Coach Love

by Liz Crowe

  She frowned. “But it’s a shallow gene-pool backwater, overgrown horse town right?”

  “Hey, you said it, not me.” He gave her a peck on the cheek before getting to his feet and brushing off his trousers. Cara remained seated, anger whooshing between her ears and sloshing around in her overfull belly. “Come on, babe, let’s go find some indoor activity, what d’ya say?”

  Glaring at his outstretched hand she got to her feet.

  “Don’t pout, sweets,” he demanded as he tossed the remnants of their picnic into the basket he’d no doubt purchased that morning.

  Manipulative bastard.

  No, stop it. He’s a nice guy and I am a no-account bitch.

  “I’m tired. I want to go home.” The petulance in her tone pissed her off but she folded the blanket and carried it to his car, being careful not to meet his gaze.

  “Well, why don’t you humor me a few more minutes?” He helped her into her seat and slammed the door.

  “No.” She truly despised her very existence right then, knowing she was acting like a spoiled little kid. “I’m not in the mood, Kent. We’ll just argue.”

  Instead of answering her, he started the car and peeled out of the mostly deserted parking lot. Most residents of Lucasville did not have time in the middle of a workday to loll around the park.

  Cara stayed quiet, replaying the strange moment she’d shared with Kieran’s mom that morning in the clinic. She’d always liked Lindsay Love, but was a little intimidated by her. Since her cancer recovery and the fall that broke her hip, Lindsay had been physically reduced, without a doubt. But if it were possible, the setbacks had strengthened her spirit. That very spirit had given both Cara and her mother solace more than once in their sorry-ass lives. She bit her lip and observed the familiar landscape of her hometown passing by the car window forcing the memories out of her head.

  Kent parked next to a converted old farmhouse that now served as a tourist trap of a bed-and-breakfast hotel. “Now for step two of my seduction plan.” When he lurched toward her and she recoiled, hitting her head on the window so hard she let out a curse. “Well shit, hon,” he said, frowning and pulling away. “Sorry to scare you.” His jaw clenched.

  Cara swallowed the urge to scream. “No, I’m sorry.” The words came out in a croak. She touched his face. “I’m tired.”

  “It’s all right, darlin’.” He dashed around to her side to help her out then got a small suitcase from the trunk. Deciding to let her mind go blank, she issued another inner lecture, reminding her sorry self that against all odds, a man like Kent loved her and wanted to take care of her. She’d best get with that program.

  “Well I’ll declare, if it isn’t Cara Cooper,” a voice called from inside as Cara blinked to adjust to the gloom. “What are you doing here on a...oh, well hello there.”

  Enduring the knowing nod from the woman behind the desk, Cara let the fact that her former fifth-grade-teacher-turned-B&B-manager stood there, ready to rent Cara a room in the smack middle of the day with some man burrow deep into her psyche. She gave a weak wave. Kent took over as usual, charming and grinning his way through the check-in, taking care to use the woman’s name several times like some kind of smarmy salesman.

  By the time they made it to their overstuffed room with its frilly bedspread and curtains straight out of her ‘90s teenage bedroom Cara had come to terms with the purpose of the day’s events. She huffed and dropped like a rag doll into a chair, sending a cloud of cat hair and dust into the stuffy air. Humming, Kent headed into the miniscule bathroom. The shower water pattered. He kept humming and Cara’s head kept pounding with an insistent drumbeat of “Kieran. Kieran. Kieran.”

  A hot hand landed on her shoulder and snaked into her hair, releasing it from its utilitarian ponytail.

  “Holy shit,” she yelped, nearly tumbling to the floor. She must have dozed off because her mouth felt coated in slime with a distinct aftertaste of old wine. “I gotta brush my teeth.” She headed for the bathroom, confident he’d packed her the necessary items. They were indeed all arranged on the small ceramic vanity as if they belonged there. Staring down at the new toothbrush, it took all she had not to scream and run away as she processed the last twenty-four hours.

  “Hey, baby,” Kent called out. “What’s taking so long?”

  She put the brush in her mouth and moved it, robot-like, mind fuzzing over making her wonder how she could fake this with him today. After spitting into the antique sink, she raised her head and flinched at the sight of him in the mirror, right behind her, naked already and grinning like a cat with a belly full of canary.

  He turned her, cupping the back of her neck, covering her lips at the same time. She tried to resist, tried not to resist, and finally molded to him, repeating her mantra of this man is good, this is the man you want. He lifted her scrub shirt over her head, tangling her in it.

  “I’ve got it.” Shoving him away, she ignored the problem on eye level with her as she got out of her work pants and unhooked her bra. With a hopeful smile, she reached down for his flaccid penis.

  “Nope, not today,” he said, scooping her up and dropping her onto the squeaky bed. He dropped over her breasts, sucking and tugging at her nipples, making her squirmy and breathless.

  “Please.... I need....” She threaded her fingers in his hair as he went to work between her legs, drawing not one but two luscious, shuddery orgasms from her. She focused on the ceiling, wishing he’d get it—that she’d rather he stop—but unable to make him, knowing he needed to do it in order to get and stay aroused.

  Finally, as she was getting a little raw around the edges, embarrassed by the puddle of fluid that had collected under her butt, she touched his sweaty shoulder. “Hon? You...ready yet?”

  When he rose to his knees, his lips were slick, his face pensive. Cara’s chest constricted at the sight of his amazing, cut torso that he took such pride in—the six pack, the biceps, the trim waist. The sight of his impressive erection made her smile.

  The memory of her first time with him—a down-and-dirty quickie—hit the front of her brain as the sickening irony of what she’d done the night before passed across her consciousness.

  I am some kinda drunk slut, for certain.

  She’d been in Louisville for a continuing-education-session weekend. They’d met at a bar and, after flirting like mad over a couple of gin and tonics, they’d shared an expensive bottle of wine he’d insisted on buying. He’d been the most amazing specimen of man who’d ever noticed her, much less paid her so much attention in her adult life.

  Watching him from her prone position, legs sprawled, raw from his relentless licking and sucking, she conjured memories of their more successful lovemaking sessions.

  He remained on his knees, never breaking eye contact. She’d let him take her in a bathroom stall that first night, the memory causing her to flush even now. He’d been rough, pulling her hair, biting her shoulder, pounding into her from behind after fingering her to a quick climax. It had been the wildest thing she’d done since dumping Kieran nearly six years prior.

  The series of events that had led her from that smelly, sweaty, drunk encounter to the present, engaged to the most successful, caretaking man in six counties who had a hard time getting it up, boggled her mind. Observing him now, as if he were a stranger, a bizarre, gooey feeling filled her chest. Love, she supposed, exhaling when he entered her body.

  “I love you so much,” he whispered into her neck. She held him close and forced similar words of response from her lips.

  Chapter Seven

  Kieran groaned when the sunlight whammed him right in the eyes. Tugging the towel over his face he attempted to resume his floating, half-sleeping state, knowing that he had no real choice if he wanted to get past the hangover—and the guilt.

  Cara.

  Goddamn me to hell, did I really get drunk and screw the one woman I’ve spent the last six years obsessing over?

  Yep.

  Sure enough I did
.

  He had the headache, queasy stomach, and a sticky cock to prove it. But he didn’t really remember much past the fifth—or maybe sixth—glass of wine. He didn’t even recall how they got to her place, but he did remember how kissing her had felt like the most natural act in the known universe. Drifting away from what had to be done today, now that the weekend had come and gone and he had to face Melinda with the facts, he tried to pry the memory of the actual act from his memory banks.

  The sun warmed his limbs and torso as he floated along to thoughts of his teenager self, with the world spread out before him like the biggest, richest smorgasbord available. Sure he had to work out every day, rising many mornings at 4 a.m. to fit it in around school and his chores. Sure his body hurt every day from running, lifting, playing games, doing yard work, and hauling kegs around. But he’d been king shit of turd mountain, so he could take the physical discomfort. The thought made him chuckle under the towel, which brought a wince of pain when his head pounded again.

  I need a beer.

  No, I do not need to start drinking now. I gotta face Melinda, to tell her what happened. Sober, preferably.

  The ever-present noise of a baseball game floated out to him. The evolution of that sound tracked his years in this house. His boisterous siblings, volatile father, and always-in-control mother had anchored him then, as did his position in the pecking order.

  He could practically still hear the tinny, single-speaker AM radio then the upgraded hi-fi his father had installed in the lower level the year of the pool addition. Lindsay had griped about it, its expense, its volume, its electricity consumption to high heaven. Until one night he recalled with crystal clarity.

  He’d been going on seventeen, his hormones raging fit to kill. Cara had been at the house for a few hours, hanging out, playing ping pong with him and his family, having dinner, the usual—including the heavy petting later in the lower basement. The thought of her made him wince again as his overwrought body went into lizard-brain mode. They’d been within weeks of consummating all the make-out sessions but that night she’d left him with yet another set of blue balls, brain boiling, chest tight with a strange combination of anger and lust.

  Funny when he thought on it now—that tight-skinned, on-edge, lower-belly pain he’d lived with during those years—he’d honestly believed that’s what it felt like to love a girl. Finally closing the deal with her had been such a physical relief he kept attaching emotions to it, until one day he’d looked over at her while she studied their freshman year of college and had nearly wept with the force of his feelings. He sighed and pulled the towel off before that particular memory progressed to the bad part.

  That night, Antony had not been home, as usual. He’d been with his firecracker of a girlfriend Crystal, likely getting laid at that very moment. His younger siblings Aiden and Dominic had been staring at a video, heavy-lidded, a cease-fire in their usual ongoing battles declared in the upstairs living room. Angelique sat wedged between them, thumb stuck in her mouth.

  He’d ignored them all, nursing a half-boner and raging fury plus sore muscles from his new trainer’s workout. After downing a couple glasses of milk for lack of anything better to do, he’d wandered downstairs to the walkout level, thinking he’d strip and jump in the pool to try and cool his libido.

  As he’d rounded the corner at the bottom of the stairwell, he’d heard the music but had continued ignoring it. The sliding glass door had been open, in direct opposition to his parents’ ongoing refrain against air conditioning the whole dang outdoors. Without thinking, he’d headed for the patio, focused on the single goal of getting his dick to soften and his mind to still.

  He’d been so surprised to spot his parents dancing on the patio to the sound of the new and much-maligned hi-fi blaring out “Stand By Me,” he’d had to stop, blink, and acknowledge that he’d nearly blasted his way through an a rare, private moment—something completely out of character as his parents rarely engaged in anything resembling pubic displays of affection around their kids.

  He’d moved back into the shadows, observing the two people who anchored his universe. After ducking into the lower-level family room he’d stood frozen, as his father lifted his mother’s chin then pressed his lips to hers. That had been too much so he’d hightailed it indoors and taken a cold shower in lieu of a swim.

  His mother had not complained once about the hi-fi after that.

  When ice-cold water splashed over his head and shoulders he lurched forward, spluttering and cursing. Antony grinned and jumped into the pool out of his reach. Instead of chasing after him like usual, Kieran sat, stunned all over again at the thought of facing Melinda with his crap-tastic news. When Antony emerged at the far end of the pool, shaking the water from his hair, Kieran had to acknowledge he wanted to puke.

  “What is wrong with you, bro?” Antony climbed out of the pool and sat at the edge glaring at him. “Seriously. You are not right.”

  “I got fired.”

  “Uh...oh....”

  “Well, laid off. Pink-slipped. Last in first out. Whatever.” He flopped onto the pillow, jarring his aching head in the process.

  “Well, I mean, you’ve got some cash saved right? All those endorsements that first year?”

  Staying quiet, unwilling to explain yet again that all those endorsements had amounted to enough dough to fund a high-living lifestyle his rookie year in Miami which had led to his eventual debut as a second-year player, and, of course, to his ignominious exit from the ranks of paid-professional athletes. All that time, all that money, all the effort, for squat.

  “That keg still fresh?”

  “Yeah. I think you’d benefit from a twenty-four hour period off it though,” Antony said, pissing him off.

  “Last time I checked you’re not my father, my doctor, or my wife.”

  “Lucky me,” Antony said, still not moving. The silence expanded between them.

  “Fine. I gotta go anyway.” Kieran swung his legs over the side of the chair away from the judgmental asshole.

  “Wait, listen.”

  “No thanks. I’m good. I gotta go.”

  Once the dizziness passed, he shuffled away from the pool toward his car.

  “Don’t you want some dry clothes?”

  He kept walking without acknowledging the question.

  “Kieran Francesco Love.” The sound of his mother’s voice sliced through the steamy air. “Come up to the house before you go. Please.”

  Weighing the relative value of ignoring her versus the hell he’d catch the next time he showed his face here, he stopped.

  “Frankie Loooooove,” Antony crooned from behind him.

  “Go to hell,” he muttered under his breath as he stomped past the pool on his way to the lower entry of his boyhood home.

  “Son, I’m concerned for you. You’re drinking too much, and as much as it pains me to admit it, I will say I’ve noticed that Melinda’s absence.” Lindsay sat in her rocker, cane at her side in case she needed support for her bad hip, some sort of random mending in her lap. “I don’t know what’s going on in your life, but my mama radar is humming to beat the band. Sit. Spill it.”

  She patted the couch next to her recliner. He remained standing, his skin pebbling from the air conditioning combined with his wet hair and shirt. Lindsay stayed quiet, waiting for him to obey her. He resisted it. She kept waiting.

  With a huge sigh he sat, keeping his gaze trained down at the rug’s pattern he’d memorized long ago.

  “Melinda’s busy. She’s been out of town. Got home today. I’m going there. Now.” His jerky, automatic answers would never fly and he knew it.

  “I don’t need the woman’s itinerary. Talk to me about you.” She put her small hand on his clenched ones. He gritted his teeth in an attempt not to respond to her soothing vibe.

  “I, um, well, the school, they...laid me off. Budget cuts and all. Can’t find a permanent place, I guess. I don’t know.”

  She tightened her gr
ip on him but kept silent. Remembering this trick of hers didn’t change the fact of his helplessness in the face of it.

  “It’s bad. I mean, I don’t have work, you know? An income? Shit.”

  Frowning, she let go of him.

  “Sorry.” He reached automatically into his pocket for a dollar. When she fluttered her fingers, indicating he should hold onto it he suppressed a groan.

  “Well, that Melinda has a good-paying job, right? I mean until you find a new teaching spot.”

  At that split second his mouth watered. “Let’s have a drink.” He lurched to his feet, and seeking to avoid the frown lines between her eyes, he headed for the liquor cabinet.

  “I don’t require a drink this early in the day, son.”

  A mystery bottle caught his attention. “He did it, didn’t he?” Facing his mother, the woman who calmed and terrified him at the same time, he thrust the brown bottle that had a utilitarian yet super-cool label with the words “Dominic’s Cut” at her.

  “I’ll be damned,” he muttered under his breath. “The son of a bitch did it.”

  He snagged two rocks glasses from the shelf above the sideboard, set them down on the coffee table with coasters underneath, and poured them each a healthy portion. “Dom did it! Why didn’t you guys do a release party? Why didn’t Daddy say anything?”

  Lindsay raised her glass to the light shining in through the picture window. Kieran did the same, admiring the perfect amber hue and the rich, caramel scent when he stuck his nose down into the glass.

  “To the brewer, now master distiller,” he said as they clinked glasses. The young whiskey made his chest warm in an entirely pleasant way. “Wow. Very smooth and sweet. Sort of Irish.”

  “Aye,” his mother nodded, holding her glass close to her body. “It didn’t finish the way he wanted, although we think it’s lovely. You know your brother. Anything shy of self-perceived perfection and he rejects it. He wouldn’t allow us to announce it, make it available for sale, or even for tasting, much less throw a release party.” She set the untouched drink on the table between them.