The man starts to walk this way, his attention focused on Trent. I watch, feeling creepy but uncaring at the same time. He’s tall, taller than Trent by at least a few inches. His light brown hair is long on top, and it looks like he’s been running his fingers through it all day long.
His jaw is chiseled, and there’s scruff on it. He looks fit, his polo shirt clinging to his muscular frame; and if I squint, I can see a faint outline of a six-pack at his middle. When he’s right in front of us, I look into his eyes and notice that he has pale green irises. They’re the sexiest eyes I’ve ever seen before—along with the rest of him.
“You don’t get your shit together, I’m cutting you from the team,” I hear the stranger growl. It wakes me up from my daze.
“You can’t cut me. On what fucking grounds?” Trent smarts off.
The stranger chuckles, and it’s completely humorless. “Boy, I could cut you without any grounds at all, but I have them. You show up to every single practice drunk or hungover. You’re slow and weak. In fact, you’re on fucking probation. Mess up one more time and you’re done,” he states before he turns and walks away.
“That fucking asshole,” Trent hisses.
“Who was that?” I ask quietly.
Trent turns to me and his eyes narrow. “My fucking coach,” he spits.
I wonder how on earth that sexy man could be his coach? He didn’t look old enough to be a college football coach. I don’t say anything, though. I listen as Trent rants and raves about the man, Coach Bronson. I make a mental note of his name.
When we’re finished eating lunch, Trent informs me that he’ll see me later. I don’t ask where he’s going. Surely he’s going to go drink more, or workout, or do whatever it is he does to let off steam.
All through my next class, I’m completely distracted. I can’t think of anything but Coach Bronson. I think about his hair, and what it would be like to run my fingers through the light brown, messy strands. I think about his eyes, the pale green color, and wonder what they would look like if they weren’t irritated but instead focused on me.
I don’t know why I’m suddenly fascinated with him, but I am. I’ve never been attracted to another man, or allowed myself to be. My life has been school and Trent. I’ve been extremely focused and stayed that way, not allowing any other type of distraction to come near me.
“Hey, what’s your deal?” Ines asks me while we’re studying at the library. At least she’s studying. I’m staring off into the room.
Shaking my head, I bite my lip and brush my hair out of my eyes. “Nothing. Well, Trent is on probation with the football team,” I admit, keeping my sudden crush on the coach a secret.
“That’s not surprising,” she mutters.
Biting my bottom lip, I continue. “If he gets kicked out, I won’t be able to stay, either. I don’t want to leave,” I whisper.
Ines’s eyes narrow as she leans in. “Why would you have to leave? He’s the one that’s fucking up, not you.”
“He’d want me to go back home with him. It would be expected.”
Ines makes a pfft noise as she rolls her eyes. “Have I told you lately that I can’t stand him?”
I giggle and nod, because she tells me every day. Honestly, I don’t really like him all that much, either—but I’m indebted to him, indebted to him and his family.
“Let’s finish this homework. I have to work tonight.”
Ines and I finish our homework, but before I head back to my dorm to change for work, I decide to visit with Coach Bronson. It takes me a few minutes to find his office on the map kiosk, but once I do, I quickly walk in that direction.
When I arrive at the athletic department building, I take a deep breath. It’s silly to be intimidated and attracted to Coach Bronson. He’s older than me, and odds are he’s married, or at the very least in a relationship.
I’m also very much in a relationship, so I shouldn’t even notice that he’s downright sexy. Standing in front of his closed door, I let out a deep breath before I lift my hand and knock.
“C’mon in,” his deep voice murmurs from the other side of the door. I hesitantly reach for the handle and turn it.
I don’t know what I’m going to say, or why I’m really here, except to maybe plead Trent’s case. I need him to stay in school and finish. I’m afraid if a football career doesn’t happen for him that he’ll need some kind of education to fall back on. Not only that, I’m selfish, I want to stay here and finish school. If he leaves, he’ll no doubt demand I leave as well.
Stepping inside of Coach Bronson’s office, I close the door behind me. When it clicks into place, I look at the man across from me, and I freeze. He’s even more handsome, more beautiful, close up and not angry. His green eyes take me in, but I can see that he’s trying to place me, wondering why I’m here in his office.
Clearing my throat, I speak. “I’m Trent Keller’s girlfriend,” I murmur.
For some reason, admitting that I’m Trent’s girlfriend leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I haven’t said the word aloud in so long that it feels awkward.
“How can I help you?” he asks, arching a brow and leaning back slightly in his office chair.
I twist my fingers together and bite the inside of my cheek before I speak.
“Don’t kick him off of the team, please,” I whisper. He doesn’t respond, so I continue. “Football is everything to him, and I’ll make sure he’s sober. I’ll make sure he comes to practice on time and ready to play,” I ensure, although I’m not sure that I can truly come through with those promises.
I watch as he runs his hand through his hair and his green eyes meet mine. All of the air whooshes out of my lungs at his serious gaze. His eyes feel like they’re penetrating right through me, as though he knows that I’m full of shit, as though he can see everything inside of me. Then he smirks, and I press my thighs together, not only to keep my knees from knocking, but also because that smirk makes me feel warm.
“Why are you in here fighting his battle…?”
“Jessa,” I whisper.
“Jessa,” he murmurs. That warmth I was feeling suddenly rushes throughout my entire body. “He’s on probation, and if he comes to practices sober, ready to work, and loses his entitled attitude, then I have no problem reinstating his position. Why are you so worried about him?” he asks, tipping his head to the side.
I shake my head, unwilling to tell this stranger my entire story. Rather, I fib a little. “I just want him to be happy, and this is what makes him happy.”
Coach Bronson eyes me, and I know he can see my answer for what it is. An almost complete lie. I do want Trent to be happy, because when he’s happy he’s a little kinder to me. But I need him to stay on the team so that we can stay here in Lincoln.
If he’s off the team, he’ll lose his scholarship, and we’ll go back to Grant. If I go back there, we’ll get married and he’ll probably work at the hardware store his dad works in. I’ll get pregnant, and then I’ll be a wife and mom without ever fulfilling my own dreams.
“He has a month to get his shit together, Jessa. He doesn’t, then he’s gone,” he murmurs. I nod as I thank him profusely.
“Go,” he chuckles.
Turning to leave, I wrap my hand around the door, tugging it open before I turn around to face him again. His eyes are still on me, trying to say something, but I don’t know what. I want to ask him, but I’m too scared.
“Thank you, again,” I whisper. He lifts his chin without saying another word.
I hurry out of his office and back to my dorm. My breathing is more like panting, and it’s not from excursion—it’s from the sexy as sin man that I should definitely not be attracted to. Once I’m back at my dorm, I change for my shift at Bison Witches, and try to forget Coach Bronson.
I try to busy myself at work, hoping that I’ll forget about his pale green eyes, his messy light brown hair, and his lips quirked and so kissable it’s ridiculous. I try so hard to forget about him, but I can’
t. Nothing I do, no matter how busy I am, distracts me from thinking about him.
Every part of his face is etched into my brain. It’s wrong, and I wonder why I’m suddenly so obsessed with him? Why I can’t stop thinking about him? What makes him different from every guy I’ve ever been around?
Maybe it’s that he isn’t afraid of Trent, like most of the other guys I’ve known. I know that whatever the infatuation is, it will be short lived. In a few days, I’ll be back to focusing on school and work, and Coach Bronson will be just a faded memory.
COLE
THIS GROUP OF incoming freshmen are by far the biggest bunch of pussies I’ve ever had on my roster. I’m thankful it’s finally Friday. After putting two players on probation, I need a fucking drink and some good food. I run into John on my way out of the building.
“You want to head out to dinner and get a drink?” I ask, knowing his response already.
He shakes his head, “No, thanks. Tiff is making spaghetti tonight,” he shrugs.
I find myself a tad jealous of his waiting wife and dinner. I’m closer to forty than I am thirty, and I want that. I want a woman waiting for me when I get off work. I want to relax on the couch with her, listen to her bitch about her day, whatever it is, and just hold her. I want it all. I wave him off and head out to Bison Witches, in need of a sandwich and a beer.
The bar and restaurant is busy, as is probably normal on Friday nights. I try not to go out on the weekends near campus, knowing that the college kids will invade anything within walking distance, but tonight I don’t care. I’ve had a rough week. I just want to eat, drink, and go home.
Something across the room catches my eye, and I’m frozen to my spot. Her back is to me, but I’ve already memorized that long, dark blonde hair. My eyes travel down and see she’s wearing a dress or skirt that’s short, so short that it hits just below her tight ass. Her long, lean legs are in view, and I have to bite my bottom lip to keep from going hard at the sight of her.
“Where would you like to sit, coach?” the guy behind the hostess station asks. I recognize him as one of my sophomore players, Keith.
“She work here?” I ask, lifting my chin toward Jessa.
He turns and looks before he brings his head back around and grins. “Jessa? Yeah, she works here,” he chuckles.
“Seat me in her section,” I demand.
He nods as he gathers a menu and silverware. “Good luck, coach. We’ve all wanted to go there, but she’s locked up tight,” he states.
I don’t bother telling him it’s because she’s got a piece of shit for a boyfriend and she seems about as scared as any woman can be.
Plus, she’s shy, and not because Keller is a dick. I think it’s her personality. She’s too young for me to even notice her, let alone want her, but there’s something about her shy innocence that has me yearning for her.
Sitting down at a booth, I look over the menu, wanting to try something different. I decide on the Smoke Stack sandwich with chips and salsa.
I’m pondering the beer menu when I feel a presence next to me. She speaks, and I smirk at the husky sound of her voice.
“Welcome to Bison Witches, I’m Jessa and I’ll be your server today. Is there something I can get you to drink?”
My eyes travel up her long, bare legs to her flat stomach and then her full breasts. I don’t know how old she is, but she has to be around nineteen. I don’t remember girls when I was nineteen having bodies quite as sexy as Jessa’s.
“I’ll have a Pete’s Strawberry Blonde Ale, Jessa,” I murmur. Her face turns pink.
She spins around, without saying a word, and hurries away. I can’t help myself. I watch her ass with each step she takes. Fuck. She’s too young for me to look at. She’s around twenty years younger than me, and she’s a student. To top it off, she’s dating one of my players.
I can’t keep my eyes from finding her in the bar, watching her as she moves around and works. I find myself wondering what she looks like when she’s crying out in pleasure.
Does her face turn pink like it did when I ordered a beer? Does she scream or whimper? Does she moan when she’s touched just right? And her tits—fuck me, her tits. I wonder how heavy they would feel in my hands, and if her nipples are pink or light brown.
When she returns with my beer, I order my food, trying to keep from reaching out to touch her. I want to feel her skin. I’ve never wanted to touch a woman more than I want to touch her. She returns with my food, and I reach out, wrapping my hand around her wrist, not able to control myself.
“Is everything okay?” she asks sweetly.
“Probably not,” I murmur as I circle my thumb against the inside of her wrist. Her breath hitches, and her eyes widen. I watch as her pink tongue comes out to lick her bottom lip. “How old are you, Jessa?”
Her brow furrows in confusion before she answers, “Eighteen.” I let her go and watch her scurry away.
My cock should go limp at her declaration. I haven’t fucked an eighteen-year-old since I was eighteen myself; and yet, it grows harder, pressing against the zipper of my jeans. Something about her is different.
I noticed it when I went to the dining hall and confronted Keller. She’s quiet and innocent, but she is far from immature. Her eyes are knowing, as if she’s seen and knows far too much for her age.
I can see the heavy burden she carries on her shoulders. For some fucked up reason, I want to be the one who takes it from her, takes that heavy load so that she no longer has to carry it around day-to-day.
Eating in silence, I catch up on some emails I’d avoided throughout the day, my eyes drifting to her every so often. She’s busy, running from table to table in her cute flat shoes.
I don’t even have to look for her when I do try to find her. My eyes find her immediately every time, and I can’t help but hitch my lips in a smile when I do. More than once, she’s been looking over at me, too.
Fuck me.
“Is there anything else I can get you?” she asks as she sets my bill down in front of me.
I think about her words. Tamping down my initial reaction, which is to tell her she could give me her number, I shake my head. Nevertheless, I decide to say something, not wishing to walk away without giving her something.
“If I wanted to come here again and sit in your section, when could that happen?” I ask.
Watching as she sucks in a breath, I wait for her answer. Her light brown eyes meet mine, and her nose twitches. “I work tomorrow night, and then I won’t work again until Monday. I actually work every night during the week except for Sundays,” she admits.
“That’s a lot for a student,” I point out.
She shrugs. “Bills don’t pay themselves,” she mutters.
“No, they sure don’t, Jessa,” I say, grinning up at her.
“Thank you, Coach Bronson.”
“Cole.”
“Cole,” she whispers. I almost cum in my pants just hearing her whisper my name.
I’m in so much fucking trouble.
JESSA
I FEEL HIS fingers on me, his thumb rubbing the inside of my wrist, and I jerk awake in my bunk bed, my eyes opening and my breath panting. I turn to the side and notice that I’m alone.
Ines hasn’t made it back from the frat party she went to earlier. She’d invited me to stop by after work, but I was exhausted, and still riding on the high of having Cole Bronson touch me. Cole. Even his name is sexy.
My phone buzzes next to me, and I pick it up to see that it’s Trent calling. My eyebrows knit together, wondering why on earth he would be calling me at four in the morning. “Hello?” I answer, my voice groggy and as tired as I feel.
“Open your door,” he grunts.
I hang up the phone and hurry down my ladder to the door, opening it to find him standing there. Looking up into his eyes, I notice that he looks more alert than he has in weeks. The whites of his eyes aren’t bloodshot, and inhaling his scent, I notice that he doesn’t smell like booze.
/>
“Heard you had a visit with my coach,” he grunts as he walks into the room. I close the door behind him and press my back against it with a nod. “Why the fuck did you do that? Like I’m not a man and can’t handle my shit, Jess,” he growls.
“Trent,” I whisper, looking down at the ground and avoiding his angry eyes.
Suddenly, his hand is fisted in my hair, and he’s tugging my head back, causing my neck to arch. His face is directly in front of mine, and he sneers, “You’re so fucking pathetic, Jess. You know without me you’d probably be homeless right now? You definitely wouldn’t be in college. Your mom probably would have come back, taken you and whored you out, acting as your fucking pimp. You fucking owe me for everything you have, right now. Don’t you dare go behind my back and talk to my coach again. You do it, and you’ll fucking regret it,” he growls. “Now I have to stay sober; and if I have to be sober, your legs and mouth better be open and available anytime I feel like fucking them.”
“Trent,” I gasp as my eyes fill with tears.
I don’t miss the part about my mom, curious as to what he means, but too afraid to ask, I keep my mouth closed.
He smirks as he pulls my hair harder, and I fall to my knees. With his hand still wrapped in my hair, I watch in horror as he unbuttons and unzips his jeans. Without thinking, my hands go to his pants, and I tug them down, along with his boxers.
I open my mouth, and he fills me with a grunt. I close my eyes and concentrate on breathing as he fucks my mouth. It’s hard, relentless, fast, and unyielding as his hips press against me, his balls slapping my chin with each downward thrust.
He grunts before he comes down my throat, and I’m thankful that it’s over. When Trent releases my hair, he takes a step back, running his hand over his cropped hair. I wipe my mouth off, afraid to actually move.
I hate the way his hands feel on me; the way he thinks he can do as he pleases to me. Most of all, I hate the way that I let him. He always reminds me of how much I owe his family and him, of where I would be if it weren’t for them taking me in. I feel guilty, and I let him use my body as he wishes, knowing that I hate every second of it.
Personal Foul Page 4
