COACH (Boston Terriers Book 3) Read online

  Ambling over, he flops down on the couch. “What’s up tonight?”

  I raise my beer in his direction. “You’re looking at it.”

  “Trevor and I are going out. Why don’t you come with us?”

  “Nah. I think I’m going to relax and enjoy my night off. I have to be at practice tomorrow morning.”

  “Come on, old man. It won’t kill you to have some fun. You’ll go back to being miserable tomorrow.”

  Silently I accept the consistent jabs he keeps throwing my way. I certainly don’t want to come across as someone who’s glum or moody about their lot in life. Claire broke my heart, but it’s been over a year now and I don’t want to be the dude who can’t get over a chick. Especially when I am over her... aren’t I?

  I thought I was until I saw her today. But the more I think about it, the more I realize the ache in my chest isn’t caused by me longing for her or our relationship. I’m still angry I didn’t notice she was cheating on me. Her betrayal was a red-hot flame that seared deep in my psyche. The wound is healing. The scar is beginning to form, but it still stings. And the memory of walking in on the two of them fucking stokes the never-ending fire.

  I’ve always considered myself to be an intelligent guy. In school, I maintained a high grade point average with little effort, and learning new things comes fairly easy for me. But none of that matters because sometimes we only allow ourselves to see what we want and ignore our instincts nagging that something is off.

  Bringing the bottle to my lips, I swallow down the last large gulp of beer and raise the empty bottle in a silent toast to myself. Why didn’t I realize something was going on? I’ll never allow myself to be in that situation again. The minute something seems off, I’m going to walk - no, I’m going to bolt. All of that’s in the past and there’s no value in dwelling on it. All thinking about it has done is piss me off. Raking my fingers through my hair at my dismaying thoughts, I turn to Owen. “Where are we going?”

  C’s Pub is packed with people, which is typical for a Friday night. Bodies are crammed in tight and I’m doing my best to keep a foot of space around me on all sides. I don’t like to be crowded. It makes me grumpy, and no one wants to see me when I’m in a foul mood.

  I ignore most of the conversation going on in favor of checking out the ladies. There are some who catch my eye, but I’m in the mood to drink a few for now. Maybe later I’ll make my way over to the group in the far right corner. There’s a table full of hot bodies topped with beautiful faces. They’re actually cheerleaders for the Terriers, and Mallory, the sultry blonde, and I have hooked up on a few occasions. Leaning back against the bar, I aim a silent toast in their direction before taking a deep pull from the bottle.

  My eyes are still enjoying the view when the dude next to me jostles my arm with his elbow. “Sssorry man.” He smiles drunkenly, his eyes blinking as he tries to focus. “Weee’re packed in here preeetty tight.”

  Narrowing my eyes, I scowl and lean down to his shorter height, speaking clearly, “Maybe you need to move so you don’t spill my beer. If one drop of this,” I say, pointing at the bottle, “lands on me, I’m going to pour the rest over your head and then beat your ass.”

  He visibly gulps and nods, holding his hands up in a helpless gesture. He shuffles over to the side and then weaves through an opening in the crowd, slinking away.

  “Dude, what’s up with you tonight?” Owen nudges his chin in my direction. “You’re even grumpier than usual. Are you looking for a fight? Because I’m pretty sure you could find one.”

  Tipping the brew back for another large gulp, I don’t answer right away.

  He’s right. What’s wrong with me?

  I’ve been feeling out of sorts since I saw Claire, but it’s not just seeing her that’s causing it. My career is going great. I landed my dream job right out of college and I’m happy with how my work is going. I’ve got the coaching gig and that takes up some of my free time. I can’t put my finger on what’s missing.

  I’m not interested in chasing skirts like my friends. I’m not sure if that means I’m ready for another commitment, or if I’m just stuck in the middle of where I was and where I want to be.

  “Hello?” Owen snaps his fingers in front of my face, interrupting my inner reflecting.

  I shrug my shoulders. “No, I’m not trying to get into a fight. I’m not sure what the deal is. I’m just not feeling like myself.”

  “No worries, man.” He slaps me on the arm. “It’s Friday and you have the whole glorious weekend in front of you.”

  “We need some shots to get this night going.” Trevor sidles up between us, a hand already raised, summoning the bartender. “Six shots of Jameson.” He hooks an arm around each of us. “Time to have some fun, gentlemen. You guys are way too tame.”

  “We’re not stopping you from having a good time,” I reply, before taking another deep pull from my beer.

  “I know, but I like to see everyone having fun. Think of me as the bringer of cheer. I’m here selflessly spreading the good times around for all. We need to turn your ugly frown upside down.”

  “That’s not all you spread around,” Owen quips. “There’s an antibiotic shortage at the health clinic since you started here.”

  I chuckle as I take in Trevor’s feigned look of outrage. I know he’s not really pissed off. I’ve never seen him mad and we’ve been roommates for a year. His older brother, Brady, was the former quarterback of the Terriers and also one of my roommates. We’re still close friends, even though he moved out when we graduated to live with his girl. Trevor took his vacant room.

  “I resent that. My dick is fucking pristine. I always wrap it,” Trevor reports.

  The bartender sets the shots down in front of us and Trevor throws some bills onto the bar before pushing the whiskey in front of each of us. “Cheers, ladies.” He smirks.

  “Fuck off.” Owen raises his hand slipping the glass rim between his lips.

  I don’t say anything as my hand closes around one of the shots. I knock it back, swallowing down the enjoyable burn. It’s warm and comforting. Immediately, I repeat the motion with the second, and this one tastes even better. It’s been too long since I let myself blow off some steam with friends. A night of hanging out with the boys and drinking too much is just what the doctor ordered.

  Chapter Two

  Zeke

  Groaning, I pull a pillow over my head and bury my face in the softness of the one beneath me. If I’m lucky, I’ll smother to death and put myself out of my misery.

  What the fuck was I thinking downing all those shots last night? It didn’t help that we ended up at Mallory’s apartment and the drinking continued on. I barely remember stumbling home around three a.m.

  I never thought the day would come I’d be so horribly hungover from a night out with the guys. I worked hard during my college years to become a professional drinker and I never imagined I could be so fucked up from doing shots. I haven’t been this hungover since freshman year. I’m clearly out of practice.

  The buzzing of the alarm on my phone has me groaning once more. I blindly reach my hand out, fumbling around on the nightstand. My palm repeatedly slaps the wooden surface as I search for the irksome device. When my hand finally makes contact, I snatch it up. My thumb swipes over the screen repeatedly until the hellish noise ends. Sighing in relief, I settle back into the pillows. Savoring the silence, I hold perfectly still aside from the shallow breaths I allow myself to take. The slightest movement sends a sharp pain shooting through my head and has my stomach churning uneasily, like I’m in a small boat on a turbulent sea.

  Fuck me. I can’t believe I have to get up and go to practice. Dying would be preferable to leaving the comfort of my king size bed.

  I never should have gone out last night. If I hadn’t seen Claire, I would’ve stayed home and I’d be feeling fine this morning.

  This is her fault.

  I’ll add this to the long list of her wrongdoings.


  Damn it.

  Lying here longer isn’t an option or I’ll be late to practice. One of the coaches being tardy doesn’t really set a good precedent and the staff avoids it at all costs. Being hungover isn’t a viable explanation. Not that I would admit to drinking too much. At twenty-four, I’m a role model for these girls, even though I’m only a few years older than most. I try to act the part, being professional and not getting too close with any of the team. From day one, I made it about football, and I was careful not to joke around too much. I’m firm and fair and I don’t play favorites. I like to think they respect me, but who knows? They probably complain about what a dick I am and I don’t realize it.

  Sucking air between my teeth, I exhale and raise my heavy head upright. The pillow falls to the side as the bright morning sun pours through the blinds I forgot to close in my drunken stupor. Blaring pinpricks of light assault my eyes and I reflexively squeeze my lids shut like a heavy door slamming down on an open garage bay.

  Resting my elbows on the mattress, I press the heels of my palms into each socket to soothe the debilitating pain vibrating through my skull.

  Painstakingly raising my upper body from the bed, I roll over and sit upright. Both hands clasp my head, making sure it’s still attached to my neck. Judging from the skull splitting jolt each movement causes, it’s only matter of time before it falls off.

  Hissing from discomfort, I slide to the edge of the mattress, pausing to catch my breath with both feet pressed into the cool floor. The solidness of the hardwood beneath my soles helps to ground me as I unsteadily rise to balance on shaky legs. Gritting my teeth, I force my feet to move the handful of steps to my en suite bathroom while my head continues to pound and my stomach burns like it’s been doused with gasoline and set on fire.

  Flipping on the shower, I press my right temple against the cool, white subway tiles and wait for the water to heat. A deep moan escapes my mouth as I step under the hot spray, reverberating around the small bathroom. If I could stay here for the next hour I might be able to function for the rest of the day. Unfortunately, I need to be out the door in twenty-five minutes and only fifteen of those can be spent with the blistering water beating down on my head and shoulders.

  It takes me five minutes to dry off, get dressed, and brush my teeth. I barely look in the mirror as I run my hands through my wet hair and slip some sneakers on my feet. Moving into the kitchen on autopilot, I grab my travel mug from the counter and mindlessly rinse it out with cold water. It’s clean enough. If this hangover hasn’t killed me, day old coffee remnants sure as fuck won’t. Shoving the cup under the spout just before the stream of dark brew begins to flow, my eyes close with longing and anticipation of the first sip.

  Once the cup is full, I snap the lid on and grab a few ibuprofen from the bottle on the windowsill. Popping them in my mouth, I swallow them down as I grab my keys and slip my sunglasses over my bloodshot eyes. Glancing at the clock on the kitchen wall, I grimace when I notice I’m running behind schedule.

  The shuffling steps of my journey from the front entrance of my building to my truck is a blur. Once I’m safely inside with the engine running and air conditioning blasting, I take my first sip of coffee. “Fuck that’s good,” I murmur, placing the mug in the cup holder.

  The field is only a five minute drive from my place. It can be hit or miss depending on the day of the week and traffic situation. If I wasn’t feeling like shit, I’d walk there. Since it’s only nine a.m. on Saturday, I’m able to recoup the time I lost staying in bed and make it to the field with time to spare.

  This is our first organized practice of the season. It’s only the middle of July, but we’ve acquired some new players and one of them is the quarterback. I don’t know much about them since the director of the football program and Mark, the head coach, are the ones who do all the scouting. They make the tough decisions for the team, the ones I want no part of. All I have to do is get the offense up to speed. It takes time for the team to gel and function like a well-oiled machine, especially when we get new players. And the offseason is so long, it’s like starting from scratch each year, even with the familiar players.

  My travel mug in hand, I head over to where Mark stands on the sidelines.

  “Zeke, how you doin’ man?”

  I grunt out a hello and take a sip of my still scorching hot coffee.

  “Rough night?” He raises a brow.

  “You could say that.”

  “You’re getting too old for that shit.”

  “I’m not even twenty-five yet. How can that be too old?”

  “Once you start working full-time and have to behave like a responsible adult, it hits you harder.” He slaps my chest with the back of his hand. “You already know this; you just don’t want to admit it.”

  “You might be on the money with that assessment. I haven’t felt this hungover since I was a newb drinking my freshman year.”

  Mark chuckles. “Bet you won’t do that again anytime soon.”

  “Hell no. I’m not a glutton for punishment. I barely made it out of bed this morning.”

  “Well, this practice won’t be long. I just want to introduce everyone to the new players and do some drills.”

  “Sounds good to me.” I run my fingers over my still aching forehead. Although it’s settled to a dull pain, it’s still there - nagging like a whiny ex-girlfriend you bumped into unexpectedly.

  Yeah, I’m not feeling bitter today.

  “You want to get things started?” Mark waits for my nod of confirmation before he moves on to the speak to Allen, the defensive coordinator.

  I drink down the rest of the coffee and place the empty mug on the end of the bench. Rolling my head from side to side, I shake off the hangover. It’s time to get down to business, even though I’d rather be at home in my bed.

  Stepping forward to the edge of the field, I clap my hands three times and then shove my fingers between my lips for an obnoxiously loud whistle. “Okay, ladies. In case you forgot or blocked it out, I’m Zeke, but call me Coach. How are you all doing?”

  “Better now that you’re here,” Kerry, one of the seniors calls out. A chorus of giggles and “Hi, Coach,” rings out. I ignore the hooting accompanying the greetings. I went through the same thing last year. Most of the girls behave for the most part, but there’s always a few who push the envelope. Especially Kerry.

  “Let’s get this show on the road. Start with some laps around the field. Run until you hear my whistle.”

  Murmurs of unhappiness reach my ears and I press my lips together. I don’t want to hear any grumbling.

  Is this what the start of each new season brings?

  If they’re going to play such a physically demanding sport and have scholarships handed out to them, they need to suck it up. I would’ve never behaved like that. Coach would have handed us our asses if we did.

  The dull thud of something dropping down onto the bench behind me has my head turning. My eyes drink in the captivating sight of a hot brunette dressed in a black sports bra and fitted matching shorts that end at the top of her toned thighs.

  Hmm, my favorite kind of shorts… and thighs. I smirk and let my eyes continue wandering over her becoming form.

  She’s tall and lean with gracefully curved hips. Curves that my hands could grab onto as I thrust inside her. Shit. After last night with Mallory, I shouldn’t be reacting like this. It’s not like my libido to be out of control. Seeing Claire must have fucked with my head more than it should have - and apparently my dick, too.

  The beautiful stranger’s hair is braided neatly and she looks like she might have makeup on. Her lips can’t be that berry color naturally. I wonder if they taste like berries too?

  My eyes journey upward, connecting with her wide brown ones through the shades I’m still wearing. She flushes pink and quickly looks away. She’s adorable and clearly in the wrong place. Maybe she needs some help.

  I step closer until we’re facing one another. “Are you
looking for cheerleader tryouts, sweetheart? I’m afraid you’re in the wrong place.” I cross my arms over my broad chest and smirk.

  “Zeke, I see you’ve already met Amelia,” Mark interrupts, walking back over.

  “Amelia?”

  “She’s our new star quarterback. Don’t tell me you didn’t know who she was.”

  Running my hand over my stubbled chin, I struggle for words, which is unusual for me. “Amelia,” I say, trying her name on for size. “Sure, I knew who she was.”

  Chapter Three

  Amelia

  The disgusted sound of my tongue sucking my teeth escapes before I think better of it. I can’t see his eyes behind his aviators, but I imagine them narrowing as he stares at me. My own flash fire back at him.

  Sure, dude.

  He had no frigging idea who I am. And now this donkey is going to act like he didn’t think I was a cheerleader. Fuck that.

  I cross my arms over my chest. “Are you sure about that? You did tell me I was in the wrong place for cheerleading tryouts.” I lay it all out there, showing no mercy. If he can’t take it, too bad. With such a chauvinistic attitude, getting knocked down a peg or two will do him some good.

  Mark barks out a laugh and pats the donkey on his back. “You didn’t read over the email I sent, did you?”

  He shrugs and smiles sheepishly. “I must have missed that one.”

  “Yeah, sure you did, Zeke. Just like you miss all the emails I send.” Mark casts a skeptical look in his direction. “Amelia, this is Zeke. He’s the offensive coordinator. I promise he’s much better at coaching than he is at reading emails,” Mark chuckles.