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“Coach, look,” Colt jumps in, “we’re sorry. It’s the first time we’ve ever overslept, and it won’t happen again. Ever.”
“Goddamn right, it won’t.” His finger points at me again. “Because she’s outta here. You two can’t get your shit together, but you’ll team play with her? I pay you to give me one hundred and ten percent in every play, not every pussy!” He coughs, addressing me, “Sorry, ma’am. No disrespect. I’m just old-school and ornery.”
“None taken,” I reply. “I’ll start packing.”
“No, you won’t.” Beau reaches for my arm. “Coach, she can’t leave. She makes us grind it out.”
Colt coughs at Beau’s unfortunate pun.
“I mean,” Beau explains, “we’re talking because of her. We made amends because of her. We’re over the interception bullshit, and now we’re working with Dr. Gary to make sure it won’t happen again.”
“You don’t get a goddamn trophy for doing your goddamn job!” Coach shouts. “That’s what you’re paid to do without double poking a pussy!” He coughs again. “Sorry, ma’am.”
And God, forgive him.
Coach is actually a nice guy. I can tell. He just really likes your damn name.
“I know. I know.” Beau surrenders. “We are doing our jobs. We got our shit together. Me and Hawke are finally playing together like we used to.”
Beau keeps stepping into puns, and Coach arches a brow. It’s more dramatic because it’s the only hair on his shiny, bald head.
“So, this is a habit of yours? This is how you play?” Coach jeers. “Y’all used to do threesomes, and we lost the Super Bowl because of what? You missed your goddamn gangbang buddy?”
I purse my lips to keep from laughing.
Poor, Coach. He’s so irate and innocent. He’s fucking up all his fucking references.
I want to enlighten him; a gangbang is three or more on one or more than one. We’re just a wholesome little throuple. But hey, who’s counting or correcting him?
Um, Beau.
“This isn’t a habit.” Beau reaches for my hand. “This is private and between us. And we don’t gangbang her. Hawke and I haven’t done this before. I’ve been in love with Blair since college, and I guess she takes me back. She takes us back to when we were happy, and it was just a game. When he and I were best friends and shared everything.”
It’s so sweet how Beau is proud of us.
It’s so bitter how he has to hide him and Colt.
And it’s so funny how he keeps stepping into puns like cow patties.
Coach shakes his head. “Bronson, you’re not popping my cherry. I’ve seen all kinds of shit with players. And yes, in your home, it’s private. But you’re here on my time and Atlanta’s dime. You two are marquee players. Everything rests on your shoulders. Literally, that’s why I’m doing this guru whatever retreat shit. No one can afford to have an open mind about your threesome.”
“Why not?” Colt surprises me. “Why can’t you have an open mind? Why can’t you keep this between us?” He reaches for my other hand. “If we tell you that we work better like this and play better like this, then why can’t you support us?”
It’s so sweet, too.
And so embarrassing.
Holding their hands drops the bedsheet to my waist, adding my tits to this argument, but the girls are in it to win it, too.
Coach rubs his head, like he’s rubbing a genie’s lamp and wishing our throuple would just “poof!” Disappear.
But we’re not. We’re here—me, Beau, Colt, and my tits—asking for a chance.
“I promise I won’t distract them.” So, I gotta fight for my guys too.
That word makes Beau squeeze my hand, but I get it. I grew up with it. I drop their hands to grab the bedsheet again and cover myself while I plead our case.
“My dad plays in the PGA and?—”
