Coach Love

by Liz Crowe

  She started to speak but her body took over. They came at each other like they were strangers, clumsy, teeth clicking, tripping over their own feet, making it to the huge bed just barely. She shoved him down, running her palms down his perfect chest and abs before gripping his dick.

  “Mine,” she whispered, biting down on one nipple. He shivered and his hips jerked. She had no frame of reference for the emotions crashing together inside her brain right then and decided to let regular old jealousy win the wrestling match.

  “Yes. Please...please...Cara....” He exhaled when she slipped her lips over his head, teasing, licking, sucking while gripping his length. “Ah yes!” he cried out, twisting his fingers in her hair and filling her mouth with a loud groan of relief. “God,” he sighed. She rocked back on her heels, wiping her lips, more turned on than she’d been in a hell of a long time.

  Crawling up his body, skin against skin, sweat making them slippery, she smiled when he kept pulling at her until she straddled his face. “Mine,” he growled.

  They lay together later, sweat drying under the rotating ceiling fan. Kent’s fingers trailed down her arm. She stroked his chest.

  “It’s not anything serious, you know?”

  She nodded, but her brain spun with too many emotions to sort through at that moment. Angry jealousy coiled around exhausted confusion, making her too tired to even think, much less respond.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Kieran wiped the sweat out of his eyes and focused on the basket, took a few bounces and executed another perfect, string-music shot. Then he grabbed the ball and repeated it for the hundredth time that morning. The August heat baked his shoulders. The humidity pressed against his face and filled his lungs. In his zone, doing his second-favorite activity in the world, he barely felt even mild discomfort.

  Antony’s truck roared into the parking lot, followed by Dom’s Harley. All three of his brothers headed his way, a cooler swinging between Dominic and Aiden. When the basketball bounced to him, he turned and buried it once more.

  “Good thing you’re getting some extra practice,” Antony declared, snagging the ball before it could reach him and running down to the other end for a layup. But instead of chasing him down and shoving him into the chain links surrounding the court as he would have done any other Sunday, he stood there, arms dangling at his side. He felt inert, slow and useless, his head stuffed with cotton, his limbs mired in warm sand.

  “How’s the strip club gig?” Aiden asked, as he shot free throws with his own ball.

  Kieran shrugged, chest tight, as the others prepared for their Sunday ritual—the weekly two-on-two brawl disguised as a basketball game.

  His extreme loser-hood engulfed him, leaving him speechless, reminding him of how he’d turned up at Melinda’s place a few nights before, banging on her door, begging her to let him in. She had. And they now existed in a strange limbo of minimal communication other than what occurred between their bodies.

  But she had insisted on paying off his credit card, so now he supposed he owed her.

  The bizarre reverse Dr. Jeckyl-Miss Hyde thing she’d done unnerved him. But she kept him physically sated, using any excuse to jump his bones, suck his cock, anything he wanted, anytime he wanted it. It kept him off-balance enough not to complain. But when alone, like he’d been for the last two hours, a burning sensation would fire his gut and flame its way into his chest and windpipe, leaving the nastiest taste in his mouth that nothing would dissipate.

  He was pretty sure he’d been played, or something. Maybe she did love him, had missed him, felt legitimately sorry for screwing around, whatever. But somehow, the nicer she acted, the less he wanted to be around her.

  It was utterly perverse. He must be some kind of glutton for punishment. But she’d insisted he take the rest of the summer to relax and think about his job priorities. She could afford whatever they needed. That particular stinging barb would bury deep into his masculinity, a wound she would soothe with her lips, tongue, fingers, and body. So he’d forget about it, until the next time she’d fling it at him.

  “Hey!” he yelped when a ball nailed his ear.

  “Earth to Francis.” Dominic held another ball under his arm. “I know you’re reunited with little Miss Wonderful but could ya focus on us for a bit? It’s time for us to school the two ugly ones.”

  “Yeah, sorry.”

  After a few minutes spent wondering when Dominic would own up to his secret, he decided that it resided squarely in the none-of-his-business territory. “Let’s do this.”

  “You’re skins, losers.” Antony held his well-worn leather ball against his side. “Strip ‘em, ladies. Oh, sorry, Francis. Guess you hear that a lot?”

  “Go to hell,” he muttered, tugging his shirt over his head at the same moment he recalled the previous night’s debauchery. A low whistle and a distinct chuckle rose from behind him.

  “Wowzer,” Aiden said.

  “What got a hold of you?” Dom asked.

  “Well now, my brother, those are some fine gouges. You might need antibiotic ointment though. She’s probably contagious.”

  He heaved his ball at Antony’s nose. “Play or get the hell out of my face.”

  An hour later, sweat coated all four men as they paused, gasping for breath. Antony boasted a budding shiner from Kieran’s elbow, Dominic spat blood from Aiden’s fist and Aiden massaged his jaw from a face-first, Dominic-instigated shove into the chain links. Kieran had so far escaped injury but the nail tracks down his skin burned like they’d been dipped in acid. The men stood in a circle glaring at each other, chests heaving, the ball rolling around at their feet.

  “Y’all are a bunch of fools,” a familiar voice called from the parking lot. “Make a perfectly good game into a rasslin’ match.” Their father headed their way, lugging a six-pack cooler. “Ain’t got the sense God gave a gaggle of geese.”

  Kieran glanced at Antony. They exchanged an unspoken moment of worry. Their dad never participated in and barely even observed the traditional game he had foisted on them when they were boys. He’d gotten the tradition going, insisting they should work out their aggressions against each other by playing round ball instead of thrashing around on the floor, punching each other and making their parents insane. Then had backed away and let it happen, chuckling when they’d reappear at the Sunday supper table sporting injuries.

  “What? Don’t stop on my account.” Anton sat on top of a picnic table, popped open a Love Brewing Chocolate Lust black lager, and took a long drink. His four sons remained in place, unnerved by his presence. “Well, now you really do look like a pack of eejits over there with your mouths hangin’ open. I got a booger or something? Forget my pants?” He tipped the half-empty bottle in their general direction then drained the rest before opening another.

  Dom nudged Kieran forward. By unspoken agreement, he slipped into his role as intermediary between the Love kids and their parents. He’d been the mouthpiece for the group his whole life for reasons he still didn’t grasp. His place as the second son, an Irish twin to Antony, his role as middle child stuck fast once Dominic made his appearance four years later then Aiden, and finally the miracle surprise girl-child.

  “Something wrong at home?” He hooked his fingers into the chain link trying to seem casual. Anxiety about their mother’s health hovered over them all like a barely acknowledged storm cloud.

  “Oh, you know your mama,” their paterfamilias mumbled into the mouth of his beer bottle. “Woman’s making me insane.”

  “Ah, okay. So she made you leave the house, huh?” His brothers all exhaled in unison behind Kieran. It must be another blow out between their parents. Thank the Lord another heart-to-heart about Lindsay’s declining health did not loom on the group’s horizon.

  “I swan she’s angling me into an early grave.”

  Kieran smiled and turned around in time to catch the basketball in his solar plexus so hard he grunted and doubled over. He straightened and barreled between Dom
and Aiden, knocking them both aside as he made for the basket, which signaled the start of the second half.

  The physicality he craved, the release of pressure building in his chest from the last few days of nonstop fucking with the woman he knew he didn’t love and barely even liked brought a semblance of peace. They ignored their father and played full out for the next thirty minutes, racing up and down the court, elbows and fists flying.

  Dom chased Antony after he stole the ball from him for the third time that half, stopping as Antony landed a gorgeous hook shot to tie the game. “You let that bitch use a strap-on or what. Jesus, Francis, when did you turn into such a pussy?”

  Kieran whirled around, alarming red tinting the edges of his vision. His fists balled, his arms raised, and words he regretted for the rest of his life spewed out of his mouth.

  “I guess you’d know all about that, huh, faggot? Or are you the pitcher?”

  Dom’s face drained of all color. Aiden and Antony ignored them, high-fiving and unaware that what they took for the usual fake homophobic banter had a deeper meaning. Anton Love jumped to his feet and ran around the corner of the fence to get between his two middle sons about a half second too late.

  Dom leaped at him, launching off the ground like some kind of predatory cat, shoving Kieran to the hot asphalt so hard he saw stars. His brother’s sturdy, brewery-work muscular body had him planted. The others tried to peel him off, but he wouldn’t budge. He sat with one palm on Kieran’s throat, his other fist ready to punch. The expression on his face was of abject dismay.

  Kieran scrabbled at his neck, alarmed and getting woozy from lack of oxygen. “Sorry,” he gasped, but the word got lost in the shouting. Never taking his gaze from Kieran’s, Dominic kept pressing, relentless and seemingly hell bent on killing him. When the world went gray from the outside of Kieran’s vision, Dom let go but remained planted on his chest, brown eyes cloudy with rage.

  While Kieran sucked in life-giving air, Dom rose slowly to his feet. “I thought I could trust you. Guess I was wrong.”

  “No, no, wait,” he tried to say, but his shredded throat wouldn’t cooperate. “I’m sorry.” After a few minutes spent regaining his equilibrium, he got to his feet and saw Aiden, Antony, and their father drinking beers on the picnic table, with no sign of Dominic anywhere nearby.

  “Not sure what that was all about,” he muttered, rubbing his neck, his chest heaving. He bent forward and counted to twenty, willing away an impending asthma attack.

  “Dominic Sean blows a gasket, nearly kills Kieran Francesco,” Aiden mimed talking into a microphone shaped like a beer bottle. Kieran ignored him and dumped a bottle of water over his aching head. “And now in other Love Family non-news, over to you, Antony.” Aiden stuck the bottle in front of Antony’s face. He smacked it away, laughing before heading over to Kieran.

  “That seemed a little excessive. Think he’s off his meds again?” Antony lifted Kieran’s chin, whistling at whatever he saw. “You are gonna bruise, bro. Sorry, we couldn’t get him off you.”

  “It’s fine,” he said, wincing when he tried to swallow some water. “He’s just....” For a half second he considered telling Antony what had happened in Atlanta. But he’d sworn not to, so he wouldn’t. “You know him. You’ll have to ask Mama about the meds.”

  “He’s on some new ones.” Their father approached the two of them. “Others were making him too sleepy he claimed. Fucking shrinks. No offense, son.”

  Antony, now married to the woman who had been his therapist for a few months, nodded in that stoic way he’d developed in the past few years. “None taken. But I think we should check on him. Where’d he go, wonder.” They all turned to the space where Dom’s Harley had been a few minutes before.

  “I’ll go,” Kieran said, wanting to make amends, honestly worried about Dom’s state of mind, never mind the guy had nearly choked him to death in front of their father. Melinda expected him for a late lunch after the game. This would be the perfect excuse to avoid that.

  Anton wandered back to the picnic table near Aiden who was fiddling with his smart phone. “So, you boys remember about the fish fry, right?”

  Kieran had forgotten all about the annual community-wide Labor Day festival. It had been one of the mental markers of his impending wedding, originally scheduled the year before, for the weekend after the event. “You need help?”

  “The usual,” their father said, staring down at the bottle he held between his knees, his face a mask of anxiety. “The gal at the Convention and Visitor’s Bureau’s telling me to expect twice as many this year since all the richies have caught on. They think it’s such a cute thing, hanging with the poor white trash regular Lucasville folks. I’m bringing a dozen kegs for the tap truck. You boys are pouring.”

  Aiden got up and stretched. “Sorry y’all. But it appears as though my daughter has a fever and is screaming in agony. Guess a trip to the urgent care is in my immediate future.” He saluted his father and snagged the shirt he’d stripped off so he could pour water on his head. “I’m worried about him,” he said when he passed by Kieran who remained at the fence, gripping the chain links, ignoring the near constant buzzing of his phone from the grass nearby.

  “Hmm? Who?”

  “Dom, who else? He’s really off lately. Worse than usual. It’s like when what’s-her-name bolted. Remember? Maybe you should check with Diana?”

  “Brantley?” But as soon as he said it, Kieran realized Aiden could be right. Dom tended to retreat to the Brantley farm to lick his wounds. Diana had hung with the boys for years and had eventually morphed into Dominic’s first high school girlfriend. He’d remained somehow connected to her, although she’d been married and divorced fairly recently, if Kieran remembered correctly. Besides, they all figured she would just as soon castrate Dominic with her hunting knife as let him within a hundred yards of her, all things considered.

  His youngest brother studied his phone screen. “This fatherhood thing is a bitch.” He grinned. “I love it though.”

  Kieran whacked him on the back of the head. “Pussy-whipped.”

  “Yep, and a sweet pussy it is,” Aiden replied, heading for the parking lot.

  Kieran watched him go, the heaviness in his chest only increasing. It had taken them a while, but Antony and Aiden had found two amazing women, now had families, and both were happy—or at least as happy as any married man with kids. A familiar bone-deep jealousy crept in around his various physical pains at the realization he’d never, ever find that sort of peace with a woman like Melinda.

  “Hey, Mr. Love,” a voice called out from across the park. He squinted into the sun. When a bunch of kids came into closer view he waved, recognizing them from the Lucasville High basketball team last year. Nice kids, but poorly coached, in his opinion.

  “Hi, Hunter, Greg, Theo.” He wheeled the cooler into the grass and sat on it, unwilling to admit he dreaded what he’d find when he went after Dominic while acknowledging that the prospect of that trumped having lunch with Melinda.

  Three more boys joined the others and called out their greeting to him before dividing into teams and hitting the worn, asphalt court. Anton and Antony remained a few feet away on the picnic table, sipping their beers side by side in silence and appearing for all the world like a before-and-after photo. He observed the on-court action for a while, calling out encouragement and cheering when one of the kids, a tall, lanky dark-skinned boy he remembered from one of his History classes dunked the ball with a vengeance.

  Hooking his fingers in the fence loops, he noted a few things he couldn’t help but comment on, much to the apparent delight of the boys on the court.

  “Your shoulder is too high,” he advised when Theo stepped to the free throw space, since no actual line existed anymore. “Seriously, let me show you.” He jogged out to the kids and pressed down on the boy’s right shoulder. “Now shoot.” Theo frowned, crouched, and stuck his tongue between his teeth. His right shoulder hitched under Kieran’s p
alm at his release. “See. It’s totally throwing off your stance. Frees are all about your position, the way you set your feet and hips. Plus a ton of practice.”

  The kid missed the first one, then, when Kieran put more pressure on the offending shoulder for the second one, he drilled it into the center of the net. The boys cheered.

  “Sure wish you were our coach,” one of the boys said.

  “Nah, I’d probably suck at that as much as I sucked at being a teacher.” He hooked the ball over their heads into the basket.

  The boys made a loud protest, with the words you’re a great teacher, I can’t wait for next year’s history class coming through loud and clear. Kieran held up his hands. “Sorry y’all, but I won’t be teaching next year.”

  “What the fuck?”

  He shot the offender a dark glare. The boy flushed red. “I mean, what the heck, Mr. Love. You were the only decent history teacher in the whole dang building.”

  “Well, budget cuts, or whatever. I was only temporary, technically speaking. I have to get my master’s degree they tell me. Anyway....” He bounced another ball a few times and tossed it into them. “Thanks. I gotta get going.”

  “No, wait! Stay! Play with us!”

  The cacophony of noises loosened his chest. “Maybe next week. We’re here—”

  “Every Sunday, we know.” They were arrayed in a line, staring at him, reminding him of how much he loved his teaching job to the point of true, physical pain at the fresh realization he no longer had it. “We’ll be here next week, too. Promise you’ll stick around?” their spokesman asked. Kieran gave them a noncommittal salute. Antony and his father hopped down off the picnic table and followed him to the parking lot.

  “Coach Love, eh?”

  He ignored his father’s not-too-subtle dig at his under-employed state.

  “Next weekend, fish fry, don’t forget,” Anton called before screeching out onto the road.