Guilty Pleasure: A Taste of Home
I was still tingly from the massage, following a long hard day of drills with Coach. Coach had spent the last hour working the knots out of my quads with a precision that bordered on surgical. When he finally stood up, wiping his hands on a towel, he’d looked down at me with that dark, unreadable gaze.
"Your kit is still in the dryer, Wells," he’d rumbled, his voice low. "Go find something of mine to put on. Dinner will be here in ten."
I didn't need a second invitation. I made my way to his bedroom, the plush carpet soft under my feet. I pulled a pair of his heavy black joggers from the drawer and a deep-cut charcoal tank top. As I pulled the cotton over my head, the scent hit me, cedar, expensive leather, his sweat and the clean, masculine heat that was uniquely Coach. It was a sensory overload, making me feel centered, safe and comfortable. It also made me feel a little horny and turned on at the same too.
I was still adjusting the drawstring when I heard the heavy thud of the front door closing.
When I walked back into the living room, the atmosphere had shifted. The coffee table was no longer empty. Coach was standing there with, two large, steaming takeout containers from Golden Curds were waiting, the lids popped to reveal a mountain of fries and gravy, in his hands. It was the only place in the Golden City that did it right, importing the curds straight from Quebec to ensure that authentic "squeak." It was my guilty pleasure when I was in the Golden City, a taste of home a taste of Canada.
Coach was sitting on the edge of the couch, looking like a total force of nature. He was rocking his red-and-black plaid flannel, completely unbuttoned and hanging open over his massive, sculpted chest. He had on his faded blue jeans and white socks, looking rugged and dominant in the low amber light.
“You’re trying to soften me up, Coach,” I teased, taking a seat on the sofa and pulling a container toward me. I took a massive, blissful bite. The cheese curds were perfect. “If the guys saw you in flannel ordering poutine, they’d never take another lap seriously.”
Coach didn’t laugh. He just sat there, inches from my knees. He leaned forward, the open flannel draping around his frame, his eyes locking onto mine with that dark, predatory focus that always made my pulse jump.
“I’m not softening you up, Wells. I’m fueling the engine,” Coach whispered. He reached out, his hand sliding over the charcoal cotton of his own tank top to grip my shoulder, his thumb tracing the line of my collarbone.
I watched him take a slow, deliberate look at the mountain of fries and gravy in my lap, then back up to my face.
“It’s a lot of calories, Wells. High density. High impact.” He leaned in closer, the scent of the poutine and his cologne wrapping around me. “And you know my rules about efficiency. We aren't letting a single one of those calories go to waste.”
I swallowed, the poutine suddenly feeling secondary to the heat coming off him. “And how do you suggest we… optimize the burn-off?”
Coach’s smirk was slow and wicked. He gave my shoulder a possessive squeeze before sliding his hand down to the waist of my joggers, his joggers.
“I think you know exactly how we’re going to spend the next few hours,” Coach purred, his voice a low, dangerous vibration. “By the time I’m done with you tonight, you’ll have burned off that poutine and then some. I’m going to make sure that by tomorrow morning, the only thing you’re 'full' of is me.”
I felt a cocky, breathless grin hit my face. I set the bowl down on the side table, my "relaxed" vibe instantly shifting into high-gear loyalty.
“Consider the workout accepted, Coach,” I rasped, leaning into his space until our foreheads almost touched. “But don’t be surprised if I’m a little hard to handle once you get me into the 'end zone.' I tend to play rough when I’m properly fed.”
Coach’s grip tightened on my waist, his thumb hooking under the elastic of the joggers. He pulled me just an inch closer, his gaze dropping to my mouth.
“That’s fine, Wells,” he whispered, his voice dark and satisfied. “I’ve always preferred an asset that stiffens up under pressure. Just make sure you’re ready to take everything I’m about to give you—I don’t do 'half-time' adjustments in the bedroom.”
The stadium sees the wall. Coach sees the man. Get a team that knows exactly how to fuel your fire. Join the Golden Army. Contact our recruiters: @alton-gold77, @polo-drone-166, @franco-gold94, @polo-drone-125
