Me
Yeah.
Because if I’m going to ruin everything, I might as well do it face-to-face through a phone. News of the next charity event will soon be all over campus. But tonight, I need to see Jackson and pretend that this thing between us isn’t about to get exponentially more complicated.
The bus pulls into the hotel parking lot, and we file off, having aged five years in the last three hours.
“We leave tomorrow at six o’clock,” Coach announces. “Not 6:01, not 6:05. If you’re not in the parking lot by six, you’re walking home and doing suicides at practice until you die.”
Nobody argues. We deserve whatever torture he has planned.
28
DREW
The knock on my door sounds like God himself has come to collect my soul, which honestly might be preferable to whatever’s about to happen.
I drag myself off the bed, every muscle screaming from that hit in the second period. The world tilts slightly as I shuffle to the door, and I’m vaguely aware that I’m only wearing boxer briefs, but my brain’s too scrambled to care. I yank the door open and immediately wish I hadn’t.
Coach Donovan fills the doorway, six-foot-two of solid muscle, blocking the hallway light. The fabric of his white tank strains across pecs that rise and fall with each breath, the cotton worn thin enough that I can make out his nipples. His sweatpants cling to thick thighs, the drawstring hanging loose, and I force my eyes up before they drift elsewhere. He shifts his weight, and I notice he’s in a pair of generic white socks.
My cock, traitor that it is, twitches with interest even though I currently have the mental capacity of a concussed goldfish.
“Jesus, Larney, put some clothes on,” he says, but he’s already pushing past me into the room.
I close the door and lean against it, trying to process why my coach is in my hotel room at—I squint at the clock—11:47 p.m.
“Sit,” he orders, pointing at the bed.
I sit because what else am I gonna do?
“We need to talk about what happened out there,” he says, pulling the desk chair over and sitting directly in front of me.
“I played like shit,” I mumble.
“You played like someone whose head wasn’t in the game.” His hazel eyes bore into mine. “This about Jackson?”
My heart stops beating. “Why would it be about Jackson?”
“Because you’ve been off ever since Oliver announced that charity thing on the bus.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and Christ, I can see every ridge of muscle through that tank top. “Talk to me, Drew.”
Something in his voice cracks me open. “I can’t do it anymore. This thing with Jackson—I can’t keep pretending it doesn’t mean anything.”
Coach’s expression doesn’t change. “Who says you’re pretending?”
“It’s fake. The whole relationship is fake. And now there’s another event where I have to touch him and be close to him when—” I stop, running my hands through my hair.
“When what?”
“When I’m in love with him.” The admission hangs in the air, and I can’t take it back. Don’t want to. “I’m so fucking in love with him I can’t see straight. Can’t play hockey. Can’t think about anything except how much I want it to be real.”
Coach stares at me, his expression unreadable as the seconds tick by. Then he stands, the chair creaking with relief. His socks whisper against the carpet as he crosses to the mini-fridge. The small door opens with a soft vacuum sound, bathing his face in bluish light. Condensation glints on the plastic bottles as he pulls two out. The plastic crackles in his grip before one sails throughthe air toward me. I catch it against my bare chest, cold water beading against my skin as he lowers himself back down, his weight making the chair protest once more. “Drink,” he orders.
I crack open the bottle and take a long pull, grateful for something to do with my hands.
“You know,” Coach says, leaning back and crossing his legs at the ankle, “I used to be married. To a woman. Beautiful girl, smart as hell. I already told you we met in college, but what I didn’t say was that we had a shotgun wedding right after graduation.” His eyes go distant. “I thought I loved her. Thought that was what I was supposed to do—find a nice girl, settle down, have kids.”
“Coach—”
