Page 15 of The Coach

The anger returned now. “Thought what? That I was cheating on my wife? That I wouldeverdo such a thing?”

But he was right. That’s exactly what I thought. “I’m sorry.”

“Just get out of here, Davidson. Take your stuff and go.”

“Coach…”

“GO!” he yelled.

I put on my sweatpants, slid on my sneakers, and did as he told me. With a final glance, I looked at him over my shoulder, but his back was turned to me. He had shut me out. Footsteps heavy, I walked out of his office, the door clicking shut behind me.

As I walked down the hallway, away from the gym, the weight of his touch still burned on my skin, his breath still warm against my ass, my hole still wet from his saliva. So, Blake Hudson was single. And not as straight as I thought, because he clearly feltsomethingfor me. But then I blew it and now he hated me. I thought we had made some progress these past two days, but I was wrong. We were back to square one.

10. Blake

The bus hummed as we barreled down the highway toward Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, that strip of interstate spooling out like a promise, or a sentence, with the gray hills of fall watching us go. November was upon us and the competitive season had begun, which meant regular tournaments and travels. I used to love this time when I was a student, the camaraderie of a road trip, the high energy sparkling in the air. But now, my team was subdued, most of them with earbuds in or glued to their phones, the excitement of another match just a glimmer in their eyes.

How times have changed.

Tyler sat near the back, headphones on and head resting against the window. The murky sunlight cut across his face, casting one cheekbone in a milky light.There was something so open, so calm about his expression that it tugged at me. It was the first time I’d really let myself look at him since the day I’d thrown him out of my office, leaving us both hanging in some strange kind of limbo. I’d avoided being alone with him ever since that incident, trying to stave off something dangerous. But that look in his eyes—the way his voice trembled when he moaned my name—left a crack in my armor that hadn’t mended.

God help me, I wanted him. I knew that now, even though I didn’t know what to make of it. I never looked at another guy like that in my life. Yet Iwantedhim. It was like all my self-control dissolved in his presence. I’d eaten his ass, for Christ’s sake! And not a day went by that I didn’t crave to do it again. Mandy did nothing for me sexually—no woman since Jen did—but one look at Tyler made my blood boil with desire. I’d started fantasizing about fucking him, ramming my cock into that tight pink hole and going to town on his bubble butt. It frightened me. It felt just like an addiction, a substance abuse of a different kind, and I couldn’t allow myself to slip down that black hole again.

His leg seemed to be all right; at least, that’s what he’d told me. Still, my eyes kept straying back to him, alert, watching the way he shifted in his seat, mindful of catching some telltale sign of strain or pain. He’d insisted on competing, claiming he was fine, more than ready. I believed him, though my trust in my judgmentfelt a little rattled these days. Especially when it comes to him.

When we arrived at the hotel, I gathered the team in the lobby for a few quick words. “It’s Friday night,” I told them. “You’re free to go out, explore the town, and have some fun—but nottoomuch fun. The competition starts tomorrow at ten, and you better be rested and ready. I want you all back in your rooms by eleven. Got it?”

“Yes, Coach,” the chorus of voices murmured around me.

We settled into our rooms, a mass of restless bodies jostling down carpeted hallways, the air heavy with anticipation. I gave them this evening to unwind, the curfew set, and made sure each room assignment was clear. Tyler was roomed with his buddy Finn, but I’d hardly closed my door before that strange surge of doubt and pureneedhit me again. I had no business thinking about him like this. And yet, the thought of another guy sharing his room, another body so close to his, set my pulse thrumming with a dull, steady heat.

My gaze wandered to the mini-bar beside my bed, my throat suddenly dry. The temptation was there, always in the back of my mind, but I’ve conquered that demon once. I would not fall prey to it again. So I stripped and got into the shower, then ordered room service, rocking a fluffy white bathrobe and slippers like I was in some fancy ski resort. I ate my dinner and watchedTV in peace, until fatigue finally set in and I passed out on my comfy king-sized bed.

* * *

The gym at Gettysburg College had the same utilitarian layout as ours back home—white fluorescent lights and large blue mats stretched across the wooden floor like a battlefield. Everything around us was orange and blue—their team colors. My Ephs lined up along the mats, a sea of purple singlets, sharp and ready, each one knowing exactly what lay ahead. The Gettysburg Bullets were already there, warming up, confident on their home turf. The gym buzzed with the hum of competition. Across the room, coaches leaned in close, talking strategy, shoulders tense, glancing over to measure up our strengths and weaknesses.

“Blake Hudson,” Don Tappert greeted me as I walked over there to say hello. We knew each other from our competition days, though he was a few years older. “So you’re the new guy Simmons hired to assist him? Where’s the old fart, anyway?”

“Hi Don,” I said. “Didn’t you hear? Clark took a semester off. Hip surgery.”

“So, you’re the sole coach at Williams now? Damn. I don’t know if I should pity you or congratulate you.”

“Yeah, well, I manage.”

“These are my assistant coaches, Will Prescott and Ben Smith.”

I shook their hands, said my hellos, and nodded back to where my team stood. “I should get back and see if the boys are ready. Best of luck.”

“Right back at ya.”

Back in our corner, I kept my eyes trained on my Ephs, stepping forward, clapping hands on shoulders, keeping each boy steady and focused. I’d seen them in practice a hundred times, pushed them through drills and bruises, but here, out in the open, they were on their own. And all I could do was watch.

“You know the drill,” I said, voice low, walking down the line. “Keep it clean. Fast. Don’t let them find your weak spot.” I stopped next to Dean, our heaviest, a solid wall of muscle with a single-minded focus that could make anyone flinch. “They’re going to come in quick, so watch for the double-leg. Look them in the eye. You can tell someone’s next move by their eyes.”

Dean nodded, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Got it, Coach.”

The ref’s whistle blew, calling the first wrestler to the mat. It was Jared, our freshman 141-pounder, sharp and lean, but his nerves were always close to the surface. His opponent was the same height, built like a whip, and they both lunged in, each one hungry, too fast for anything but instinct. Jared went for a single-leg takedown, but the Bullet snapped free, twisting low and driving forward with a shoulder.

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