Coach's Daughter

His kneading hands are rough and punishing on my backside, separating my cheeks, lifting them. “Are you telling me it’s time to start fucking, little girl?”

“Yes,” I say, my head spinning. “Yes, Daddy.”

Both of us pause.

Eric pulls back to study what can only be my red face, because what did I just say? Did I really just call this twenty-nine year-old man Daddy?

“I’m sorry—”

“I’m not. I loved it,” he interrupts quickly, carrying me from the court, back into the hallway leading to the stairs, his thickly muscled chest heaving. “I’m going to make you say it again when I’m balls deep.”

Turned on in the extreme by his bluntness, I tuck my face into his neck and moan, absorbing his crushed mint and male scent. Never in my wildest imagination did I think this moment with Eric would feel so absolutely right. To be carried to his room, the urgency almost blinding in its intensity, to feel like I might die if he doesn’t make love to me.

Searching for something to ground me, I look around the house as he carries me through, taking note of the bookcases, the lack of flash. “Where is your nine-million-gallon fish tank and your stripper pole?” I murmur into his shoulder.

He chokes a laugh. “I’m sorry?”

“Most athletes go for a slightly more ostentatious look.”

“Ah. Yeah, you’re right about that.” Shaking his head, he carries me up a curved staircase leading to the second floor. “I don’t drink. Don’t party. I’ve always thought…there’s no reason to make my house over-the-top impressive when I’m the only one who’s going to see it.” He kisses the side of my neck. “Guess I’ll have to rethink that. You’ll be here now.”

I suppress my lovesick sigh. “Will I? Don’t get cocky, Bentley.”

His laughter booms loudly off the walls.

We enter his bedroom a moment later and I smile into his shoulder at the overtly male space. It’s gray and black, no nonsense, made for sleeping and getting dressed, period. Blackout curtains and a leather bench, cushy carpets, a bed that could fit a giant. Or one seriously yoked basketball player and me.

Nerves begin to flutter in my throat over what’s to come, so when he drops down onto the edge of the bed, rocking me in his arms, I’m grateful he’s not rushing. But I search for a distraction, nonetheless. “Why don’t you drink or party?” When he stiffens a little, I lift my head to search his face. “Eric?”

He clears his throat. “Just something that happened in college. I don’t…I haven’t talked about it much since it happened.”

I reach up to cradle his jaw, stroking the day’s growth of dark hair. “You don’t have to tell me.”

For long moments, he looks into my eyes. “I think I want to.”

Nodding, I wait, continuing to run my fingers down the side of his face.

“I was in a fraternity in college. Specifically for athletes. It wasn’t really my thing, I’m more comfortable being alone, but my best friend, Wade…he wanted to be part of that scene so badly. The parties, the camaraderie, the constant activity. I was already making a name for myself our freshman year, taking the first-string point guard spot. Sports analysts were plugging me as the next big thing. Wade knew he’d get into the frat if I joined and made us a package deal.”

He grows silent.

Following instinct, I wrap my arms around his neck. Hold him.

After a moment, he continues. “I was young…but I wasn’t stupid. Or reckless. I just gave in to the constant pressure one night during rush week. One time. I kept getting passed drinks and everything turned into a blur. I lost track of Wade and I woke up in a strange bed with someone I didn’t know. It was noon when I woke up and he…Wade was already gone. They’d hazed him, given him too much to drink and they lost him in the hospital.” He takes a shuddering breath. “I was supposed to be looking out for him.”

“Oh, Eric.” My throat constricts. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry that happened and you lost your best friend. That’s not fair.”

“I haven’t drunk a drop of alcohol or been with a woman since then, Greta.”

“You’ve been punishing yourself?” I shake my head. “It wasn’t your fault, Eric. You can’t blame yourself for behaving like an eighteen-year-old. You never could have known what was going to happen.”

It’s clear he’s not willing to relinquish responsibility for this. It’s right there in the stubborn set to his jaw. “Maybe I’ve been punishing myself a little by denying myself alcohol and sex.” His breath grows hot on my neck, his hand twisting in the rear hem of my skirt. “Or maybe I was just waiting for someone to feel right. No one has ever fucking felt right but you. If I’ve been coming on strong, Greta, it’s because I’m scared you’ll slip through my fingers.”