20. Bryant

Jack startles and drops the token he was holding. With wide eyes, he drops down to the floor and scrambles to pick it up.

"I"m so sorry, I was just–"

"Leaving. You"re recovered enough. Get the fuck out."

"Coach, I?—"

"You need to leave."

"Just let me explain."

"There"s nothing to explain. It"s time for you to go."

"What about earlier, I thought?—"

He probably thought what I was thinking, that we should discuss what"s happening between us. I can't seem to stay away from him, no matter how much I know I need to, and he doesn"t seem interested in maintaining distance. If we"re going to keep this up, we need a new set of ground rules.

Throughout the day I realized how absolutely, impossibly fucking stupid that is. Never mind the fact that I"m not gay—I can"t have a fucking relationship with a student. He"s almost thirty years my junior, and I"m his teacher, his coach. It"s wrong, and we could both get in a lot of trouble for this. We could both lose everything.

And it"s not as if a relationship could last between the two of us even if it wasn"t dangerous, so why even entertain the notion? No, I needed to let him down gently, make him understand and see reason.

That was before I walked in to see him in my private space, going through my things. Specifically, seeing him holding evidence of my biggest weakness, my biggest failure, in his hands.

I feel exposed. Uncomfortable.

"There"s nothing to talk about. What happened earlier was a mistake. All of this was a mistake."

I turn on my heel, needing to get out of our shared breathing space. I can"t bear to look him in the eye.

"What? No. Coach!" Jack chases after me, reaching out and trying to pull me back by the shoulder. "Look, I"m sorry."

I look at him dead in the eyes, ignoring the pain I see behind his grey irises, and covering the pain it"s causing me. He needs to see that I"m serious.

"This has gone too far, Jack," I tell him sternly, leaving no room for discussion. There"s no talking anymore, because I know there"s weakness in my resolve, and I can"t show him that. "You need to go. I"ll call you a cab."

"Don"t bother," he snaps.

He picks up his phone from the kitchen counter, and shoves his feet in his football cleats, because those are the only shoes he came here with. I should chase after him and hand him the rest of his things, but I"m worried I"ll be too weak in the moment and, in trying to explain myself, give away just how many feelings I have on the matter.

So I let him leave. I watch him walk out the door, wincing as he slams it shut, and continue to stand there, staring at the door, for far too long.

The night grows darker, and I put myself through the motions of all the things I"d normally do after work. I shower, reheat whatever meal I prepared over the weekend, and eat without really tasting anything. I notice Jack found the lunch I left behind for him, and stare at the note he left while I clean up after myself. My hands itch to put the container back where it belongs, but I leave it there to torment myself with. Because that"s what I like to do.

To exemplify my torture, the next thing I do is grab my fifteen-year-old bottle of scotch and a glass. I set them on the table and stare at them while I turn my five years sober token in my hand. I haven"t been to a meeting in over two years, but maybe now is the time. A glance at the clock tells me it"s too late for tonight, anyway.

Truth be told, I"m not sure Alcoholics Anonymous is what I need, or what I ever needed. I started because it was court ordered, and kept up with it because it gave me something to focus on. I definitely needed to get clean from the booze and pills, and I needed to get my life straight. AA helped me find purpose, although I struggle with the religious aspect of it. Fifteen years ago, I was on a downward spiral. I fell into a deep depression when I was told that I couldn"t do the only thing I ever loved, and my football career was wrenched from my hands. I overused my prescriptions, and asked for more, for stronger, and I was given them without question, however much I wanted, but it was never enough to numb the pain. So I started drinking, drowning out my own thoughts.

I"m not sure that I was ever truly addicted to the alcohol itself, but I know it turned me into a different person. It turned me into a sad, pathetic, lazy sap. When my wife left me during my first stint in rehab, it didn't even surprise me. She'd always wanted to be a rich NFL wife, and while I still had plenty of money saved, I could no longer provide her with the lifestyle she wanted. So she left, and divorce papers were delivered the day I checked out. I checked back in about a month later when I found out she was already dating one of my ex-teammates, someone I once considered a friend.

Slowly, I lost contact with every person who ever meant anything to me, squandered what remained of the money that Penny didn"t wring from me in the divorce, and I lost contact with myself for a long time. Giving myself over to the oblivion that drugs and alcohol promised, always emerging on the other side in more pain than I was before the bender. I had no prospects, no future. I didn"t even have a home, since Penny had won that, too.

Rock bottom hit when the paparazzi took photos of me fucking some random woman behind a dumpster. I wasn"t popular enough of a story to be breaking news, but it did lose me my last endorsement deal. I suppose I could think of it as saving me from embarrassing commercials about erectile dysfunction that I clearly didn"t have, but whatever the case, I lost the last good thing I had going for me and knew then that I had to clean myself up.

Spending the last of my savings on a crappier, but more effective, rehab facility, I started going to AA consistently just to have something to focus on. I learned that my addiction didn"t actually have anything to do with the substances, only with abusing my body, so I took up a new form of abuse—exercise. I started pouring all of my excess energy into forcing my body to go longer, harder, faster. I ran until my legs felt like limp noodles, lifted until I broke blood vessels, and plunged myself into frigid ice baths, not to sooth my aches, but to revel in the feeling of being fucking alive. My new addiction, my addiction to pain, is what really saved me.

Five years later, the dean of Groveton College approached me. His team was the laughingstock of college football, and he remembered the days when I'd brought the Jackals to a national championship. He could see that I was floundering, that I had nothing left to lose, so he offered me a job under one condition: I make the Groveton College Jackals champions. If I didn"t, I was on my ass again. He didn"t even care about the photos of me with my pants down, even helped cover them up. As long as I won them some football games and did what he said, he didn't care.

What I didn"t expect was to love the job this much. As much as I loved being on the field as a player, coaching brought something new out of me. I quickly got a reputation for being a hardass, and for sometimes going overboard, but I knew how far to push my players, taking them to their limits in order to help them strive for greatness.

Unfortunately, I lost sight of limits when I met Jack Perry. Maybe it"s because he didn"t seem to have them. Or maybe it"s the way he challenged me. I knew the moment I watched the recruitment footage that he was something special, but I didn"t know that I would feel something for him. It's more than pride. More than something a coach should feel for one of his students. More even than the physical need he makes impossible to ignore.

At first I just wanted to beat him down, make him feel small so I could build him back up again. Then it became an encouragement for him to keep performing, and an indulgence for me. But the day he kissed me, it became something different. Something real and terrifying and far more addictive than the bottle of scotch I like to tempt myself with as a reminder of my own strength.

And that"s why I don"t think alcohol was ever my issue. Because I don"t crave the burn of the scotch anywhere near the way I crave Jack Perry.

He dominates my every thought, and the only comparison is my need to dominate him. I want to hurt him and soothe the pain in the same breath, own him and set him free at the same time, push him away while pulling him so close we merge into a single being.

Unlike the stupid bottle of scotch that my reflection mocks me through, he"s a true addiction that I can"t seem to let go of.

In a fit of rage, I roar my pain into the empty room and throw the bottle as hard as I can. It hits the granite countertop and cracks, but doesn"t shatter the way my heart is right now.

When I catch my breath from my little tantrum, half embarrassed even though I"m home alone, I go to pick up the bottle and examine the crack along the side. The thick glass is a fitting metaphor for how I"m feeling—holding something dangerous and volatile inside, but slowly cracking, my weakness starting to show. Because however thick and strong I am, I"m still just made of glass.

I look again at the note Jack left on the counter and the bag of his things still sitting on the floor near my office door. I should go apologize. It"s late, but if I don"t get all this off my chest, I know I won"t be brave enough later. The last thing I need is Jack getting pissed off and doing something foolish. He needs to understand where I"m coming from, why this can"t happen between us. He also needs to understand that fighting back or outing me could undermine all the work he"s done. I"ll follow through on my part of the deal and make sure the scouts come to see him, and I"ll give him every leg up I can to get him on that draft board, but it"s his talent and effort that will lead the way.

I"m shocked at how many people are still awake and milling around when I get to his dorm. There seems to be a party of some sort happening in the room across from Jack"s, even though it"s a fucking Monday, for fuck"s sake. Maybe I should see about securing a room for him at a different dorm or even one of the frat houses. The music and groups of people hovering in front of his door, having loud conversations over the thumping bass, can"t be helping him get any rest. Not to mention how distracting that would be for studying. Some asshole wearing fake fangs and a cape bumps into me and keeps moving without saying a word. What the fuck is wrong with these people? Kids these days… Wait. Is it Halloween?

Knocking tentatively on Jack"s door, I feel eyes on me, but when I turn around, it"s just my imagination. None of the students pay me any attention, unconcerned that a staff member has walked in on their party.

He doesn"t answer, so I bang my fist on the door louder, trying not to draw attention to myself. I"m just about to walk away, wondering where the fuck Jack is, when he walks up behind me.

"Coach? What are you doing here?"

His eyes are guarded, and I can"t read his expression. It might be angry, and rightfully so, but he"s also clearly exhausted. He"s wearing only a towel, drops of water falling from his wet hair and rolling down his chiseled torso. In one hand, he holds a small basket of toiletries and he"s wearing flip-flops. This dorm must have a communal shower. I hold up the bag of his stuff, momentarily tongue-tied and feeling like an idiot.

Jack watches the way my eyes rake over his bare body before he looks at the people around us. While no one noticed me, there are more than a few girls blatantly appreciating his body. It rankles my nerves, as if I have the right to be jealous or angry about the way he"s being openly ogled.

A blonde girl in a tight tube dress and bumble bee wings walks over to him and whispers in his ear, trailing her finger across his abs. I have to bite my tongue, trying to arrange my face into an expression of annoyance over the interruption, rather than upset about some random girl touching something that I perceive as being mine. Or is her presence here not random at all? Did he call her? Does he know her well? She looks vaguely familiar, but this isn"t that large of a campus.

Jack steps away from her, pushing her back gently. "Sorry, babe, I"m contagious. Got the flu."

She recoils a little, but pouts. "I heard you got hurt. Aniyah and I have been coming by to check up on you, but you haven"t been here."

"I"m alright. Takes more than a bitch hit like that one to take me down. I"ll be back on the field for the next game. Won"t I, Coach?" Jack says, turning their attention to me, standing there like an idiot. When she looks over at me in confusion, Jack actually has the nerve to wink at me. "Coach came to check up on me, yeah? Let me grab some pants and you can do whatever inspection you need to do."

Jack enters his room and closes the door, effectively dismissing both of us. The blonde sighs and flounces off down the hallway. I"m starting to wonder if I should leave too, but Jack opens the door, peeks around at the people still milling about in the hallway, and pulls me inside before anyone notices. After pulling me into the room, he closes the door and leans against it casually. He has not, in fact, put on any pants. He"s still only in a towel, wrapped low around his waist.

Not helpful.

I force my eyes away from him, taking in his small dorm room. I"ve only been in here once, before he"d really moved in, so a lot has changed. It smells like him—his spicy body wash and the faint underlying scent of sweat. It smells like sex.

His room is fairly tidy for a college age guy, but it"s clear he doesn"t spend much time here. There are very few personal effects in his room, and I wonder what happened to the trophy I saw in his box of things on that first day. For whatever reason, he decided not to display it. The only thing hanging on the wall is a large calendar where he has his classes, training, and game schedule, each written in different colors. There are textbooks and notebooks on the small desk, and a school issued laptop that is open to a social media page. Apparently, his accident and absence have made him a trending subject around the school.

I open my mouth to speak, but the words to start the conversation we need to have won"t come out. My mouth closes, and once again I feel like an idiot. I shouldn"t have come here, and I really shouldn"t be standing in Jack Perry"s dorm room gaping at his half naked body while students are milling around directly outside his door. The walls are thin enough that I realize the music is coming from the room next to him, not across the hall like I thought.

My eyes meet Jack"s. He"s been watching me quietly since he pulled me in here.

He"s probably pissed. I"m still pissed. But not at him.

Closing my eyes to block myself from the intensity of his gaze, I take a deep breath to steel myself. "I"m so?—"

My apology gets cut off by a hard kiss. In the span of time it takes for me to force myself to start the words, Jack crosses the space between us and presses his lips against mine, stealing the breath it would take to finish my sentence. My weak resolve crumbles, and I kiss him back, our tongues wrestling, teeth clashing against each other. Jack puts his hands on my shoulders, pressing my arms to close around him, fitting his body against mine.

The embrace, however awkward it is, breaks through the last of my defenses. Holding him against me, I walk forward until his back hits the door. His hands push under my shirt, and my skin sears where our stomachs press against each other, skin to skin. He pushes my shirt up my chest, breaking the kiss to pull it over my head, then lowers his mouth to flick over one of my nipples. A shiver runs through my body when he starts to push the waistband of my pants and boxer briefs down, bending to lower himself in front of me. I let my pants fall, but hold Jack up against the door, pulling his hands above his head and pressing my chest against him to pin him upright.

"You didn"t let me apologize," I grumble against his neck. Pinning his arms above his head with one arm, my other hand trails down his chest, tracing over his cut abs before pushing under the edge of the towel. I pull against the material, loosening it so it falls to the floor. My hand wraps around his thick erection, stroking pre-cum down his shaft before cupping his heavy balls.

Releasing his hands, I do something I"ve never done before.

I lower myself to my knees.

With the flat of my tongue, I lick from the underside of his sac to the base of his cock before taking each heavy, round testicle into my mouth. I roll my tongue over each of them, reveling in the short gasps and moans Jack makes. When I lick up the underside of his shaft, looking up at him to see his reaction, his eyes are glazed. His mouth is parted, his hands held out at his sides like he isn't sure what to do with them.

When Jack is sucking my cock, my hands are in his hair, controlling the way his mouth moves up and down my shaft. But this is unfamiliar territory for both of us, and he"s not sure what to make of the new development. Honestly, neither am I, but I"m even more surprised by how much I like my mouth on him. His spicy soap smell is stronger in my nostrils, the curls of his pubic hair tickling against my nose. His skin is smooth under my tongue, the slippery pre-cum he's leaking is salty and sweet in equal measure. I suck on the head of his cock like a lollipop, pressing my tongue into the weeping slit. Jack cries out, his hands flying up to steady against the top of my head.

I chuckle, pulling off his dick. "Don"t come yet, Jack. I"m not done with you."

Standing, I grip his hips and turn his body around. My hands grasp his and press them against the door on either side of his head. My body crowds and presses into his, my cock nudging between his thighs. He trembles in anticipation.

Pressing once against his hands to let him know to keep them where I"ve placed them, I release his hands and trail my fingers down the sides of his body until I reach his hips. Teasing, perhaps frighteningly, I pull his hips out and use a foot to widen his stance. Bending my body to fit against his, I lick and whisper against the space between his shoulder blades. "I"m not going to fuck you, Jack." He relaxes against me, drooping almost as if he"s disappointed. I wrap my hand around his cock again, pumping as my hips roll into him from behind.

"Why not?" he asks breathlessly.

I can"t answer him, knowing that whatever he says in reply will change my mind. I"m weak, fucking putty in his hands just as he is in mine, and I don"t know how to deny him when it"s something I want more than air to breathe. Instead, I distract him by dropping to my knees again, taking his firm ass in my hands, kneading and spreading his cheeks apart. Leaning my head forward, I lick between his legs, tonguing the sensitive space between his balls and ass. Jack startles at the sensation, then leans his head against the door and lets out a low moan. The music is still loud on the other side of the door, so I don"t worry too much about what anyone might hear.

His skin is still damp, and I itch to put my mouth on every inch of Jack"s body. My tongue moves up through his cheeks, licking up any remaining moisture from his shower. He gasps and groans when my tongue teases over his hole, and I flick it over the puckered flesh the way I would a clit.

I didn"t come here intending to do anything other than have a conversation with Jack about how we can"t continue the relationship we"ve somehow forged out of the fucked-up situation I put us in. I know what I"ve done is wrong. I used my position of power to manipulate a student into pushing themselves harder than they should. So hard, in fact, that he could have been seriously injured, or worse. And as if that wasn"t bad enough, I"ve been using him as a sexual outlet. It started as a power play, albeit a fucked up one, but it"s turned into something far more dangerous.

I burn for him. Crave him. So much so that I"m willingly and enthusiastically pushing my tongue into another man"s asshole.

"Fuuuck," Jack moans against the door, pushing his ass back against my face as I lick and probe him, eating his ass like a starving man until my mouth is sore. "Coach!" He pleads my name, panting and digging his fingers against the door. Jack"s cock is visibly throbbing, the angry purple head hitting the door so that drops of cum are dripping down the wood.

I replace my tongue with a finger, and then two, slowly thrusting inside the tight hole. My eyes are locked on the way his ass swallows them greedily, and I feel the tight ring contract when I wrap my other hand around Jack"s cock. His hips buck into my hand, shouting as I add a third finger to his ass. My mouth salivates, watching the way my fingers pump into his ass, spreading him out. He groans when I remove my fingers, looking down at me with wide eyes, silently asking me why I dared to stop. I try to reposition myself around his front to take his cock in my mouth and end up pressed between his body and the door. Jack"s cock eagerly pushes into my mouth, and I relax my jaw, giving in and letting him take charge. He thrusts into my mouth, hard but still more gentle than I"ve ever been. I blink out a stream of tears, and focus on the way his abs contract when I lift one of my hands to squeeze and tug on his balls. They"re firm and tightened against his body, and I realize that he"s waiting for permission. His cock is lodged down my throat, but his hands are right where I told them to stay and he's slowing his thrusts to keep himself from coming.

Fuck, that does something to me.

My fingers push back into his ass to massage his prostate, and I push my head forward to take him deeper into my throat. The effect is instant. Jack chokes out a cry, and he fills my mouth. I keep pumping my fingers inside him, milking and swallowing as his cum keeps spurting into my mouth. When he"s finally spent, I hold some of it in my mouth, savoring it for a moment before spitting it into my hand and using it to rub my cock. I didn"t come here to get off, hell I didn"t come here to get him off, but there"s no way I could walk out of here like this. I"m harder than I"ve ever been in my life, painfully so.

Jack is still braced against the doorway, eyes closed and breathing heavily. "That was… Fuck," he groans, interrupting himself when he opens his eyes and looks down at me. He watches me with heavy, lust filled eyes. "I"m going to take my hands off the door now," he says. "And then you"re going to put your fat cock in my ass and fuck me like I know you want to."

"Jack…" I warn him, but my warning is weak at best.

He lets go of the wall and drops to the floor in front of me. He puts his hand over mine and stops me from stroking myself, leaning forward to kiss me. It starts slowly, but he bites my lip and pulls, and I fall forward in a frenzy. I take his mouth savagely, recklessly, until I"m covering his body with mine.

"Fuck me," Jack says, and I pull back.

I"ve come this far, broken through all these boundaries, but I"m holding back on fully taking what I want. I know, beyond any doubt, that once I do this, there"s no going back. Once I let up on this last barrier between us, I"ll fall.

And that"s it, right there.

I"ll fall.

I"m a forty-eight-year-old man, falling for a twenty-year-old fucking college student. A male student, at that. My student. Someone I"m supposed to be molding into a better football player, not my personal fuckboy. But along the way, he"s become more than that. He"s an obsession. The dangerous next step on this slippery slope is a four letter word that I barely ever even uttered to my wife when I was married.

"I should go." I"ll take something to hold in front of me when I leave this room. Maybe none of the students in the hallways will notice the massive erection I have.

I can"t even stand up straight.

"No," Jack says defiantly, following me when I stand up and blocking the door. "I know you want to fuck me. Do it. Fuck me, Coach."

He turns around, putting his hands back on the door where they were before. His ass, his perfect fucking ass—muscular and round and wanting—pushes against my groin and I groan. I swallow, fighting back the heat that pricks at the back of my eyelids. I want him so badly I"m almost in tears over it, but this can"t happen.

I step away from him, anger rising at the want burning inside of me. "Jack, I–"

"Please, Bryant. I want you. I need you."

Fucking hell. For all that is fucking holy, he had to say my name like that. Pleading. My name. I"m not even sure that I"ve ever heard him say it before, but it"s my undoing. I stagger forward like a drunkard, curling my body around his and trying to gain some control.

"You want me to fuck this perfect, round ass, Perry?"

"Yes, Coach."

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

"Don"t you move those hands."

My cock is still wet with his cum that I was rubbing into myself, but I spread his cheeks and spit directly on his crack, watching it trickle down. I rub the wetness into his hole, pushing my fingers inside and spreading him, spitting inside before I replace my fingers with the head of my cock. After spreading large beads of my pre-cum over his hole, I push just the head inside before retracting. I'm hypnotized, fascinated by the view of my cock breaching his ass and pulling back out. But Jack gets impatient and pushes back, forcing a few inches of me in all the way. He gasps and we both still for a moment.

He"s so fucking tight, his body tensed up like a piano wire. "Relax," I tell him, forcing myself to slow down when what I really want to do is drive myself home. I reach around and fist his hardening cock, squeezing the head and getting him worked up again before I start to move.

I pull almost all the way out, and then thrust back in, giving him another couple of inches. Then I do it again. And again, until I"m fully seated. He"s panting. I"m sweating. I stroke his cock and roll my hips until he seems accommodated to my size.

"I thought you were going to fuck me?" He challenges, biting back a moan.

"You"re a fucking brat, Perry."

Still, I give him what he so clearly wants. Letting go of his cock, I push his shoulder blades down so his face is pressed against the door and his ass is stuck out as far as it can be in his standing position. I straighten my body behind his and grip his hips, pulling all the way out before thrusting all the way back in. The breath whooshes out of him and he grunts, the sound somewhere between pleasure and pain.

Fuck, I like that.

I pull out and plunge into him again, harder this time, picking up speed until he"s all but bouncing off my dick and hitting the door with each thrust. He"s moaning and grunting and crying out as my cock hits against his prostate, and I can feel the way his asshole clenches, telling me how close he is to coming again.

"Fuck, yes," I growl, driving into him relentlessly, spurred on by the sound of my skin slapping against his.

Shit.The music has stopped. I don"t know how long the only sounds in the room have been my pelvis slapping against his ass, his face rocking against the door, or his rhythmic grunts. But I can"t fucking stop, my hips moving of their own accord as I chase a release that will damn me for eternity.

Jack jerks against me and I wrap my hand around his mouth, muffling his screams as his cum paints the door.

"Fuck," I grunt into his shoulder, biting down into his skin to muffle the sounds of my own pleasure, emptying myself into Jack as his tight ass milks me for every stream of cum.

I"m so fucked.