the fryer. The viscous custard melting away on the tip of my tongue as it breaks down. Bit by bit. Doesn’t matter if it’s some blonde damsel from the hotel bar or a poor sod in the back alley swearing blind they’re not into me. That frantic, drumming heartbeat sprinting beneath their skin, pulsing under my palms, exposes the truth their mouths can’t admit.
They want me. They ache to slobber up the salt on my skin. Whether it's behind a dumpster with their trousers around their ankles or bent ninety degrees over the edge of my kitchen counter.
The galloping thuds are a beautiful sound—reminiscent of black mares trampling across the Earth under the midnight moon. Heavenly hymns pattering to my eardrums. Evidence that agony and desire can exist in the same gasp. Their despair and ache are solely for me. I make them convulse, make them question what is going to happen to their very existence, what led them to this profound moment, shackled to my delight.
Sweat beads on their temples, veins bulging on overdrive. Glossiness overtakes their vision. Their lips parting wide in anticipation of my blissful touch. Wide enough to envision the plea of desperation jolting down through their core. Forcing them to question whether it’s terror or desire gorging them apart. Devouring every fabric of their internal matrix, until they cry for me to answer the paradox ripping their universe apart.
I see the world through their eyes, whether they are ice blue or a peculiar shade of hazel. Pupils dilate all the same, incapable of telling a lie. They aren’t sure to be afraid of the ropes dangling in my bedroom or whether to savour the fact that I’ve chosen them. Their bodies cramp between flight or surrender, every nerve down to their tippy-toes screaming to run while their hearts beg them to stay.
No one can resist Drew Evans. By the time I’ve had my go, they’re heaving, begging, sloppy for another taste. It’s bloody pathetic, but admittedly I love it. Fucking gets me there like nothing else can.
I adore their poor souls pleading for more, as if another round is going to cure world hunger and fix every broken part of them. As if it'll mend the scars they’ve endured.
I don’t blame them. I’m pretty fucking fit. My sleeves have been cultivated over years. Black snakes crawling up my arms. I’d bang myself too if I could. I’m flawless in every way imaginable. Perfectly hung and always landscaped, a smoking fresh mullet, paired with perfect teeth. Pretty damn rare for a Brit.
You know the NHS doesn’t cover dental; most chaps in my year couldn’t smile in their official photos from how crooked their smiles were.
That brings me to my tosser of a brother. A piss-poor coward.
I’m not like my twin Charlie. He parades around with this image that he’s a golden boy. A rule follower. Kicker of the year, knight in shining plated armor. Truth is, he’s a fraud. A disgraceful sham of a brother, hiding behind posturing smiles and loyalty, but underneath it all, he’s weak.
If only everyone knew the truth of our childhood, they wouldn’t even compare us…
I’m the opposite. I don’t follow rules. I don’t need the world’s approval to validate me. I take what I want, when I want it, and if that makes me the villain, so be it. Charlie wants people to adore him. I want them to fear how much they crave me. How much they squirm away from the snakes, but can’t help themselves at the same time. Their mouths froth like bubbles in a tub.
You think it’s going to be intense. The sacred act. Twenty minutes later, Blondy is drenched in a cesspool of her own filth, screaming like I’ve given her salvation. Answered every prayer she’s ever muttered. Meanwhile, I feel nothing. A black oblivion. Only the same hollow pit gnawing at my gut, void of anything except contempt.
It's always the same. No one brings me satisfaction. I feel a sliver of joy, but only when I see the fright in their eyes.
“Alright, lass, time to hit the road,” I mutter, disgust seeping off every word.
She whines, clinging. “But… what about you?”
“I’m fine.” I grab my vape, blow a thick blue razz cloud straight into her face, watching her flinch as the smoke carries the truth—that she was never more than a distraction. A terribleone at that. She doesn’t deserve for me to finish. She sure as hell doesn't deserve my seed. “Now get the fuck out of my flat.”
“Okay, Mr. Grinch.” She huffs, scooping her clothes off the floor. “So much for St. Paul’s hottest bachelor.”
She’s right about one thing. I am the hottest and richest bachelor in St. Paul, probably in the entire Midwest if I'm being completely honest. But that doesn’t mean I’m the nicest. Niceness is for Charlie, for losers who need to be liked.
Me? I don’t give a fuck about her feelings. She should be grateful she even got this far, that she had the privilege of touching me. To indulge in the pleasure of stroking my abs. Most women only get to scream my name from the stands while I’m on the ice, basking in the roar of the crowd. Allowing me to feed on their desperation before I make the game-saving block.
Ms. Blondy stumbles out of my flat, stripper heels clacking down the hall like a walk of shame.
“Thank the Lord,” I mutter, slamming the door and twisting the lock shut. Last thing I need is her getting second thoughts about crawling back in. If she did, I might just have to toss her off the balcony and be done with it.
I don’t have a second to waste—my time is precious.
Turning toward the liquor cabinet—my altar—I grab a crystal glass etched with my initials. I splash in a double pour of vodka. Only the finest for the hottest. Right from the United Kingdom—Britain’s best. I tip it back and let it carbonise down my throat, savouring the burn as it claws its way through my chest. Pain dressed up as pleasure.
My favorite emotion, second only to fear. I wish I could feel it, so the next best thing is dealing it out. Spreading it across the table like I’m running blackjack in some Prohibition-era casino, every hand a gamble with me holding the deck. I watch who folds too early, who’s stupid enough to bluff, and who’s desperate enough to beg me for another hit, knowing it’ll bleed them dry.
Just like an addict chasing the dragon, only to blow their last vein. The last track giving way to defeat.
That’s the rush. The split second they realize the game was rigged from the start. That I was never playing fair. Drew Evans always comes out victorious.
