3. Jack

The fourteen-hour bus ride to Texas affords me plenty of time to rethink all my decisions. At every stop, I consider getting off and hitching my way back home.

I mailed in my acceptance letter for the scholarship weeks ago, but I still haven"t signed the contract. There"s no way this thing is legally binding. It"s insane. He"s asking me to sign away my autonomy. Give him full control of my life—from what I eat, to what I wear; and when and how I train.

I did my homework, looking up who he is and the team he"s building. Bryant Nicks. First pick of the NFL draft after his senior year. He led Groveton College to three consecutive national championships back when he played for them. Spent the next decade trading up and living the dream as a three-time Super Bowl champion until a bad hit put him in the hospital with a concussion and torn rotator cuff. It was a career-ending injury for the once great quarterback.

I couldn"t find anything on him for years until I came across a news article announcing he was stepping in as Head Coach for the Groveton College Jackals. After almost two decades of losing seasons, Bryant Nicks stepped in, gutted the staff, and turned the team around. They actually made it to the playoffs last season, which is an impressive turnaround for one season coaching.

Local forums are excited about the new coach; many are even reminiscing about what he was like when he played for Groveton. Apparently, he was quite the ladies" man, and cocky to boot. Not everyone was a fan, though, and some still seem to hold grudges. There was more than one person that mentioned the way he seemed to drop off the earth, some of them suggesting that he"d gotten addicted to painkillers and spent a year in a swanky rehab before coming back to Groveton as a favor to the dean. I don"t know what"s true, but I can tell, just on paper, that he knows what he"s doing.

I"m willing to give this a chance. I"ll do anything to make my dreams happen, to live exactly the life he had before it was all taken away from him. That won"t happen to me, though.

Coach Nicks wanted me to report to him when I got here, but I"m not ready to talk about the contract and his unrealistic expectations. Instead, I check in to my dorm and drop off my things. Just like the last place, I don"t bring much. Just a duffel full of clothes and a box of other random shit, mostly books. I throw it all down on the bed and it's then I realize that I don"t have any sheets or a bedspread for the twin loft bed. But at least I don"t have to share with anyone since it"s a single room. It"s not as swanky as the room I stayed in when I was playing for my last team, but it"s good enough. Aside from looking a bit like a prison cell, and having to share a communal bathroom with the whole hall, it"s not terrible. Pretty fancy for what are clearly the poor people dorms.

After I check out the dorm, which is mostly empty since the semester doesn"t start for another two months, I take a walk around campus. It reeks of old Texas money and people who think they"re part of the elite. Even the dining hall looks like a restaurant you might be required to dress up for. Hopefully that isn"t the case, because I don"t dress up for shit. Pretty much all I have are athletic clothes, a couple pairs of jeans, and an assortment of sports and band t-shirts. I actually even own an almost vintage team shirt for The New Orleans Saints, the team that Coach Nicks played for when he was drafted to the NFL.

There aren"t any cars in the sports complex, so I figure it"s safe to poke around. I"m surprised to find the doors are unlocked, and I"m able to walk right in. I let out a low whistle of appreciation as I walk around. This place is swanky as fuck. Groveton has a pretty good sports medicine study track, so there are all kinds of amenities available to players to act as guinea pigs for the students. There are physical therapy stations, a sports massage office, and a number of other facilities that might be useful down the line. The best part is that all of their services are free, since you"re being worked on by students, but you still have a professional supervising.

I find the football locker rooms and walk around, running my fingertips over the metal lockers and gleaming wood benches. The lockers are all engraved with the last name and numbers for each of the players. Well, all except one. "Perry" is scrawled in black marker on a piece of masking tape on one of the lockers, probably waiting until I sign the damn contract before they'll give me a fancy engraved name plate.

The showers are gleaming dark green tile stalls with three shower heads each, and there are two rooms for ice baths and a huge sauna. I wouldn"t mind slipping in there for a while to relax my travel weary muscles, but I don"t know where anything is and I still want to do a lap around the stadium. As I"m walking towards the tunnels, where the players run out on game days, I hear the clink of equipment. I follow the sound, interested in seeing what kind of gym facility this place must have.

The room is mostly dark. Whoever is in here only has the recessed lights on, which casts a comfortable glow over the room. Sure enough, the gym is state-of-the art. There are enough machines and equipment that the whole team could probably work out at the same time, although typically the groups are divided into days.

I slip into the room silently, not wanting to bother anyone but also wanting to get a closer look. There"s a man at the bench press, lifting an impressive amount of weight, especially considering he doesn"t have a spotter. His richly tanned arms are bulging, veins popping almost menacingly, as the man raises and lowers the bar without much difficulty. His shirtless chest is toned and gleaming with sweat, grey streaks swirling through the smattering of dark chest hair. His pecs flex, and my eyes are drawn to his nipples. I can"t say that a man"s nipples have ever turned me on before, but I can"t help but stare. And I'm forced to swallow as my eyes trail down his ripped stomach and notice the shape of his dick through his gym shorts. Curious at my own reaction, I marvel that I can make that much out when he doesn"t seem to be hard at all. His dick is definitely bigger than mine, which, while it's not a competition, is impressive. That's probably why it's capturing my attention the way it is.

The man lets out a low grunt of effort as he lifts the bar one last time and settles it back on the rack. I pull farther back into the shadows, not wanting to get caught ogling. If I were staring at a sexy woman, I wouldn"t be as shy. I"d probably set up right across from her and squat thrust until she came and sat on my dick.

I harden at the thought of it. Definitely not because I"m looking at him. I mean, it"s perfectly normal to admire an athletic form. I know how much work he must put into his body. Being an athlete is kind of like being an artist in some ways, our bodies are our canvases and it takes a certain amount of cultivation to get our bodies in the right shape. Admiring another artist"s work, that"s all I"m doing.

And then I notice who I"m admiring.

Coach Nicks sits up on the bench, swinging and stretching his arms in front of him. I pull farther back in the shadows, because I don"t want to get caught watching my new hard-ass coach, especially not with the raging boner I can"t seem to get to go down. Quietly, I slip my hand into my track pants and pull my hard dick up under my waistband. Hopefully, the elastic is strong enough to keep it back. You"d think the fear of getting caught would deflate the fucker, but it"s having the opposite effect.

Nicks walks to the other side of the gym to grab a towel, and I take the opportunity to slip out as quietly as possible.

My heart is beating like mad as I jog out to the sports complex main atrium when a gruff voice stops me.

"Perry!"

I groan and turn around, assuming an irritated demeanor to cover my nerves. "I"m checking in. You weren"t in your office."

"You could have called when your bus pulled in four hours ago."

"What, you"re following me?"

"I keep track of my assets." He looks me over, his hazel eyes assessing me. "You hiding a contract in there?"

For a moment, I stumble, thinking he"s referring to my still hard cock that is pressing against the bottom of my stomach. But he"s looking around me, not at my crotch.

"I haven"t signed it yet," I say boldly.

"Why the fuck not?"

"Because that fucking contract is insane. You can"t control me like that."

"I can, and I will. It"s part of the deal. No contract, no draft prospect, and no scholarship, so you can fuck off back to Alabama."

My face heats and my fists clench. He"s not going to get away with this. "Fine." But I"m going to make your life a living hell. Good luck taming this dog.

"Let me grab something from my desk and we"ll get going then. I"ll help you unpack and see what we"re working with." Nicks says, turning back towards the hallway.

What is he even talking about?

"Can"t I just bring it to you later, or like tomorrow?"

"I"ve got time, and we need to go over your schedule and details. "

"Like when I"m allowed to piss?"

"Precisely," he says, turning a menacing grin on me.

I"m almost embarrassed when we walk into my small dorm room. All that I have in the world is sitting on the bare bed in a dusty duffel bag and a cardboard box that came from a liquor store.

"This it?" Coach Nicks asks in his gruff voice. It seems more like a simple question than a judgment, but my hackles raise anyway.

"Yeah, what of it?"

The coach turns to me and crosses his arms over his wide chest. He's a big dude, wide across the chest and shoulders, tapering to a lean waist. His dark hair and short beard make his hard, hazel gaze feel almost menacing. The room gets considerably smaller and warmer with his influence, but I"m not about to let on that I"m intimidated. Not backing down or shrinking even a millimeter, I raise an eyebrow at him.

"When you"re answering me, you"ll do so respectfully and intelligently, and refer to me as coach or sir."

I snort. "Yes, sir," I say sarcastically. I turn away to pull a few books out of the box and come across a small football trophy I've held onto all these years. It"s dumb, and pathetic, but football was the one good thing I had going for me back then. This is the last trophy that hasn"t gotten ruined by a random drunken purge of my things when my mother would decide to kick me out again. I push it to the side of the box and pull out an old, faded football.

"Game ball?" Coach asks, grabbing it and turning it in his hands, my disrespect momentarily forgotten.

"Yeah."

He glowers at me, a stern darkness in his eyes that would definitely intimidate a weaker man. My issues with him aren"t that I find him intimidating on an authoritative level, it"s more that standing next to him makes me feel warm. Too warm. It"s confusing, and it"s starting to piss me off the longer he"s in my personal space.

With a deep, angry sigh, Coach Nicks tosses the ball back in the box and gets right to the point. "Where"s the contract?"

Narrowing my eyes, I pull the creased papers out of my duffel. I"ve read everything he handed me that night so many times that I"ve memorized it all. Which is exactly why I"m so apprehensive about this contract.

"Is this even legal?"

"It"s enough to make sure that you couldn"t sue us if you got injured or got your panties in a twist. We have good lawyers," he says, and it sounds like a warning. "But what"s more important is that when you sign your name on that line, you know exactly what you"re in for. There are no surprises, and I don"t beat around the bush. I"ll tell you exactly what I want from you, when I want it, and how I want it. I tell you when to jump and how high. You either don"t speak or you say ‘yes, Coach,' and you fucking do it. Simple as that."

"And all this bullshit about what I eat and wear, what I do with my free time?"

"Watch your mouth, boy."

"I haven"t signed shit yet," I challenge him.

He doesn"t look impressed, but allows me my moment of victory. I"m sure I"ll pay for it later. Why does that prospect feel exciting?

I think I just want to prove that he"s not as tough as he thinks he is, that I can"t be broken in the way he expects. We can both pull a win out of this. We share most of the same goals. But this battle of wills between us? I"ll give him a hell of a lot more fight than he is expecting.

"You need to give yourself over to me entirely so I can shape you into the kind of man that will thrive in the environment you think you"re destined for. It"s not an easy road—it"s hard fucking work, every single day, and there are expectations of how you carry yourself if you want to be truly successful. Nobody wants to interview an idiot or an asshole, and no one is going to pay to sponsor or endorse someone they don"t respect. Good looks and decent stats are only going to get you so far before the system spits you out on your ass."

"You think I"m good lookin'?"

Coach Nicks smacks me on the back of my head, but I can tell he"s trying not to crack a smile.

I"m going to break you, old man.