Filthy Forward : A Hero Club Novel

by Kelsey Cheyenne

  When I see the name on the screen, my stomach fills with dread.

  “Hey, Coach.” I try to sound natural, but whenever he calls me lately, it’s been bad news.

  “Tatum, how are you?” Murray asks. It’s a normal question to ask someone, but the way his voice is laced with trepidation has me raising my hackles.

  “I’m good, Coach. I’m coming up to the game this weekend.”

  “I heard.” He pauses. “I’ve gotta be honest with you—I don’t think it’s such a good idea.”

  I rear back. “Why?”

  “Rumors. Speculation. If people see you at the game but not playing, more people will talk.”

  “People are already talking,” I point out, particularly referencing Mitch and the reporter he opened his big mouth to. Murray starts to talk, but I cut him off. “I’m coming to the game, Coach. I made plans and I’m bringing a friend to watch the match. We’ll stay low-key.” It’s not like anyone can see us together anyway.

  He sighs heavily. “Fine, but use the luxury suite and try to stay away from cameras and reporters.” That was always my intention anyway.

  We hang up and despite the situation, I know he wants me back on the team and he’ll be happy to see me. I’m excited to see the team. Even Mitch, but only so I can yell at him.

  I hook my phone to the charger and finish packing my duffel as the hours pass. There’s a knock on my door around one-thirty. When I open it, I’m surprised to see Bria on the other side.

  “Hey, sorry I’m early. My class ended at one and I didn’t want the girls to question me. I grabbed my things before class and left telling them I was leaving for my Mom’s house this weekend. Luckily, I could pull it off pretty easily since none of them are in any of my classes today.”

  She’s rambling. She’s cute when she’s nervous.

  One hand is resting on her suitcase and the other is clutching her purse so tight her fingers are white.

  “It’s fine, Bri. Come on in.” I back away from the door, giving her space to enter. She steps over the threshold with hesitance, dragging her oversized luggage behind her. We’re only going to be away for two nights. What the hell did she pack?

  “Holy shit, your house. It’s like, a bachelor pad on crack.”

  “Thanks?”

  I’ll admit I went a little crazy when I bought this house. I was young and making a stupid amount of money. There’s an east and west wing—two separate living spaces separated by a huge patio in between with upper and lower decks, perfect for parties. The glass walls allow for incredible views over the city and the infinity pool all but hangs over the hill.

  The five-car garage is what sold me, in addition to the space being my own private sanctuary. I love this home. It’s entirely too big for me, but as a guy with an approximate fuckton of money, what else am I supposed to do but buy but homes and cars?

  Bria wanders around my living room and to the back wall where she looks over the Hollywood hills.

  “This view is incredible.”

  “You should see the sunset.” She presses her fingertips to the glass with hesitance, leaning in. “I’ll be right back.”

  I walk to my room to grab my bag and when I come back out, she’s outside on the patio. I step out of the open door and walk over to where she’s leaning on the railing.

  “You should get a dog.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re all alone in this big, sterile house. It barely seems lived in. A dog would liven it up.”

  “I’ve always wanted a dog, but I’ve been too busy to get one. I used to never be home, traveling all the time. It wouldn’t be fair to the mutt.”

  She nods and runs her hand over the glass barrier. She’s mesmerized by my home, my things, but that’s all they are. They’re things and it’s just a house and I’m just a normal guy. I understand the allure; most people don’t live with this level of extravagance. I didn’t grow up with it and sometimes I forget how lucky I am.

  “You ready to go?” She nods and I grab our bags, leading her out of my house and to my garage.

  “Holy shit.”

  I grimace. I don’t like to drive the flashy cars around, but I still like to have them.

  “Over here.” I point to the Jeep and throw our things in the back before taking the top off. “You don’t mind, do you?” A huge smile pulls at her face and she shakes her head. I’m glad she’s not one of those girls, freaking out about her hair with the roof down.

  We pull out onto the highway but I have to make a quick stop to get gas and snacks for the road. Bria comes in with me and grabs a water and bag of trail mix, which she tries to pay for, but I don’t let her.

  When we hop back into the Jeep, she busts up laughing with how much food I bought.

  “We’re going to be driving for like, five hours, not five days.”

  “You can’t go on a road trip without sour gummy bears, that’s rule number one.”

  “What about the beef jerky, sunflower seeds, pretzels, chocolate, and almonds? Are those rules two through six?” She laughs and I love hearing the musical lilt.

  “Don’t come crying to me when you’re hungry in three hours.”

  We drive away and she reaches for the radio. She hooks her Bluetooth up to my stereo and I’m afraid of what she’ll put on. You can tell a lot about a person from their taste in music and I’m praying she doesn’t listen to some of the crap poisoning the Top 100 charts these days.

  Luckily, she puts on some old school Blink182 and sings along. No complaints on my end, especially since she doesn’t have a bad voice.

  Throughout the drive, I catch her staring at me. Her eyes keep trailing from my face and down my arm, studying my tattoos. A few times her fingers reach out, wanting to trail over the patterns, but she stops herself and I wish she wouldn’t.

  After a while, I can see her starting to get restless. She curls and uncurls her legs from underneath her. She can’t keep to one song and instead keeps switching them up. Her fingers tap on the side panel in an agitated beat.

  I don’t know what she’s nervous about, but I want to get her mind off of it. I want to reach over, to rest my hand on her thigh and see if she’s okay, but I don’t want to push my luck.

  Plus, she’s wearing a pair of her fucking athletic shorts and if I reach over I might try to rip them off of her.

  “Would you rather have penises for fingers or ball sacks for toes?”

  She laughs. Mission accomplished. “Where do you come up with this stuff?” I shrug. “Balls for feet for sure. You can cover those up.”

  “Your turn. Ask me anything.”

  She wiggles her fingers in the traditional evil motion as if she’s plotting against me. “Would you rather have your sex tape get leaked or be a naked sportscaster?”

  I bark out a laugh. “Shit. Sportscaster. They can’t make my junk hang out, right? That’s gotta be illegal.”

  “Fair point.”

  We go back and forth for a while with the questions becoming increasingly weird. I thought she calmed down, but a little while later her leg starts shaking all over again.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Can you stop somewhere? I really have to pee.” I pull into the next rest stop. We only have about two more hours’ worth of driving before we get to the hotel.

  Bria hops out of the Jeep and stretches. Her t-shirt rides up, exposing a strip of her toned and tan stomach. I can’t help but stare. She’s so fit and tiny. I could pick her up with one palm and fuck her against the wall.

  Shit. No. I can’t do that.

  I get out of the vehicle and refill the tank while she runs inside to use the restroom. After the tank is full and we’re back on the road, I notice her leg bouncing again and she fidgets with everything she can get her hands on.

  “What’s wrong, Bria?”

  She bites her lip and runs her hands up and down her thighs.

  “Nothing.”

  “Bullshit. You’ve been a nervous wreck since you g
ot in this car. Spill it.”

  Her fingers tap along to the beat of a Taking Back Sunday song. She won’t look over at me and I push her to tell me what’s wrong.

  “Fine. Where, uh, where will we, I, be sleeping?”

  “I booked you your own room, Bria.” She sighs in relief. “But mine is always open if you don’t want to sleep alone.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Bria

  “This room is nice. You didn’t have to book me something this extravagant. I could’ve slept on a twin or cot or sofa or something.”

  “Or in my bed.”

  My face heats and he smirks. If he keeps making those comments I’m going to follow through and call his bluff. Then what will he do?

  I kind of want to find out.

  “Well, uh, thank you.”

  He nods. I feel like I’m pushing him out of my room, but I saw a Jacuzzi tub in the bathroom I’m dying to try out.

  “I’m right upstairs if you need me. Room eleven-twenty-seven. Do you want me to write it down? I wouldn’t want you to forget it if you got lonely tonight.”

  “Shut up. You’ll be the one banging on my door in the middle of the night.”

  “I hope to be banging something.”

  Fuck. This man is going to be the death of me. I lead him out the door and hang on the frame as he backs away toward the elevators.

  “I’ll be back in say, an hour for dinner? Do you want to go out somewhere or we can eat in the restaurant downstairs?”

  “Dinner. Right. Downstairs is fine.”

  His answering smirk sets my panties ablaze and I shut the door before I do anything stupid.

  I need to loosen up before my nerves get the best of me. I head into the bathroom and turn on the faucet to fill the oversized tub. I pour in some soap and wait for the suds to take over. Undressing, I toss my clothes on the floor and dip my toe into the steaming water. I sigh at the contact and with my hair piled atop my head, I submerge myself into the tub. This is absolute heaven.

  I soak for what feels like ages. When I glance at my phone, I see it’s only been about fifteen minutes. My mind is racing with thoughts of Tatum and dinner tonight and the weekend I’m going to spend with him. I need to do more to relax.

  I’m in a luxury suite with my hot-as-sin coach right upstairs who I occasionally make out with and I’m still jittery.

  Speaking of Tatum…I know of one surefire way to relax me…

  I slide my hands up and down my thighs, feeling my silky, slippery skin under my fingertips. I haven’t had sex in months and each time I kissed Tatum has made me hornier than a straight man leaving prison for the first time in thirty years.

  My fingers flutter over the mound at the apex of my thighs. I gasp as I hit the sensitive bud and moan as I apply the slightest bit of pressure. I’m a ticking time bomb and it’s only a matter of time before I explode under my fingertips.

  I glide lower, slipping a finger inside my pussy and hooking it, hitting the magic spot and crying out in ecstasy. I fuck myself, humping my hand hard enough for the water to slosh around me.

  With my other hand, I rub vicious circles on my clit. All I can think about is Tatum doing this to me. I want to look down and see the hand connected to his tattooed arm finger-fucking me into oblivion.

  In an instant, I detonate, calling out with his name on my lips. The shock waves rolling through me calm me from the inside out. I feel ten times lighter, but now I need to get dressed for dinner.

  I pull the plug and drain the water. I step out, wrapping myself in a ridiculously soft hotel robe. Once I pad out of the bathroom, I rip open my suitcase and search for anything acceptable to wear.

  It’s just dinner in a hotel with my soccer coach. Who I masturbated to a mere five minutes ago. What is an appropriate outfit for this scenario?

  I only brought one nice outfit and I’m saving it for when I meet his friends. I’m desperate to impress them, to get them to like me. It’s as if I’m meeting my boyfriend’s friends, not my coach’s.

  Tonight is not a date. It’s just a meal. I don’t need to wear anything fancy.

  I throw on skinny jeans with an off-the-shoulder top and call it a day. Slipping on my go-to converse, I plop on the bed while I wait for Tatum.

  Wait…am I being presumptuous? What if he wants me to meet him downstairs at the restaurant? It’s not 1950. It’s not like I need a male escort to hold my hand down the hallway. I can manage just fine on my own.

  The second I grab my cross-body, there’s a knock at my door. Cracking it open I see Tatum on the other side.

  Oh, thank God. I didn’t want to look like an idiot waiting for him or for him to think I blew him off by going downstairs alone.

  “Perfect timing,” I say, as if the fact my clutch is in my hand is a mere coincidence.

  I close the door behind me and step into the hall with my tall, dark, and disgustingly handsome coach. It’s unfair how good looking he is. One look at him has my clit buzzing for another orgasm.

  He’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt, but he may as well be naked with how my body is reacting to him.

  And God, his cologne. It’s somehow both woodsy and citrusy.

  “You look nice.” A smile pulls at my lips and my cheeks heat at his words.

  “Thank you. So you do. I mean, so do you.” I’m such a fucking idiot.

  He chuckles as he punches the button for the elevator. We stand together in awkward tension and why is it awkward? Who cares if we kissed a few times? Morgan and I used to get drunk and kiss each other all the time and we’re not weird about it.

  I want to say something, anything to break the tension, but the only words rolling around in my head right now are about the weather or sports. I’m not going to start up small talk with my coach.

  We climb in the elevator and he hits the button for the lobby while I rack my brain for any possible topic of conversation.

  “Are you excited to see your teammates tomorrow?” The question may technically fall under sports talk, but it doesn’t count as small talk.

  “Yes and no.” He’s thoughtful for a moment and I wait for him to continue. “It’s hard, you know? They’re living out my dream while I’m stuck—”

  “—Coaching a bunch of bitchy college coeds?” I finish the sentence for him and he cracks a smile.

  “Not what I was going to say, but in a sense, yes. This thing…I’m stuck in a shitty situation and I don’t see a way out right now and in part, it’s one of my teammate’s faults. I’m pretty pissed at him because he gets no repercussions for his part in it all.”

  “You realize I have no idea what you’re talking about, right? Are you ever going to tell me the truth?”

  We step out of the elevator and I watch as his eyes slide around, surveying the room. I don’t know what or who he’s looking for, but I can see he’s on edge.

  “Not tonight.” His tone says not ever, but I’m not going to push him right now, not with how tense he is.

  “Okay, well, whatever it is, I’m sure it’s a misunderstanding and will get swept under the rug.”

  “Not in today’s world it won’t.” I have no idea what he’s talking about. I switch topics before my heads starts to spin from his riddles.

  “If you don’t want to see your teammates, why did we drive all the way up here?”

  “I do want to see them. It’s just the one guy, Mitch.”

  “Holy shit, Mitch Keegan? He’s a legend.”

  “He’s an asshole,” he responds through gritted teeth.

  I won’t mention that he, too, has a tendency to be an asshole.

  We get to the restaurant and the hostess seats us right away. I look around, seeing men in suits and women in cocktail dresses, strutting around on heels with martini glasses in their hands.

  I stand on my tiptoes to whisper in Tatum’s ear. “I feel severely underdressed.” He gives me a once over lasting a few seconds too long.

  “I think you look perfect.”

 
We take our seats and I immediately reach for the drinks menu.

  “I guess I can’t get a drink, can I?” I could really use the liquor to calm me down, but since I’m sitting across from the man who instigated a dry season for me, it’s probably not appropriate.

  “There are a lot of things we shouldn’t be doing. Why stop now?” The man makes a good argument.

  I order a vodka soda and he opts for a beer while I focus my attention on the menu. The lighting in here gives off a seductive level of ambiance. Each time I turn my head I see more people, sitting close or kissing or on obvious dates. Then here I am in my jeans with a man who is—according to Google—six years older than me, worth a disgusting amount of money, and my college soccer coach.

  When the waitress returns with my drink, it takes all my restraint to not gulp the thing down in one swallow like an oversized shot. I decide to order grilled chicken to give me a little more substance over a salad because if I’m going to be sitting across from the sexiest man alive—as determined by People Magazine three years ago—I’m going to need booze. A lot of it.

  “How did you get into soccer?” I ask him. I know what the internet tells me, but I want to hear the story from him.

  “My mom signed me up for it when I was about ten or so. I’m convinced she wanted to get me out of the house because I was doing a lot of stupid shit back then. Climbing trees, jumping off our roof, normal boy shit. I was breaking a bone multiple times a year and I’m pretty sure she got sick of my shit.”

  I laugh and take a sip of my drink. “What was she like?”

  “She was your typical mom. Tough but insanely supportive. Neither of us thought her pushing me into the sport would take me anywhere. She and my dad worked hard to get me everything I ever wanted and needed.”

  “Where’s your dad now?”

  “In Spain, back where he grew up.”

  “Wow. So, how did your parents meet?”

  “My mom was studying abroad in Spain and met my dad through the school program. She was over there for a year and when she had to go back to California, he followed her. They were together ever since.” The waitress returns with our food, causing him to pause. When she leaves, he continues as he leans in and lowers his voice like he’s telling a secret. “When she passed, I was in Australia and my dad couldn’t, or didn’t want to, be here anymore without her. With her gone, he flew home and never looked back. I see him a few times a year and we talk often, but I think somehow losing my mom was harder on him. She was his soulmate. He lost half of himself that day.”