Page 7 of Coach's Son
“Don’t,” I say through clenched teeth.
We start drills, and Iaccidentallytrip Jenkins a couple of times. Not my fault he’s about as graceful as a baby giraffe on ice. On the next rep, I haul in a tight sideline catch, my toes dragging just inside the chalk.
“Watch it, rookie,” Jenkins mutters as he jogs past, brushing his shoulder hard into mine.
I toss the ball back to Jackson. “Maybe try staying upright next time. Less of a tripping hazard for both of us.”
He clenches his teeth, his forehead vein nearly popping. “You won’t be talking like that when I’m WR 1.”
“Guess we’ll see,” I say, lining up for the next snap, already itching to burn him again.
The rest of practice blurs into a rush of routes and catches. I’m in the zone—clean breaks, sharp cuts, glue hands. Every rep feels like I’m proving that I deserve a starting WR slot. Jenkins can bark like aflailing seal all he wants. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Coach Rourke’s approving nod more than once.
On the last series, I haul in a high ball in the end zone, keeping my feet in by a whisper. Whistle blows.Touchdown!
“Nice work, Schmidt,” Coach calls out.
Even Jackson, standing by the huddle with his helmet under one arm, gives me a grin. “Not bad, rookie. You keep that up, and I might actually trust you on third down.”
“High praise,” I shoot back. Perhaps, Jackson wouldn’t be unsufferable to play with this year.
“Hey, love!” Charlie’s voice cuts through the chatter as he jogs up, that easy British lilt somehow making everything sound romantic. “You ready for the gala tonight? Finally meet my twin, Drew?”
I wince, my teeth coming together. “Oh shit—that’s tonight?”
“Don’t tell me you forgot. I’ve been talking about it all week.” Charlie grins, cracking his neck. “He’s not mysterious, he’s just—uhhh different. Same face as me, mind you, but you’ll see the rest isn’t remotely the same.”
“Different how?” I ask, my stomach crimping with curiosity.
“You’ll find out soon enough.” He drapes his arm over my shoulder, pulling me in close enough to smell the faint trace of his cologne under the sweat. For a second, the whole field disappears in his embrace. “Wear that suit I like. The navy one. Gives you a bloody swell swagger.”
I snort, trying to hide the way my chest flutters under his touch. “Pretty sure your tux is going to outshine me.”
“Don’t worry darling with a face as gorgeous as yours, it doesn’t matter what suit I wear.”
I watch him jog off toward the locker room, helmet dangling from the tips of my fingers. There’s a strange, restless buzz in my chest. The gala’s supposed to be another charity event—raise a stupendous amount of money for developing a treatment for Celiac’s. Drinks, fancy food, maybe a few photos for the press, but now all I can think about is meeting the other Evans twin.
Same face, but a whole different storm. Twisted and malignant, a tumor on society that somehow learned to skate.
If Charlie’s a beautiful sunny day at the park, Drew’s the swirling darkness before a tornado. The type that tears through without a moment’s warning and leaves nothing but disaster in its wake.
Sleeves of black ink slither up his arms like snakes, hiding God knows how many sins beneath. He’s got a merciless reputation for hitting as hard off the ice as does on it, and the kind of arrogance that clears a room. A personality that constricts around your throat like an anaconda.
And yet, there’s something about Drew that mystifies everyone. Making them stare when they shouldn’t—like when you see a burning car wreck on the highway or a video of an old lady getting mauled sideways by a ferocious bear. Poor souls can't help it. Drew’s dangerous and magnetic in all the wrong ways, possessing the ability to pull any sucker into his charming orbit while destroying them. When he’s finished with them, they say:thank you.
That’s what I’ve heard from Charlie. And knowing him, it’s probably the polite version. Which is why I’m already dreading the first hello.
Chapter 3
Charlie
Hewhipsavapeout of his bomber jacket, inhaling a showy puff, then flooding my nostrils with the blue raspberry monstrosity.
Vaping isn’t allowed in here, but of course he wouldn’t care. Rules are for other people. For him, it’s just another way to mark territory, to announce himself without saying a word. This guy is a fucking idiot. An arrogant, grinning idiot who knows precisely what he’s doing.
My wanker of a brother: Drew Evans. Between the pipes, he’s bloody brilliant—nothing gets past him. Off the ice, though? He’s made a career out of cockblocking me. Every relationship, every chance I’ve had, he’s found some way to muck it up.
But with Austin, I’m not losing a wink of sleep. What we’ve got is deeper than any fling Drew’s ever tried to ruin. Maybe it’s my age talking, but I’ve started picturing the long game. And if I’m honest, I reckon Austin might just be my forever bloke.
