Page 6 of Coach's Son
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 againstmine, 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.
