Before I know it, I’m cupping my hard cock, as I focus on her.
She glances up, and our eyes lock. I freeze, a brief moment of panic setting in, but then I just go with it. I’m standing in full view of her, palming my cock and the fact that she’s paying more attention to me than the guy with his finger in her pussy is making me harder. She smiles, her eyes narrowing as she bites her lip. I grab hold of the window frame for support as my motions become faster. She lifts her skirt, her eyes still locked on mine, and guides his mouth toward her pussy. Her hands cup the back of his head. I groan. I bet she’s fucking wet as anything. Gasping, the pressure builds so fast for a second I can’t breathe. I release, coating my hand as she climaxes in sync with me.
When I think she’s done, I give her a wink and head to the bathroom.
My head pounds as I roll over and wipe a bit of drool off the side of my numb mouth. Holy shit I feel crappy. Maybe going out after getting off watching the blonde get mouth fucked wasn’t the greatest of plans, but it was only supposed to be for one drink. Only one turned into two, and two turned into ten…I glance at the clock. Fuck. Please no. Fuck, shit, shit.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” I’m late. Really fucking late. I whip the sheets back and fly out of bed. I should be there now warming up, not still at home, feeling like I want to hurl. If it weren’t my first day, I’d consider calling in sick. I laugh, because that would go down well.
I race into the bathroom to wash my face, nearly stepping on a used johnny that’s just lying on the floor. I have no recollection of bringing anyone home last night—least of all having sex, but at least I was safe, I guess. Assuming it was mine.
I grab my kit and get out the door as fast as I can. My phone is going off, but fuck it, I'm not going to answer it. I know it will be the coach—or Serj—and I’m not in the mood for a lecture from either of them. I’ll blame being late on traffic. No one will know I was out getting wasted, because if they did, I’d be benched before I even get a chance to play. Fuck their stupid no drinking rules. No wonder they have the longest losing streak record in league history.
Maybe hungover they’d play better and actually win a game.
I pull into the car park, ignoring the flashing cameras as I sprint into the building. I speed past the coach, avoiding eye contact. He glares at me, clipboard in hand, but I maintain my hard, I-don’t-give-a-shit expression even though I’m shaking in my shoes.
“Traffic jam,” I shout and run into the changing room before he can stop me. I fumble through my bag and pull out a small bottle of eye drops, determined to at least try and hide the evidence of my night out. I glance at my reflection in the mirror and laugh. All the lying in the world isn’t going to hide the truth. Fuck. I take a deep breath and walk out onto the field. Here goes nothing.
I join the group on the field, ignoring their hard expressions. Any doubt about whether I’m welcome here is gone. An odd feeling stabs at my chest. Anxiety? Nerves? Then it hits me. I’m depressed.
I think I’m actually depressed about how unwelcome I am here. Or anywhere for that matter. I glance around at my teammates. I don’t give them anything, because no matter how much they’re getting to me, I refuse to let them win. I’m going to make this work just to prove everyone wrong. At least that was the plan. Rocking up an hour late to my first training session wasn’t part of that plan.
“Rough night, Jakey?”
I turn around to face Murray. He takes a swig of his water bottle, a smirk on his lips. My jaw clenches. What I wouldn’t give to wipe that fucking smirk off his face.
“Nope, just allergies, but thanks for your concern.” I’m impressed with fast thinking, especially considering how hungover I am.
“Where do you need me to start?” I ask. I force myself to sound friendly. After the stunt he pulled at the press conference I have no time for this guy, but he’s my captain and I can’t afford to have him off side. So, for now, I’ll suck it up and let him think he’s winning.
“You can start in coach’s office.” He smiles widely, obviously enjoying this. “He's waiting for you.”
Fuck. I glare at him. I can’t believe this. “What, so I'm late because of traffic and I get sent to the principal's office?” I ask sarcastically. “That’s how things are run here, huh?”
Murray just shrugs, refusing to bite. “Maybe he wants to check your allergies are okay. Better run, Jakey. Unless you suffer from asthma too?”
I clench my fists and remind myself to breathe. What I wouldn't give to floor him right now. I stalk off the field and back into the locker room, throwing my kit back in my locker. I slam the door shut and head for the sink, where I wash my face. I take a sip from the tap, swill, and spit it out. My head throbs and all I want to do is go to bed to sleep this off, but instead I head to the coach’s office like a good little boy. I rap on the door and wait for the storm that’s about to hit.
“Get in here and sit down, you piece of shit,” coach hisses. I stroll past him, my hands deep in my pockets. I’ve heard about this guy’s explosions, but never had the pleasure of seeing one in person. Something told me I was about to.
“Nice to see you, too, coach.” I meant to sound cheerful, but it comes out with a sarcastic edge. I shut my mouth and sit down.
“What the fuck are you trying to pull, Jake? Pulling an all-nighter the night before training. What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you not taking this club seriously at all?” He slams his hands down on the desk and the noise makes me wince.
Somehow, I don’t think the response “does anyone?” would go down too well, so I bite back my words.
“Look, I get that you’re the boss and you have to show you’re in charge around that pack out there,” I nudge my head in the direction of the field. “But level with me here. You need me as much as I need you. How about a little mutual respect here? I can do a lot for your club. You might even win a game or ten with me on your team.” I don’t bother to hide my annoyance at being spoken to like I’m five.
“Are you fucking serious?” He laughs, his expression one of dismay. He studies me, as if he’s trying to figure out whether I’m joking or not. “You think I need you? You think I wanted you here, Tanner? You’re here because there’s nobody left willing to deal with your crap. We get the scraps at the bottom of the barrel, and that’s what you are right now. Fish food.”
“So where is the problem? Is it your players or the coaching staff?” I wince as the words fall out of my mouth. Jesus, do I have a death wish? It’s like I don’t know when to stop. Coach’s eyes blaze as he sits forward.
“I'm serious, Jake. Push my buttons all you like. I’m not going to tolerate your bullshit like everyone else does. Yeah, you've got talent, but that doesn’t mean I’m going treat you any better than those other guys, especially if you’re not going to put in the work. You follow the same rules everyone else does or you don't play. It’s as simple as that. You want to waste your talent? That’s your problem, not mine.”
“But your ru
les suck,” I protest. “You can't stop me from playing for having a drink.” I shake my head in disbelief. I can’t believe this.