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For three more days, I do everything he says and wait for him to so much as even acknowledge my presence outside of practice. But I keep getting fucking nothing.
I don't know what I want from him, what kind of treatment or attention would satisfy me, but this isn't it. I want to see the man that cracked in the hallway, that held me down and came on my face.
I want to see him lose control.
It’s time to start pushing back again.
CHAPTER 10
BRYANT
I’ve had to step back. Being around the kid is too much. I was way over the line the other day, and it could have cost us both everything. There's no way I could keep my job or ever get another, if Jack had told or we'd been caught. And there's no way the dean would keep Jack on the team if I was gone. Not least of all because it would imply things about his sexuality that aren't considered acceptable in Texas football society. But also because the dean has a severe disdain for people he considers low class, and would look for any excuse for Jack to leave if he embarrassed him at all.
Jack shows up early and leaves late every day. I know because I check the cameras nightly, watching him arrive each morning and then as he walks to my office before he leaves the building at night. I'm confused by the way he watches me, the way he comes to my office every night after his extended workout, the way he leaves the door to the locker room open so the steam from the showers filters out into the hallways. It's almost as though he's seeking me out, looking for my attention.
I'm curious, but not enough to ask him about it or do anything. I barely pay him any attention at all outside of what I absolutely have to say to him at practice. Every time he says "Yes, Coach," my cock gets hard. The jock strap can only do so much, and I go home with a raging boner every night. I don't allow myself to do anything about it, but I've woken up more than one morning with a sticky mess on my stomach.
The dreams that plague me are both erotic and terrifying. One moment, I'm licking the sweat from his naked spine as he bends over the leg press machine, or looking down into his grey eyes as I force my cock into his mouth, and the next I'm standing before a judge, who looks exactly like Jack, holding an open bottle of whiskey.
He's become an obsession that I can't seem to shake. It's worse than the struggle I've had with alcoholism since my NFL dreams went up in flames, the constant reminder that I'll never be the man I once thought I'd be. Maybe that's why he calls to me, because I know I can help him achieve those same dreams and he could actually live them for longer than a blink of an eye.
I’ve been watching him closely, and he's doing well. There's no reason to change or push anything while he's succeeding the way he is. I've got him exactly where he needs to be, and if he keeps pushing himself the way he is, he'll be a new NFL recruit by this time next year. I gave him a warning, and as much as a big part of me wanted him to continue pushing back, it worked well enough for him to get his head back in the game.
Or so I thought.
I look down at my watch. Practice started nearly five minutes ago. Jack didn't show up for his early morning workout, nor did he respond to my texts when I asked him where the fuck he was.
I sense movement in the tunnel that leads to the locker room. Jack is there, leaning against the wall, looking at his watch. I look down at mine, curious about what he's looking for, considering he's already late for practice.
At exactly five minutes and one second past the time the rest of the team started their practice, he starts walking out onto the field.
"My bad!" he calls over to me, lifting his hand in a wave, before heading onto the field to get stretched out. My jaw ticks.
The rest of the morning, Jack puts less effort into his training. He runs slower, talks more. I even catch him flirting with the water girl again. Who the fuck let her back on this field?
When the team jogs off the field for their lunch break, I try to pull him aside, but he bypasses me. The chicken and brown rice I left in his locker is sitting on my desk when I get back to my office. Through the cameras, I watch as Jack fills his plate full of pasta.
"Fine, be a brat. That's going to hurt later when I make you run wind sprints," I whisper to the camera. Just before I switch it off, Jack looks directly up at the camera, like he knows I'm watching him.
For two days, Jack purposefully shows up exactly five minutes and one second late, doesn't eat the meals I continue to prepare for him, and fucks around on the field. The last straw happens when I can't find Jack before we start our scrimmage. Jogging off the field, I'm expecting to find Jack bent over a toilet because he's been putting trash into his body that it isn't used to anymore, but he isn't in the bathroom. Instead, the door to the supply closet is ajar and I find him in there getting his fucking dick sucked by the water girl.
"Oh, hey, Coach. I'll be right out," he says, holding down the poor girl's head when she panics, realizing they've been caught. She gags in his harsh grip.
"Let her go," I say, rage seething beneath my calm surface.
Jack throws both of his hands up, and she falls back, coughing. Jack's cock bobs, glistening with spit. I fight to tear my eyes away from it.
Turning towards me, her eyes watering, the girl chokes out a cry and stands to leave. I hold my arm out to stop her before she can pass through the door and give her a stern look.
"Don't come back," I warn her. "I'll sign off on a transfer to the girls’ softball team, but if I catch you here again, you'll be expelled." Nodding through her snot and tears, the girl runs off.
I turn my gaze to Jack. "What the fuck is your problem?"
"You are," he says lazily before he brushes past me and walks out of the closet.
I'm trying to relax in the sauna, immersed in the thick steam, heavily scented with eucalyptus that I brought from home. Everyone has long since left the building, so I'm surprised when the door clicks open. I can't see who walks in at first, but I can sense him.
Jack walks into the room, wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung workout shorts. He looks like he's been working out, or running, even though he wasn't working out in the building or on the field.
