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Jack flashes me a crooked grin. "Seems like you might like watchin’. Thought I'd do you a favor."
"Were you fucking drunk? You can't send that shit to me. Or anyone else. If you got caught, getting kicked off this team is the least worst of your worries," I hiss at him.
He shrugs. "I had a few."
"I don't know who the fuck you think you are–"
"I'm Jack fucking Perry. And I'm tired of being bossed around by a pussy like you."
"You are nobody, and you're not going anywhere or doing anything if you don't get with the fucking program," I growl.
Jack squares up to me. He's only a few inches shorter than my six-foot-four frame, but I'm quite a bit wider than his lean body. I feel the warmth of his chest pressing against mine, both of us breathing heavily.
"You're like a baby bulldog, Jack. All that pent up aggression and anger, with no real outlet. I'm trying to turn all of that into something useful. As long as you're out there being an idiot hothead, you're going to fail."
"And you're a fucking pussy, hiding in the shadows while I show you again and again that I can do anything—handle anything—you throw at me. So if you're not fucking man enough to do anything about it, why should I bother?"
Seething, I grab his hand and place it on my cock, half hard and growing by the moment. "Is this what you're trying to get to, baby bulldog? You couldn't fucking handle this. You can't handle me."
"Bullshit. You're just too much of a pussy to show me what you're made of. And I’m not fucking gay, you fucking pervert."
I know he's goading me, and I know I need to back away, but a mixture of rage and arousal is lighting up my veins, and if I don't do something, I'll combust.
With a growl, I wrap a hand around Jack's throat and back him into the wall. I loom over him, meeting the challenge in his darkening eyes with one of my own. Swiftly, I open the supply room door next to us and push him inside, slamming the door behind me. The fluorescent lights come on automatically, casting an eerie, almost clinical glow over the polished cement flooring and walls of shelves with equipment, cleaning supplies, and stacks of extra towels and practice jerseys.
"Your hair is too long," I grunt, fisting the ends that haven't been trimmed since he arrived. I haul his body back against mine and feel his erection hit my thigh. Reaching forward, I run my hand along the length of it, squeezing hard. "Is this what you want, baby bulldog?"
Instead of answering, his tongue lashes out and licks my bottom lip. I grit my teeth and force him to his knees.
I know what he wants, what he needs.
"You need to learn your place, Jack," I grouse, pulling out my painfully hard cock. I smack him once across the face before pumping myself. In two quick strokes, I grunt my release, spurts of cum splashing over his face. He blinks and sputters, struggling in my hold, but I tighten my hold on him until I'm finished.
I release his hair with a push, making him stumble back, catching himself on his hands and knees. His eyes are wide and incredulous, mouth open in shock, face dripping with my cum. There's a moment of silence where we both consider what just happened here, and my heart beats even more frantically. Jack's tongue darts out, tasting the cum I painted his mouth with, and I decide I need to leave before I do something worse.
I throw a towel at him. "Clean yourself up and get to practice. Expect to stay late to make up for this morning." Opening the door, I listen for anyone in the hallway, but I think they've all made it to the locker room. The coast is clear.
"And Jack?" I say, turning back to him.
He doesn't respond, but looks up at me with narrowed eyes. "You're supposed to say 'Yes, Coach?'," I prompt him, trying to keep my cool demeanor.
"Yes, Coach?" he repeats, and the way he grits out the words makes my cock twitch. I'll need the strap today for sure.
"Be a good boy and we'll see what kind of reward you can earn."
I'm more than a little worried when I walk out onto the field and Jack isn't there yet. Did I go too far? He could go to one of the staff, the dean, the police… Am I about to lose everything because I lost it?
It takes a lot for me to lose my control. I've had a harsh grip on myself for five damn years, only to lose it now? I'm supposed to be helping this kid, but who is going to be here to straighten his ass up if I'm fucking homeless because I lose my job? And who is going to keep me from drowning in the bottom of the bottle again?
Jack finally makes it out onto the field, shouting a quick, "Sorry, Coach!" as he joins his teammates. They're all slapping him on the back, no doubt congratulating him on his escapades yesterday and last night.
"Don't let it happen again," I respond, trying to act normal. Jack turns and looks at me, his eyes seeming to search mine for any signs that I mean what I say.
Will it happen again? It shouldn't happen again, that's for damn sure.
Most of the players are sluggish today, probably hungover from their long day of booze, sun, and sex. I'm too tired and busy overthinking the predicament I've gotten myself into to have it in me to be too hard on them today, and as another storm starts rolling in just after lunch, they get even more of a reprieve.
"Two hours in the gym and then get home and rest. I expect every single one of you in top form tomorrow," I order, and they run off the field.
