Filthy Coach: An Older Man Younger Woman Romance

by Amy Brent

  I blew out a long, happy sigh as I pulled into the driveway at dusk. I put the Audi in Park and leaned in to glance through the windshield. There were lights on in the house, but no cars in the driveway. The three garage doors were closed. I knew daddy kept a Jeep Wrangler in one of the garage bays to drive around the island in the summer, and a couple of Skidoos in another. There was usually one bay empty and that’s where I’d normally park.

  I opened the console to retrieve the garage door opener, but it wasn’t there. I frowned in thought. Shit, I must have given it back to daddy after my last visit. Oh well, I had my key, so I would just go in through the front door and open the garage from inside. No biggie.

  I stepped out of the car and gazed up at the dark, clear sky as I stretched the kinks out of my back. The air was thick and moist, but a cool breeze blew in from the ocean to welcome me to the island.

  I gazed out at the dark, calm waters and the horizon beyond. The only sound was that of the gentle waves coming to shore.

  The horizon was awash with purple light turning to black.

  I could see for miles and miles.

  There were no storms on the horizon.

  Smooth sailing ahead.

  I pulled my overnight bag from the trunk and carried it to the door. When I stepped onto the porch, the motion light above the door came on. I dropped the bag on the porch, then used my key to open the lock. There was a security system keypad mounted on the wall just inside the door. I turned quickly to disarm it, only to find that the alarm was already off.

  “What the…” I remembered seeing lights on when I drove up. Maybe someone was in the house. Maybe someone who was supposed to be there. Maybe not. Little tingles of alarm crept up my spine.

  My purse was hanging by the strap over my shoulder. I slid my hand inside and brought out the lightweight, Smith & Wesson .38 revolver that I carried with me everywhere I went.

  You can preach gun violence to me all day long.

  If someone attacks you, feel free to try and talk them down.

  Me?

  I’m going to shoot the son of a bitch and ask questions later.

  I stood in the open doorway and called out. “Hello? Is anyone here?” I turned my year to listen. The house was quiet.

  Of course, the house was quiet, you idiot.

  Do you think the bad guy is just gonna pop his head out and say, “Here I am!”

  I called out again, but got no response.

  Maybe the last person to visit left the lights on…

  Or maybe they were left on for a purpose, for security maybe...

  With my fingers wound tightly around the pistol grip, I took a deep breath and walked slowly through the house, checking the rooms like I saw the cops do it on TV.

  I probably looked pretty silly, but better safe than sorry.

  I checked the downstairs first, creeping through the living room and kitchen, the downstairs bedroom and bath, the laundry room. The garage door was off the laundry room. I opened the door and turned on the light. As expected, daddy’s Jeep was in the farthest bay, and the two Skidoos on a trailer sat in the center bay.

  There was a black Land Rover sitting in the closest bay. I stepped down into the garage to take a closer look at it.

  I set my hand on the hood. It was warm, meaning the Rover’s engine hadn’t been off for long. Someone had just parked it here.

  I walked around it. The Rover had Georgia license plates and a large Atlanta Trojans sticker on the back window.

  The windows were tinted too dark to see inside.

  It had big tires and fancy chrome wheels.

  I breathed a little easier. I was fairly sure that the vehicle belonged to someone associated with daddy’s football team; most likely a player, since all of the execs drove company-issued Mercedes sedans.

  The question was, why was the Rover here?

  And who the heck was I going to find in the house?

  I continued my search upstairs, checking the remaining bedrooms and bathrooms and finding them empty.

  The house had two master bedrooms with attached bathrooms: one downstairs and one up.

  In the master bedroom upstairs, there was an Atlanta Trojans travel bag on the bed. The bag was open, so I tiptoed over and peered inside.

  There were a couple of t-shirts, a pair of swim trunks, a pair of jeans, a few pair of boxers and socks. A black leather shaving kit was on the bed next to the travel bag. I unzipped it and looked inside.

  There was the usual manly stuff: a razor, shaving cream, deodorant, a travel size generic shampoo, and a small bottle of Aramis cologne. I loved the scent of Aramis. One of my marketing professors at college practically bathed in the stuff.

  His scent was what first attracted me to him. We ended up screwing like jackrabbits for an entire semester, until he gave me a C in his class.

  He told me I was a great fuck, but not a very good student.

  Fine. No problem. I understand. Let’s fuck.

  I took cellphone pictures of him tied naked to a bed with a ball-gag in his mouth and posted them to his personal Facebook account.

  Give that a C, motherfucker…

  I stole his bottle of Aramis on the way out and never saw him again. I still have the Aramis. It’s in my nightstand drawer. I take it out and give it a sniff once in a while when I’m lying in bed getting frisky with myself.

  I couldn’t resist taking the bottle of Aramis from the shaving kit and holding it to my nose.

  A deep voice coming from the door behind me made me jump.

  “Find something you like in there?”

  I turned quickly with the cologne in one hand and the pistol in the other. The man standing in the doorway with his hands up took my breath away.

  He was fortyish, with the lean, muscled build of an athlete, and sandy blond hair that was pushed back from his forehead and plastered with sweat. He was wearing a pair of gym shorts and tennis shoes. His muscled torso was dark from the sun and glistening with sweat. It dripped from his nipples. His shoulders and arms were covered in dark tribal tattoos. He looked like someone I’d meet in my dreams.

  He had a towel looped around his neck, holding the ends with his hands in the air. He nodded at the gun I was pointing at him and frowned.

  “You don’t have to shoot me,” he said seriously. “Just take the cologne and be on your way.”

  I realized I was holding the pistol on him. I looked down at the pistol as if I’d never seen it before. I jerked it behind my back and muttered at him.

  “What? No… I…”

  He smiled.

  My eyes went up and down him.

  He had thick muscles in his legs.

  The tight gym shorts bulged in the front.

  I felt tingly all over.

  I forced myself to stare into his eyes.

  He worked the towel back and forth across his neck and smiled again. He used his smile like a weapon. It had far more power than the little pistol hiding behind my back.

  “I’m sorry. I’m Allie Winston,” I said, forcing a nervous smile.

  “As in Ben Winston? Owner of the Trojans?”

  “Yes, I’m his daughter,” I said.

  “Awesome!”

  He rubbed his right hand on the towel, then stuck it out and smiled again.

  “I’m Sam Carson. I’m your dad’s new head coach.”

  Sam

  I was in the basement gym in Ben Winston’s beach house with my earbuds tucked in and Metallica’s greatest hits hammering into my brain.

  I couldn’t hear anything except the heavy metal thunder and the sound of my own breathing as I finished the five-mile run on the treadmill.

  I was sweating like a pig. Big drops of sweat ran down my forehead and dripped from my nose. I had a thick towel around my neck. I had to keep mopping my face with it to keep the sweat from burning my eyes.

  When the treadmill hit the five-mile mark, it automatically slowed my pace from a full out run to a steady trot. I hit the manua
l control to reduce the trot to a walk. I clenched onto the treadmill’s side handles to steady myself.

  My mind chided me to push through another five miles, but my heart and lungs told me I’d had enough.

  “You’re not a young man anymore, Sam,” my agent told me a few weeks back, when the offer to coach the Trojans came through. “Look, you’ve worked your ass off to get to this point. You’ve paid your dues for seven years as a quarterback’s coach. You’ve coached two Super Bowl quarterbacks in four years. You’ve earned your stripes. This is your chance to run your own show. Take this job, stand on the sidelines and boss people around for a couple of years, bank a few million bucks, then fucking retire to the islands.”

  “Fuck you very much,” I wanted to say.

  I didn’t say it out loud because he was my friend as well as my agent. He was also telling me what I needed to hear, rather than what I wanted to hear.

  And he was right.

  My body had been beat to hell.

  I was pushing myself too hard coaching young quarterbacks, trying to prove that I was still as good as them, even if I could no longer play.

  It was time to let others do the hard work while I just called the plays and banked the bucks.

  I turned off the treadmill and tugged the earbuds free, then used the towel to wipe the sweat from my face. I glanced at the treadmill’s digital readout of my run. Five miles in thirty-five minutes. That’s a seven-minute mile.

  Not too bad, for someone my age.

  I glanced around the room at the various machines that targeted certain muscle groups; the flat and incline benches, the heavy bars and assorted free weights, and the rack of dumbbells that ran the full length of one mirrored wall.

  In my playing days, I practically lived in the gym. I would have hit every machine and lifted every weight in the room before stopping.

  Now, I was happy to finish the run.

  It was enough for one day.

  I was feeling my age as I blew out a long breath and headed for the stairs.

  I needed a shower, a beer (or six), and whatever I could forage from the freezer. Ben’s secretary told me they kept the place fully stocked when she gave me the keys, so I didn’t bother to bring any food. She also let her fingers linger on mine for a moment when she handed me the key.

  She smiled at me with her eyes and asked if I was going to the beach alone. I said that I was. She said that was too bad.

  Note to self: tap that ass when you get home.

  I picked up my iPhone and earbuds and turned off the light.

  I didn’t realize I wasn’t alone until I emerged from the basement and heard the floor creaking above my head.

  I crept up the stairs as quietly as I could. When I topped the stairs, I saw the backside of a woman in the master bedroom. She was standing at the bed, going through my stuff.

  She was wearing a pair of black yoga pants and a loose crop-top over a black sports bra. Naturally, the first thing that registered in my mind was how awesome her ass looked in the yoga pants.

  It was the perfect size and shape.

  Bubbly, I think the kids call it.

  Or a bubble butt, something like that.

  I didn’t give a shit what it was called. I just wondered what it would feel like cupped in my hands.

  Her hair was long and blond. She had it pulled back into a loose ponytail at the back of her neck.

  She must be cheerleader, I thought.

  Or a player’s girlfriend, mistress, or wife.

  Or a groupie who followed me here to tie me up and fuck my brains out.

  Nah, no way I was that lucky.

  If the front of her matched the back, I was going to be a very happy man, either way.

  I leaned in the open doorway and flexed my muscles.

  I cleared my throat and said something snarky to get her attention.

  She gave a little scream and whirled around.

  Awesome.

  The front did indeed match the back.

  She was a natural beauty, with perfect skin and plump lips and blue eyes and little freckles dotting her nose.

  It took a moment to realize that I’d scared the shit out of her.

  It took less of a moment to see that she was holding a gun and that her hand was shaking.

  I held up my hands and gave her a smile.

  She tucked the gun behind her back and glanced at my crotch.

  Please be a groupie… please… please… please…

  Then she told me she was Ben Winston’s daughter.

  Shit.

  Maybe I wasn’t going to get lucky after all.

  Allie

  I blinked at him for a moment because I thought I was being punked. I was having a hard time believing that this was Sam Carson, the new Trojans head coach daddy was so excited about.

  When daddy told me he was hiring Sam Carson, I assumed that he was talking about Samuel Carson, the sixty-something-year old offensive coordinator for the Chicago Blaze, not Sam Carson, the former college star and professional quarterback known as much for his viral booze and sex videos as for setting passing records in college.

  “You’re the Sam Carson that’s the new head coach of the Trojans?”

  “One and the same.” He closed one eye and wiggled a finger at me. “Let me guess. You were expecting older, fatter, bushy white eyebrows, big plug of tobacco in my cheek?”

  “You know Samuel Carson?” I said, feeling my cheeks flush.

  “I should,” he said with a nod. “He’s my dad.”

  “Well, that makes sense,” I said, even though it didn’t. I was just trying to think of something to say to get his attention off the face that he had caught me going through his stuff. “I didn’t know that you had left Los Angeles. You were coaching their quarterbacks, I believe.”

  “You seem to know a lot about football,” he said, stepping into the room. He held out his palm and gave me a little nod. I realized that I was still holding the small bottle of Aramis. I set it in his hand and stepped aside so he could get to the bed.

  He dropped the cologne inside the shaving kit and zipped it up. I suddenly realized how much I had invaded his privacy. I moved to stand at the door, switching places with him.

  “My dad has owned the team for twenty years,” I said. “I’ve been around football my entire life. And it’s part of my work.”

  “Yeah? What do you do for work?” he asked, turning to sit on the edge of the bed.

  He stretched out his long legs and pointed his toes. The muscles of his thighs looked like slabs of meat. His calves bulged from beneath his legs. I knew he hadn’t played in nearly a decade, but holy shit, he’d held up exceptionally well.

  He tugged the towel from around his neck and mopped his neck and chest with it. I watched is swirl over the muscles, across his hard nipples.

  I tried to focus. “I work in sports marketing… Image consulting… Public relations... I work with a lot of daddy’s players.”

  “Do a lot of daddy’s players need image consulting?” he asked with a playful frown.

  I shrugged. “Some do, yes.”

  “And what about the coaches? Do any of them need image consulting?”

  I couldn’t resist giving him a smile. “No. You’ll be the first.”

  He made a goofy face and poked his thumbs to his chest.

  “You think my image needs work? Seriously?”

  I mocked his goofy face and pushed my eyebrows up.

  “Well, let’s just say that I am aware of your history. In fact, you were used as a case study in one of my marketing classes at Alabama.”

  “Really? I’m not sure if I should be flattered or horrified.” He narrowed his eyes and tapped a finger to his chin. “Let me guess, the case study was called ‘how to get drunk and fuck up your career in one night’?”

  He was smiling, but I wasn’t. The case study I was referring to was how he managed to maintain such a positive image with the fans while seemingly doing everything he could
to destroy his career, like the public intoxication, sex romp videos, and innumerable bar fights with fans of opposing teams. I was pretty sure he was talking about the night he got shitfaced and plowed his Lamborghini into the back of an eighteen-wheeler, destroying his shoulder, and ending his career.

  I suddenly felt very uncomfortable. I put up my hands and took a step backward toward the door. I had forgotten that the pistol was still in my right hand.

  I said, “I’m really sorry I looked in your bag. I didn’t know who was here. I saw the bag and…”

  “You can make it up to me,” he said, flexing his eyebrows. He gave me a devious smile that brought a lump to my throat.

  “Uh, how?”

  He nodded at the bathroom door. For a moment, I thought he was going to suggest something totally out of the question; at least at this point of our relationship.

  “I’m starving, but I need a quick shower because I smell like an old gym sock. Maybe you can shove a frozen pizza in the oven and we can chat over dinner?” He frowned at me. “I mean, if you like frozen pizza.”

  I smiled. “I love frozen pizza.”

  “Awesome,” he said, pushing himself off the bed. He picked up the shaving kit and took it with him to the bathroom door. He turned back and smiled again. “Should I dab a little Aramis behind my ears?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer. He gave me a wink and went into the bathroom and shut the door.

  I didn’t move until I heard the shower turn on.

  I fell against the doorframe and let go of the breath I’d been holding.

  I brought my hands to my breasts.

  My nipples were hard beneath my sports bra.

  The crotch of my yoga pants felt like it was on fire.

  Sam Carson was the hottest man I’d seen in a long time.

  He was also trouble.

  His exploits were the stuff of legend in my business.

  I hoped my dad hadn’t made a mistake in hiring him.

  He could be a lot to handle.

  In more ways than one.