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gutsby · 1 day ago

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Heavy Hitter

Pairing: Little League Coach!Joel x Reader

Summary: A kick in the dick is a strange way to get a man’s attention, but Coach Miller doesn’t mind at all.

Warnings: 18+. Protected p-in-v. Oral (m!&f!receiving). Blunt testicular trauma turned semi-sweet meet cute. Light bondage vis-à-vis coach’s whistle. Soft dom!Joel. Overstimulation. Age gap. Size kink. Some discomfort during sex. Brief mentions of drug use, vomiting, & SA.

Note: Technically not necessary to understanding the plot, but lyrics/references to John Mellencamp’s ‘Hurts So Good’ are featured throughout, so I’d recommend giving it a listen! :-)

Another note: Amy’s was my go-to when I lived in Austin for a summer, but I have no clue if that’s where the locals go lol

Word count: 17.3k

You woke Sunday morning with heatstroke, a hangover, and one very pissed off nine-year-old pinching your nose.

“GET UP!”

Your half-crusted eyes made as if to open, then failed. Shifting side to side in more of a grimace than a look, you squinted and spied your brother under a heavily lidded gaze and then caught sight of a uniform.

A baseball uniform.

Sam’s widely-loved Little League team, the Fireflies.

With an emblazoned logo of a lightning bug staring you right in the face, you realized at once you were fucked. You heard the shrill of your mother’s voice calling your name downstairs and knew you were double fucked.

You were supposed to be the one driving your brother to his game that day. But, rather than choosing wisely last night, you’d decided to play a two-for-one trainwreck and clusterfuck and drink yourself stupid until well past four o’clock in the morning. Now you were suffering the consequences—and would be feeling them tenfold if you didn’t get your ass out of the house and into the car with your brother before your mom stomped her way upstairs.

Without another word, you snagged your phone, your wallet, your keys, your purse, and your brother’s small arm to drag him behind you out the back door and left.

The events of last night were still little more than a blur.

Even a half hour later, pulling into the packed parking lot of Wright Field with the full brunt of a Texas summer’s heat beating down on your shoulders, you remembered next to nothing. There were bits and pieces, no doubt—a quick pit stop at Mayor Garcia’s political rally at seven, a few beers at Djarin’s bar around nine, Tipsy Bison at…ten, maybe? You couldn’t be sure. Everything from the time you took a hit of Tess’s dab pen between bars and several more hefty swigs from Marlene’s flask in the street left the happenings of the full night fuzzy at best. A trace of spearmint on your tongue and some upbeat ‘80s tune replaying in fragments were all that remained.

You were in sweatpants you didn’t recognize. A black satin bodysuit you only vaguely remembered putting on and shoes you were half-certain were Tess’s. Glancing down at the strange ensemble while you put your truck in park, you were truly more lost than you’d felt in a long, long time. Your hangxiety was at an all-time high, too.

“Help me get the stuff,” Sam said, sliding out quick.

‘Stuff’ meaning the snacks it’d been his turn to pack for the team: pretzels, granola, muffins, and Goldfish, along with drinks and some over-the-top fresh fruit medley your mom had prepared that morning. Luckily, your brother had packed all the shit himself while you were passed out in your room. For that, you were grateful.

You tousled his hair while you watched him try and lug two full cases of Gatorade out of the bed of your truck. Sam made a face, casting a sidelong glance to the field to make sure none of his teammates could see him, then huffed as he dropped the cases to the ground at his feet.

“Okay, maybe—” He puffed his cheeks out again, reaching for a big YETI cooler that looked to be even heavier, “—maybe I should carry these over on my own.”

You stared at him, incredulous.

“You kiddin’? This is a ton of stuff, Sammy.”

Sam winced, whether from the weight of the cooler he was barely able to fit his arms around or the nickname you’d used, you weren’t sure. The hulking plastic cube pressed heavy on his chest as soon as he tried to slide it off the truck bed, and, swiftly, you secured your hands under the thing to help him lower it down to the ground.

It was heavy as shit. Your mom must’ve thrown in a thousand extra oranges while he wasn’t looking.

“Fuckin’ A,” you hissed.

“Language,” Sam chided.

The cooler hit the tarmac with a resounding thud.

“Sorry. Why, uh…why don’t you want my help, bub?” You were genuinely curious, and a tad hurt, that your brother seemed not to want you there—he always had before.

“‘Cause,” he said, kicking absentmindedly at a small patch of gravel, “Just don’t…need it right now, ‘s’all.”

“That’s a load of crap.”

“Is not!”

You rolled your eyes.

You reached for the big white cooler in spite of your brother and started to lift, when he tried yanking it away—‘I mean it, I can carry it myself!’—and you nudged him off. He nudged you back in more of a push, and you huffed sharply to back off, I got it, we’re gonna be late. He pushed you again, hard enough to cause the cooler to slip out from your fingers, and when the thing dropped again, this time on your toes, you let out a piercing yelp.

“Sammy!”

“Sorry!!”

You probably would’ve pushed back again—and likely started a slap war in the middle of the parking lot, like you and your brother had long been accustomed to doing—were it not for the sound of a voice cutting in, calling out to you both from a row of cars over:

“Y’all need some help?”

Motherfucker.

You didn’t even need to turn your head to know the owner of that voice. You shot Sam a lethal look.

“We’re good, David, thanks,” you called back.

The ‘thanks’ was nothing more than a courtesy for your brother. That creepy old cunt could eat shit and die.

You forced a smile as you watched the assistant coach of Sam’s team approach through two minivans nearby. He had his black athletic shorts pulled high above his belly button, Fireflies tee tucked in as neatly as any one man could hope to have it, and a baseball cap pulled snug atop his sparse, greasy, strawberry blond head of hair.

With just one grin from him in return, you knew he was still convinced he would get to fuck you at some point.

You wanted to vomit but had no food left in you to do it. You tasted spearmint in your mouth again, and that nameless tune you had stuck in your brain kept playing.

And, true to his irksome, meddling nature, Coach David swooped in and had both cases of Gatorade stacked on top of the cooler and the thing hauled up in his arms before you could stop him or speak a word in protest.

“Sam, help your big sis out and grab the waters, would ya?” He said, nodding to the truck bed with authority. Before he turned back around, he shot you a wink.

While Sam went crawling across the tailgate and tried wrangling the case of Aquafina into his arms, you felt a presence at your shoulder. Then a gaze searing shamelessly into your cleavage, which had been rendered far more exposed than normal in your bodysuit. You wiggled your top up a little, fighting back a scowl.

“Fun night?” David chuckled.

“The funnest,” you returned without humor.

Sam shouldered the weight of the water with some effort, letting out a sound that he was struggling.

“Lift with your legs, buddy,” David barked. Then, to you, “If you need help with anything else, just holler, alright?”

Another goddamn wink. What was it with middle-aged men and winking? Fortunately, he had the cooler and the drinks weighing him down, so he couldn’t stay for long. He did, however, make sure to bump your ass with his hip walking past, and afterward, you could’ve sworn you saw a smirk growing on his face with wretched pride. Then he strode off in the opposite direction, toward the field. Just when he was out of earshot from you both, Sam plopped down with the case of water. He frowned.

“That’s why I didn’t want your help,” he muttered.

“Huh?”

But you knew what he meant.

David was far from the first man who’d ever hit on you in front of your brother, and he certainly wouldn’t be the last. Sam despised it; almost as much as he hated every guy who even thought they had a shot, and made you plainly uncomfortable. Just as he was about to continue, —and as if to prove his point—a herd of preteen boys passed by. All of them waved, grins overtaking their smug, dumb, prepubescent faces as they yelled out:

“Hey, Sam!”

Then, of course, one brave soul waved to you and said:

“Hey, Sam’s sister!”

And the whole group snickered amongst themselves and slapped the brave soul’s shoulder in congratulations.

You already knew what Sam’s expression would be before you’d even turned around to face him again.

“Alright. You win. Tote your stuff over there, and I’ll just…wait in the truck,” you said, hands raised in surrender.

“Okay.”

Then Sam was gone, trotting after his teammates with the water bottles still sloshing around in his little arms. You watched him, almost forlorn, and felt a bit too much like your mother, overcome with a memory of some soft- rock song you still couldn’t name and the sense that your baby brother was growing up way too fast for your liking.

The scary thing was that someday he could turn out to be like David. His teammates. Or worse. Maybe grow up, tune into a few misogynistic, braindead alpha male podcasts, and become the same insufferable, woman-hating douche you both detested. The thought made you shudder to even consider, and you were fairly certain it read plain on your face as you slammed the tailgate shut and started back around toward the front of your truck.

Contemplating just how much you wanted to save your brother from that fate, you almost missed something huge through the open back window on your way.

Glistening in the sun a neon green: Sam’s bag.

“Shit,” you muttered to yourself. You reached inside.

You were certain he’d need it for the game, but you also knew if you set foot on that field you’d never hear the end of it from him. Gingerly, you hoisted the thing up, straining under what felt like a hundred pounds of old clothes, cleats, and a dozen other things, then started to pull it over your shoulder—considering your options.

The soles of Tess’s shoes, unfortunately, had little to no grip to do so. Stepping down from the truck’s running board with a bag in tow was tricky, and for a second, you slipped. You didn’t fall, but the bag’s strap did come to slide off your shoulder the second you pitched back, and the half-zipped tote was sent tumbling to the ground.

A dozen old baseballs went flying, bouncing, and rolling every which way across the hot concrete. You groaned.

Then you were on hands and knees in an instant, skittering across the cracked blacktop and fumbling for balls like a fucking idiot. You grabbed two, three, four, and— shit, you dropped half of them. You scrambled and crawled again. Deposited the balls one-by-one into Sam’s bag, knees scraping along pavement all the while, and gradually got to six or seven of them before you realized at least one more was missing from the batch.

You stuck your head under the red Jeep Wrangler beside you and heaved a sigh. You spotted the last baseball.

“C’mere, you little shit.”

You sank waist-deep beneath the car, stretching your arm toward the ball. You got about an inch away, straining desperately, before the back of your head hit something sharp and hard sticking out from the Jeep’s undercarriage, and you cried out loud, ‘O-OW! FUCK!’

Come on, baby, make it HURT— SO— GOOD!

You clawed at the ball with an exaggerated huff, grabbed the thing, and started crawling back, head throbbing.

Sometimes lo-o-o-o-ve don’t feel like it should.

Your brain was so steeped in pain, anger, and just a stabbing, generalized resentment for all ‘80s music and men—they were somehow to blame for this—that the second you spotted an all-too-familiar pair of dorky ass New Balance 608 Cross Trainers planted behind your feet, beside the car, you couldn’t help but groan again.

You knew those calf-high crew socks anywhere. Knew that David was just dying to crouch down any second now, ask you in the world’s most grating, flirtatious tone if you needed his help again. Then probably stare at your ass or tits another minute. You weren’t putting up with it.

So, with all the hostility you had reserved for him, the many men like him, and the headache that was just then taking shape at the base of your skull, you said, sharply:

“Hey, Coach, could you FUCK OFF?”

Sam’s good graces with the coaching staff be damned, you had to let this fucker know how you felt. Fair was fair when the man had literally been hitting on you since your freshman year in college and still hadn’t gotten the hint.

You crawled out from under the Jeep expecting a fight.

An appalled expression, grim look, sour gaze, anything.

What you weren’t expecting to find was a man who looked absolutely nothing like David—and everything like a shocked, scared, and very sexy man in skintight lycra.

“Fuck me,” you said under your breath.

You immediately wished you hadn’t.

Whether from embarrassment or arousal, you should not have said those words under any circumstances. Now the man was staring you down even harder, most likely shocked and embarrassed on your behalf. His brows were raised, eyes blinking in what looked like a haze; if you hadn’t known any better, you might think he was—

“Oh, hi! Hey…you.”

A little awkward and strange.

He was stupidly handsome, there was no denying that. Dazzling, even, with the force of a dozen different strong, prominent features in perfect harmony, dimpled cheeks, tan skin, and a sublime Tom Selleck mustache. But something in the way he was watching you now, like his gaze had never strayed across a woman’s form before in his life, put a pit of unease in your stomach. You found yourself staring back, watching him closely, wondering how in the hell you could feel both violently attracted and questioning, still, if this man might veritably kidnap you.

All a part of girlhood, really.

“Hi,” you replied anyway. Hoping he didn’t have a windowless van parked anywhere close by.

“Hey,” he said again. Again.

Chomping down on his gum and smiling.

Sexy, strange man was beaming at you now. Practically exuberant in the way his lips had been stretched to make a wide, happy grin while he stared and chewed away.

You couldn’t take this for much longer.

“Sorry, I thought you were—” you started.

“David?”

You paused to give him a quick once-over, as if searching for clues before you answered him. You found nothing.

“Yeah…David.”

Then you caught sight of a nametag. Miller.

Somehow, the man’s grin got even bigger—and with it, your raw discomfort. Why was he smirking like that?

Maybe you were paranoid. Maybe you were stupid. Maybe you had spent far too much time watching true crime shows to have any fair sense of impending danger, but this guy’s aura was downright intimidating and odd. When you saw him slip a hand in his far-too-tight gym shorts and fish around for something in his pocket, your heart clenched in your chest, and its rate nearly tripled.

“Funny findin’ these—” he said, pointing with his other hand. Then reaching toward your lower half, like he was ready to hook his fingers in the waistband of your pants.

Oh, hell no.

Your most-of-the-time reliable instincts kicked in, your gut tightened up, and, truly unable to think or stomach another man feeling entitled enough to touch you again, you found yourself lifting your most readily available limb to stave off the stranger’s advances as fast as possible.

Unfortunately for him, that limb was your leg.

Or your kneecap, rather, hitting him squarely in the balls.

You didn’t even bother to wait for a response. You knew damn well what a knee to the testicles would do to any man, so your fight turned to flight just as quick, and you took off sprinting across the parking lot. A strangled groan and a string of expletives were all you could hear at your rear, and frankly, you didn’t give a single fuck whether it hurt him or not—you needed to get away.

You ran as far as your legs would carry you, and then some. You ran past the cars, across the street, down the sidewalk, between two metal bins that nearly toppled as you passed, and all the way through the gate until you reached a tall, familiar building, gasping for air. In your panic, you’d slung Sam’s bag over your shoulder, but because it hadn’t been zipped, you lost about half of its contents while hauling ass toward the sports complex.

You’d beg for Sam’s forgiveness later. For now, you had only to try and steady your breaths and temper your nerves to the point of not appearing like a total fucking lunatic walking through the place right now. You paused in the middle of the breezeway to press a hand to your side—you hadn’t sprinted that fast in years, probably.

Families were still trickling into the stadium by turns, most too rushed or inattentive to give a shit who you were or what you were wearing. Others stared. It was the stern, disapproving looks you earned from several mothers that made you reconsider being there at all.

And then you saw Frank.

He and his husband were part of the ‘too rushed’ group, ushering their son ahead of them in a breakneck haste while they muttered and cursed to themselves that warm-ups started ten minutes ago, Bill, I told you not to stop for coffee! And Bill just grunted in reply, most likely.

You sidled up beside the latter, giving a quick greeting before joining them in their speedwalk to the fields. In all the sixteen years you’d been neighbors, you hadn’t seen a single event that Frank and Bill had arrived to on time.

“H— oh shit.” Bill didn’t bother to disguise his surprise when he ran a quick look up and down your person.

So it wasn’t just the soccer moms. You did look like shit.

“Mornin’, sunshine!” Frank chirped anyway, unfazed.

Their son, Nathan, cocked a brow but said nothing.

“Hey, Nate, would you mind giving this to Sam?” You held the backpack out to him as the four of you rounded a corner, about to part ways before the bleachers.

The kid nodded and took the bag. Then, shortly, he picked up his pace from a brisk walk to a jog the second he saw his team meeting up on the field. He broke off in less than a second, and you, Bill, and Frank were left to find seats in a sea of hot, metal benches. The taller of the pair was nudging your ribs before you’d even sat down.

“Dare I ask?” Frank whispered.

“I think somebody might’ve, like…tried to grope me in the parking lot,” you replied, slowly but at full volume.

That earned a couple more stares from the parents around you. Bill audibly sputtered and coughed.

The three of you had just sat down at a comfortable distance from first base when Frank turned to face you fully. His eyes were wide, all decorum momentarily lost as he leaned in to say, ‘No fuckin’ shit! Are you okay?!’

You nodded.

“No, yeah, I’m fi—”

“Who was it?”

That was Bill. You could already tell from the flare in his nostrils that some brutal, ruthless beating was being concocted in his mind for whoever had crossed you. You placed a hand over his, quickly, and shot reassuring looks between him and Frank before you continued.

“No, no, I mean, he didn’t actually— it was just…”

You had to cut yourself short, unsure of what the stranger had actually been trying to do before—

“I kneed him in the dick,” you finished bluntly.

That didn’t seem to appease either party. At all. If anything, it just caused their blood pressure to spike, as Frank’s hand flew up to his mouth, and Bill’s eyebrows leapt halfway up his face in visible horror and shock.

“Well who the— what man’s got the goddamn nerve to just—” The one with the sky-high brows seemed to struggle with his words, and right as he was about to reclaim them, a new presence nearby stopped him cold.

Or maybe he kept talking. You couldn’t tell. Truthfully, it was probably only you who’d gone deaf to the rest of what was said, because in that moment, you were met with a gruesome new discovery stumbling onto the field.

Walking with a limp from the dugout to the nearest umpire—practically bow-legged with how carefully he was treading to avoid disturbing his balls—was the guy.

Your guy.

Creepy guy.

Brand new coach of the Fireflies guy, by all appearances.

Suddenly, the man looked far less vile and menacing in his short-sleeved neon tee, shorts yanked up to his ribs in the fashion all Little League coaches were apt to do. His shoes—the same ones you’d mistaken for David’s—looked just as lame as before, but now you saw them connected to a poor old forty-something dude who volunteered to coach snot-nosed kids in his spare time.

He looked about as pitiful as could be, hobbling over to one man in a black-and-white striped shirt and shaking his hand. Then shaking the hand of another. Then exchanging some words, and obviously straining to maintain his composure as he spoke. Smiling kindly.

Trying to ignore the fact that his nuts were on fire.

You lifted a hand to cover your mouth.

Frank’s gaze followed yours.

“Is that—”

“Yeah.”

Shit.

The Fireflies lost 8-0.

The Morales City Catfish weren’t even that good of a team, and still, the boys had suffered a crushing defeat. Naturally, you saw uniform faces of dejection and gloom coming back up to you once the game had been called, and you could tell it would take a shit-ton of ice cream and encouragement to get the team over this funk.

Sam was so down he barely even acknowledged your presence, or the fact that you weren’t supposed to be there in the first place. He just sniffled, hung his head in abject shame, then accepted a quick side hug from you before turning away, crossing his arms, and trying his best to play it cool in front of the rest of his team.

“Uncle Frank, can you take us to Amy’s?” he called over your shoulder, where Frank and Bill were already consoling a similarly miserable Nathan behind you.

“Sure thing, sport,” Frank shot back. He knew just as well as you that two scoops of Rocky Road were likely the only things capable of cheering them up right now.

And, over the course of that long, ugly game, you’d come to learn that Frank also knew Joel Miller. Coach Joel.

Soft-spoken and sweet, salt-of-the-earth Joel Miller who was serving as the Fireflies’ head coach pro tempore while his best friend was taking time off to recover from gallbladder surgery. Frank and Bill most certainly didn’t disbelieve what you’d told them about your encounter with him, but on closer examination, it became clear to you all that there might’ve been a misunderstanding.

In other words, you’d probably jumped the gun on kneeing the poor guy in the dick. You felt like shit.

Particularly when you watched him walk off with David after the game to put equipment away, and you saw he was still struggling to walk without a conspicuous limp. You, Bill, and Frank had decided it would be best at least to talk things out with him, but now that the time was actually here, you were dreading going up to Coach Joel.

Luckily—or maybe unluckily—you didn’t have to.

You felt a light tap on your shoulder as the rest of your group was starting to leave. Sam and Nate were leading the way, and the adults in front of you were too busy talking to notice you’d been stopped. You turned around.

The first thing you saw was a stack of clothes.

You couldn’t bear to look up at the face.

“You dropped these.”

Right. Right. When you’d been flailing like a cat on a hot tin roof to get away from the man. Your cheeks warmed.

You accepted the clothes from Joel and were already starting to shake your head, when your voice clawed out of your throat, far too small and feeble for your liking:

“I am…so…so sorry, Coach.”

At last, you mustered the courage to meet his gaze. It was cool and indifferent as soon as you reached it.

“I thought— see, I-I didn’t know you were—” You sounded downright pathetic, stammering like a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar, “I kinda—”

Then a new voice cut in.

“C’mon, we’re leavin’.”

That was Sam.

Gaze hardened to that of an almost-stoic, he stared at Coach Joel and didn’t even bother to mask his grim look.

He probably thought Joel was trying to make a move.

If only he knew how fucking far from the truth that was.

You swallowed and smiled sweetly all the same. Glancing down at the clothes in your hands, then nodding to his bag, you reached over to hand your brother his stuff.

“Coach Joel just wanted to give back some of the junk I, uh…accidentally dropped when I was walkin’ in earlier, Sammy,” you said, trying your best to sound relaxed.

But Sam just turned to the side, wordlessly telling you to put the clothes in the bag for him, and you knew it was because he wanted to keep mean mugging Joel as much as he possibly could while your attention was diverted.

Nine-year-olds were weird like that. Sam might not have had the guts to tell his friends off, or even a familiar ‘authority figure’ like David, but Joel was fair game. He was basically as good as a stranger to him and wouldn’t even be with the team for more than a couple weeks. So he stared him down and continued to frown while you re-zipped his bag, hoping he wouldn’t say anything dumb.

“Why’re ya walkin’ around so weird, Coach?”

“Sam!”

Clearly, you’d hoped a little too soon.

Your cheeks were on fire now, glancing between your brother’s pinched, insolent expression and Joel’s neutral one. It was like the latter hadn’t even registered the jab.

“Sam, you can’t just ask tha—” you started off in a hurried whisper, only to have your speech cut short.

“Old age, buddy,” Joel returned swiftly, words laced with the faintest trace of humor, “Threw my back out this mornin’ chasin’ after somebody, and now it hurts.”

The coach’s eyes didn’t even try to refrain from flitting over to yours when he said ‘somebody.’ You coughed.

Sam smirked, oblivious.

“Yeah? Who?”

“Wish I knew.”

“How come they were runnin’?”

“That’s what I’ve been tryin’ to figure out.”

Offering nothing more than a noncommittal shrug and a scrunch of his nose, Joel re-shouldered his bag and started to lift the other stash of equipment he had tied up in a mesh tote. He blinked a little harder as he did.

Sam looked down at the tote.

“You, uh…need some help with that?” he asked. For the time being, at least, intrigue had supplanted mistrust.

“Nah, ‘s’okay. I got it.”

“Sa-a-am!”

You glanced over your shoulder and saw Nathan with his hands cupped over his mouth, standing by the gate with his parents. Even at a distance, you could see the curious looks on Bill and Frank’s faces. You tried your best to appease both with a nod—‘I’m good, don’t worry.’

Then, before you even realized what you were doing, you found yourself turning back to Sam and smiling. Again.

Sweet and pleading and strained as you’d ever been:

“Go on ahead, I’ll help Coach carry the stuff.”

You weren’t sure why that statement felt so momentous, but it did. You looked back at Joel for half a second to find his eyebrows raised, as if he’d interpreted your message the same, and quickly, you both tried to conceal whatever you were feeling on your faces.

It was hard.

Sam looked between the two of you, suspicions seeming to creep back in for a second. He gave Joel, in particular, a pointed look, and for a moment, you thought he might change his mind and insist on coming along with you.

Then he sucked in a quick breath and remembered ice cream awaited him with Nate and the rest of the guys. His attention span was decent enough for a kid his age, but even that had its limits—and food was too tempting.

‘Whatever’ appeared to be his last, decisive thought.

“Hope your back feels better, Coach,” he said quickly, before he started off across the pavement, “See ya!”

At length, Sam called something over his shoulder about meeting you there, but you could tell he was already too caught up in the prospect of hanging with his boys to really care. You watched him sprint down the breezeway full-speed, and, just as he made it to the gate, he turned:

“Hope ya find that dumb sonovabitch, Coach!”

He was smiling extra big as he said it.

You wanted to yell back and tell him to watch his language, like he would always do to you, but he was gone before you could even start to form the words.

The little shit.

Once he had left, you and Joel exchanged a look that lasted no more than a second, and neither of you smiled.

The coach tossed his mesh bag your way with all the concern he might have had for a sack of potatoes. A heavy set of metal gear clashed and clanged around in your arms, and for a second, you staggered backward.

“Locker room’s that way,” he muttered. Nodding toward the back of the sports facility but saying nothing else.

Joel didn’t wait for you to follow along. He just went.

Kindness wasn’t so much an expectation as it was a foolish hope—that Coach Joel might be willing to make amends, forgive and forget, maybe even grace you with one of his dimpled grins once all of it was said and done.

So far, he hadn’t even looked your way, much less given you the chance to apologize. He strode ahead, quickly, as soon as you’d started walking behind him, then he pressed his phone to his ear and hadn’t stopped yapping away while you trotted on his heels and tried to keep up. Through the bleachers, the breezeway, and a near-labyrinthine set of twists and turns to get to the locker rooms at the rear of the building, Joel was like a wall.

As handsome and fuckable as a wall could ever be, but one whose face you couldn’t even see to properly read for any emotion, because he refused to meet your gaze.

The closest thing you’d gotten to contact was him nodding toward a supply closet on your way in, cupping his palm over the bottom of his phone and going, ‘There.’

“For the…stuff?” you asked dumbly, lifting your bag.

Coach Joel barely gave a hum of acknowledgment before turning away and resuming his phone call with vigor. Then he pivoted again, put a hand on his hip like he meant business all of a sudden, and pretended to be extraordinarily invested in this other, better conversation.

Or maybe he wasn’t pretending.

You didn’t know the guy.

You stepped inside.

Dropped the bag.

And when you returned, Joel was gone, leaving you to a long, empty, dead-cold corridor with no sign whatsoever of where he went—or where you were meant to follow.

Asshole.

It struck you then that not a single, sane soul would bother to haunt these hallways once the weekend games were over. It was just you and Joel and…Joel and you with nothing between but the stale, fetid air and echoes bouncing back and forth across the concrete walls. More sounds followed as you started down the hall yourself.

The first corner you rounded led to a door—Emergency Exit Only. You turned to your left, spotted another closet. Spun on your heels and tried going the other direction, only to find that the adjoining passage was shrouded pitch black. All but one fluorescent bulb that way was turned off. You stared into the darkness, it stared back, and through the soft, flickering glow of that one lone panel, you finally saw the entrance to the locker room.

It looked ominous as all hell.

Already picturing some axe-wielding psycho in the depths of the shadows, you walked ahead, unfazed. Hoping silently, stupidly, someone would jump out and rock your shit before getting to Joel, you treaded as slow as you possibly could. When you pushed the door open and not one serial killer bothered to stop you, you sighed.

“Coach?” you called.

No answer.

For a second or two, you contemplated whether or not you were even allowed to do this, but you went inside. Slowly. Taking two hesitant steps across wet, white tile, craning your neck to make sure no one else was around. Stealing a look in the mirror and seeing yourself cowered—whether from fear or dread, you couldn’t be certain—and shit did you look extra dumb wearing those big, grey sweats that were about two ass shakes away from falling off your hips. You walked up to the mirror and frowned.

The reflection you saw was unsettling—who the fuck gave you these, anyway? What happened to your skirt?

These questions and at least a dozen more began to percolate between your ears with growing unease, memories rehashed and scrutinized into the tiniest, bite-sized pieces. No matter how hard you stared and tried to remember, full recollection was always out of reach.

Such was the state of your mind that you couldn’t believe your eyes when they first drifted to your left.

It seemed too serendipitous, too crazy and coincidental and plainly on the nose to be something from reality staring you straight in the face. You blinked in disbelief.

Sitting in an unzipped bag on the floor was the skirt.

Your skirt—a flimsy little mid-rise denim number that you’d snagged half off at Kohl’s last summer. In there.

Folded at the top of an old nylon tote labeled, ‘MILLER.’

For the second time that day, you would’ve lost your lunch all over the floor if you’d had the food to do it. Instead, you found yourself dropping to your knees and yanking the skirt toward you, eyes widened with shock. Fingering the blue fabric in your hands like the material might disintegrate between them, staring at the thing and almost wishing it’d dissolve so this wouldn’t be real.

So Joel—Coach Joel, with his big bruised balls and all—wouldn’t have your skirt in his bag and know something about the things you’d done last night that you did not.

With this bizarre turn, and the way your day was going, it should’ve come as no surprise when next you heard:

“What are you doing here?”

But, of course, the voice did catch you off guard.

It was like Coach Joel had a knack for finding you in the worst possible spots, at all times. You rose to your feet.

“Wh— what are these doing here?” you snapped anyway.

Joel didn’t flinch.

“Oh. You found it,” he returned, voice devoid of interest.

Like this was no great discovery. Like this was old news. You took a step closer to him, still holding the skirt out.

“Yeah. What the fuck was it doing in your bag?”

“I meant to give ‘em back earlier.”

“Wh—”

“Figured it wasn’t the most appropriate time for that, with your son standin’ right there between us an’ all.”

Your son?

“My son?”

“The kid.”

“That’s my brother,” you said, exasperation only rising, “Why did you even have this thing in the first place?!”

At that, Joel paused. His brows drew in, and his frown grew deeper. Like he wasn’t sure what to make of you.

“So you lied,” he said, finally.

“Lied?”

“‘Bout how drunk you were.”

“I never said—”

“No. You said plenty,” Joel spoke over you, stern. Then, eyes narrowing, “If you can’t remember it, I was right.”

You couldn’t tell whether it was the tendency to interrupt or simply the condescending glint in his eye that you despised, but, by turns, you could feel the remorse seep out from your bones and any desire to make amends dissipate right along with it. And then there was that mention of ‘it’—was he insinuating something had happened between you two while you were blacked out? You gripped your skirt tighter and eyed him just as hard.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” you spat.

The face across from yours was tough, but evidently not imperturbable. A shadow of some amorphous hurt passed behind his eyes, if only for half a second.

“You don’t…remember last night at all, do you?”

You didn’t.

You wished you did, but you didn’t, and it was just then beginning to irk the hell out of you that this man did. You couldn’t stand to be at such a disadvantage—or to have been at such a disadvantage if, in fact, he’d taken you home and done things you couldn’t even remember.

So, perhaps more cruel than you should’ve been, but feeling the need to reclaim some leverage, you said:

“Why? Were you, like, my pity fuck of the night and that’s why you’ve got my skirt? And tried groping me earlier?”

Coach Joel’s nostrils visibly flared; he stared even harder.

“No. No, I tried— those are my pants there, I was—” Growing agitated in the face of the accusation you’d just leveled against him and struggling to find the words to defend himself, Joel’s brows pinched tighter. His lips pursed, and he shook his head. You went on, undaunted.

“Yeah? So you normally fuck girls too drunk to even—”

“No.”

Joel’s response was immediate. Insistent. Voice carrying through the near-empty, wide and tiled room with all the force of a sonic boom. He hadn’t yelled at you, though.

And, before he could continue, you heard the very real scream of a door squeaking back on its hinges from the opposite end of the locker room. Heavy wood struck a doorstop no farther than ten or so yards away from you.

Joel coughed.

“Milleeerrrrr, you in here?”

Choked.

The next thing you knew you were being shoved in a shower stall to your left with Joel painfully close in tow. One broad hand appearing beside your hip like magic, yanking a knob, then slamming a hot and clammy palm over your mouth before you could scream at the spray.

A ruthless, ice-cold downpour had you both drenched in seconds. You would’ve leapt back or turned away if there were space at all to budge, but there wasn’t. And Joel had you constricted to his chest like a python anyway.

‘Don’t’ was all he whispered in your ear before turning.

Then shouting back, loud, “What’cha need, Big D?”

David cackled at the nickname. You inwardly cringed. Huge, glacial spates of water continued to shoot down your back, you squeezed your skirt in your hand like a vice, and the man behind you hugged your body to him even tighter as you squirmed and tried wriggling away.

“Just came to see if you needed a ride to Amy’s. The boys are all already over there,” David replied, and in turn, he was treading closer. Walking slowly to the stall.

Joel pinched your face like you were somehow to blame. You jerked a sharp elbow to his ribs, and he let up a little.

“Nah, man, I—” Joel began, ever-so-slowly reaching out toward the shower knob and turning it, “—gotta talk to Ezra, make a couple more calls. I’ll meet y’all over there.”

Outside, David made a low, disappointed huff. Then he plopped his ass on a bench from what you could hear.

“I can wait,” he said.

“There’s really no need—” You could feel the strain in Joel’s voice, picturing him gritting his teeth and wincing beneath the torrents of water. Slowly, the shower heated.

“Believe me, I’m in no rush to get over there,” David chuckled. The bench creaked as he leaned back.

Then, he added:

“Ain’t like Ms. Cum-On-Me-Tits’ll be there anyway.”

I beg your finest pardon?

You wanted to thrash out of Joel’s arms the second you heard the name—knowing damn well who he meant—but the big, wet arms out in front of you were pressing down on your chest like the oxygen in the air was scarce. Your lungs could barely expand far enough to breathe, much less venture to fight him off of you and leave.

“Ms. Who?” Joel said, sounding dumb as a bag of dicks.

“You know who,” David barked out a laugh this time, “The slut you were eyeballin’ the whole fuckin’ game.”

You’d kill both men with your two bare hands if you could—if you had to be subjected to one more second of this asinine ‘locker room talk,’ you just might off yourself, too.

Joel’s arms noticeably tensed around you.

“I don’t—”

“Sam’s sister, man. I don’t blame ya one bit. Pretty little thing like that, I’m starin’ at those tits every chance I—”

You ground your heel hard into Joel’s toes then, and he groaned. Loosened his grip on you just long enough for you to turn around in that tiny, compact shower and look up to pin him with the most vicious stare you could. He didn’t have to be the one saying these things for the words to sting and make you feel every bit as objectified. As far as you were concerned, and on top of everything else going on, his silence made him equally complicit.

Above you, a pair of brown eyes tried to apologize.

Or maybe just commiserate about how badly David sucked. Joel cleared his throat and cut back in.

“She’s…alright,” he said, eyes boring into yours as he spoke—then, pointedly, “Not really my type, though.”

“Bullshi-i-i-it!”

David sang an incredulous cacophony before continuing:

“Tell me, Joel, does your ass get jealous of all the shit that comes outta your mouth? Or is it used to it by now?”

In another sopping wet and raw moment of discomfort, Joel frowned. The water enveloping you both had slowly crept up to a more comfortable temperature, and just as a pinkish hue ascended his neck, you wondered if it was the warmth or something else that ushered in the color.

And the answer to that came much sooner than you expected—one superb cherry atop a monster-sized shit pie—when something stabbed your pelvis a second later.

Your mouth fell open as Joel’s snapped shut. He blinked; you stared; neither one of you possessed the courage to look down, but you knew what was standing there, stiff.

Then, as if to compound every last one of your problems and add the cruelest of insults to injury, David sat up.

Again, he laughed.

“You know I’m right!” he chided when Joel said nothing, “Got yourself laid after you left Tipsy Bison last night, and it still ain’t enough for a horny fuck like you, huh?”

Now you had to be sick. Your head was throbbing.

Glaring lack of food be damned, you felt the urge. Again.

You almost tore the shower curtain aside when Joel caged you back against the wall with his body, torso pinning yours, and you heard a far-off cackle once more—this time, accompanied by the sounds of David’s shoes squeaking as he stood. Boner momentarily forgotten, Joel pressed his body to yours on cool glazed ceramic and made a plea as he stuck his index finger to your lips.

And whatever that wordless message was, you were too mortified to meet his gaze. You just stood in place and stared over his shoulder as David made to leave outside.

Some words were exchanged; they barely registered with you. Joel told David, again, that he could drive to Amy’s without him—David said something about ‘big butts’ and ‘college sluts’ and promises of hearing the ‘whole story’ when Joel got there—and Joel hummed, noncommittal.

As soon as the door slammed shut behind the Fireflies’ asshole assistant coach, your hands went straight to Joel’s chest to shove him off as hard as you could.

“Hey—”

A short, emphatic ‘fuck you’ was obscured just slightly by the sound of the shower curtain being yanked to the left, your feet moving quickly underneath you, then the splashes of puddles as you walked—stomped—away.

You were back outside, exiting through a different door than David had and making it out into the hallway again.

“Hey—”

“Don’t care.”

Those words weren’t muffled at all. You stalked down the hall with your skirt in a fist and your whole body dripping.

You made it halfway before a hand found your waist, but you tried to keep going in spite of the pull. Straining.

And, personally, you would’ve liked to use your sopping wet denim just then as a projectile, launched directly into Coach Joel’s face. It would’ve been easy, smacking a creep upside the head when he clearly couldn’t comprehend a lick of difference between a ‘fuck you’ and a ‘thank you,’ but the weapon in your grip was virtually useless if you didn’t have the strength to lift it.

Or if Joel didn’t stop you then to make you face him, use one broad hand to burn a wet-hot imprint in your side while his other nudged a door open beside you.

Or if you didn’t stumble inside with one nudge.

If there hadn’t been a bone-empty coach’s lounge waiting behind that door, rattling with the sound and sheer force of the thing shutting swiftly behind Joel.

Then, before you could try and curse him out again:

“I’m sorry.”

“Bullshit.” You sounded like David saying it before.

You were already backing up in that tiny office space, wishing you had the willpower to just chuck your skirt and run, but of course, your pride was too great. Your curiosity was too wild, and your anger was unrivaled.

“Nothing happened last night,” Joel said, emphatic.

“Wh—”

“We didn’t fuck. Or do anything. I swear.”

That kind of candor was a first. You weren’t sure just what to make of it. Wordlessly, you dropped your skirt.

“David said—” you started again.

“David heard—from my little brother, if I had to guess—that we left Tipsy Bison together. And we did…but, uh…” Joel trailed off, shifting his attention to something of note over your shoulder, and then stepping, reaching carefully around you, “I just wanted to get you home.”

“To fuck me,” you finished.

“No.”

Joel tensed again as he shook a towel out in front of you, then draped it over your shoulders. You made a face at the coarse texture but stayed quiet as he wrapped you. He paused, pressed your arms lightly, then appeared to decide in the blink of an eye and one awkward cough that now was not the best time to be touching. You couldn’t deny the warmth was a welcome change as you stood soaked head-to-toe, yet nothing could uncurl the ice-cold fist in your stomach at the sight of him now.

Joel stood, still semi-erect in his five-inch inseam shorts.

A puddle was starting to form on the floor around you both. Joel’s breathing was slow; he stood so close you could feel it. Hear it. Smell it. He started to back away.

Before he did, you got a whiff of something light on his breath. Then some dim, misshapen word began to form.

Spearmint.

You stood and you stared. You saw an image flash before your mind—a memory. At some point in time, you had danced with this man. One night. Last night? Maybe.

‘I knew him as John Cougar. That’s how old I am.’

‘And he’s Mellencamp to me. So what?’

‘Means you’re too young for me.’

All the same, the man’s hand had tightened its grip. Splayed out at the base of your spine and drawing you closer, the fingers tapped along to a heartland rock tune playing loud across the way on the Tipsy Bison’s jukebox. Joel smiled and chewed. Chewed and smiled.

And chewed some more—still, to the present moment.

Joel Miller kept a pack of Wrigley’s Sugarfree Spearmint gum in the pocket of every clothing item he owned. He indulged in the stuff so often because it helped ease his nerves some. You knew this because he’d told you, right before his lips had grazed the corner of yours and told you, slowly, there were worse ways to smell than minty. You had proceeded to frown and demand a proper kiss.

But that night, last night, Joel never did.

“We didn’t…do it,” you said, question and statement commingled as you searched his face for an answer.

What you got in return was more akin to a wince.

“You were drunk,” Joel answered simply.

‘Blackout’ was implied by the tone of his voice. Then, when the same old muscles went tensing beneath the smooth, tanned skin of his jaw to keep chomping away—nerves shot to hell no matter how hard he chewed—Joel held your gaze and drank you in, as you did to him.

And the memories came trickling back, one by one.

“I— took that off myself, didn’t I?” Pointing to your skirt.

Joel’s eyes didn’t need to follow your own. He nodded.

“Stripped it off pretty quick when we got in the truck.”

You wanted to die. Now the mere idea of remembering was something more like an anvil hanging overhead, ready to drop any second. You sucked your bottom lip in.

“Kept on sayin’ to me, ‘I’m sober, I swear!’ and took the skirt off to show ya wanted to, y’know—” Joel paused to circle around the desk behind him. He went rummaging, quietly, then, “You threw it over your neighbors’ fence as soon as we got to your place. I had to fish it out later.”

Coach Joel made it through two, three, four drawers before finally setting his sights on the one he needed—the one where they kept old athletic clothes stored, it seemed. You watched him set aside a heather grey shirt of some minor league baseball team you didn’t recognize, followed by a pair of gym shorts.

It certainly wasn’t the most trendy attire, but it was dry.

Joel was still dripping wet when he motioned to the stuff. Before he could offer it up, though, you frowned.

“Wait— we were at my house?”

Joel smiled in that wry, humorless way of his and nodded. Pretended to inspect a smudge on his shoe so he didn’t have to meet your gaze and watch the first inklings of embarrassment morph into pure humiliation.

Your cheeks were on fire. You remembered it now.

How Joel had calmly set you up in the passenger seat of his truck, politely pushed your feet back inside when you whined and insisted you were fine to keep drinking, let’s go back, then artfully dodged a kiss that you’d tried to plant on his lips. You’d got his cheek instead and huffed.

“Joel, I am so, so sober, it’s insane,” you hiccuped, “Pinky promise we can fuck now if you wanna.”

“I don’t,” Joel grunted. He put the car in drive.

You must’ve gone back and forth on that topic for hours—or however long it took to get from the Tipsy Bison’s parking lot to your parent’s house in the dead of night—and Joel had been adamant. Insistent. He wouldn’t lay a hand on you until you’d sobered up and gone to sleep.

He’d somehow managed to wrestle you into a pair of his sweats after you threw your own skirt over the fence. He’d reasoned, pleaded, then outright begged you to follow his lead inside. When you refused, he had no choice but to throw you over his shoulder and—

“—sneak me into my room?” you said, words steeped in disbelief. Your parents would’ve murdered the man in cold blood if they’d seen him toting their half-conscious, fully drunk daughter over his back and into her bedroom.

Coach Joel was brave for that.

Kind-hearted, too.

And you’d kicked the poor soul in his balls the next day.

Suddenly—and conspicuously—your gaze fell to his dick.

“I-I…Joel, I am so…fucking sor—”

“‘S’okay,” Joel cut in, gently. Wincing at the memory and pretending not to see your eyes burn a hole in his shorts.

Your gaze was still fixed firmly on that spot when you saw his hand stir at his side. He reached into his pocket.

To your immediate chagrin, he withdrew a little wrapper.

Just big enough to house a strip of gum, but it didn’t, at least not anymore. Someone had removed the gum and flipped the wrapper inside out to write something down.

Joel’s fingers flattened it out some, and then you saw it: a phone number scribbled on the small silver parchment. The man in front of you held it out for no more than a second before placing it on top of the clothes on the desk and sliding the pile toward you. Clearing his throat.

“Forgot to give you this,” he said, “I was just, uh— tryin’ to pull it outta my pocket. Earlier. In the parking lot.”

So not trying to grope you. Or kidnap you in broad daylight. Or do anything even remotely malevolent.

Just trying to give you his number. Pointing to his pants.

No sooner had Joel set you down on your bed than you were squirming against your comforter, trying to drag his sweatpants down your legs with some effort. Joel immediately seized both of your hands at the waistband and shook his head. He yanked the pants up while you tried, unsuccessfully, to pull them down your body.

“This ain’t happenin’ now, honey,” he’d said softly.

“Why—” You fisted the fabric even tighter and attempted to wriggle out again, to no avail, “—not?!”

“One: you’re drunk…” Joel replied, voice even as ever. Tugging his sweats back up to rest comfortably at your hips, then rotating your body in bed so he could pull the sheets over you, “Two: date comes first, remember?”

You blinked in embarrassment—again—at the memory. Joel bit the inside of his cheek, as if remembering too.

“I promised I’d take ya on a proper date,” he said simply. Flatly, almost, “Y’know, ‘fore we did anything like, uh…”

And from one shared look alone, the two of you knew what would’ve followed after. Or had a rough idea of it, anyway. Perhaps feeling a bit too forward with that wordless admission, or still uncertain whether you even remembered the date he’d promised you in the first place, Joel looked down. He glanced over at the clothes and opened his mouth to speak again, probably to tell you to get changed, now, you’re fixin’ to freeze to death—and maybe you should’ve waited for him to say it.

Maybe.

Maybe you should’ve waited for Coach Joel to tell you that he’d step outside and give you some privacy while you changed, offer to give you a ride to Amy’s if you needed it. Keep things professional. Platonic. Put dates on the back burner for the time being and leave it at that.

But you were already so cold, and your inhibitions low.

Maybe some part of you wanted to make it up to Joel somehow—thank him for being so kind the night before.

So, instead of letting him speak, you hooked your thumbs under the waistband of his sweatpants, just like you’d done the night before, and started to pull down.

“Does the date have to come first?” you said. Soft, slow.

The wet and heavy fabric fell around your ankles with a less-than-sexy thud, but you stepped out of it calmly all the same. Your legs were met with another biting chill, the kind that was bound to seize your limbs when left bare below the waist—save for your bodysuit—and you felt a wave of goosebumps break out across your skin.

Joel stared as you stepped closer. He hadn’t evinced so much as a note of surprise, but you could tell from the glint in his eyes he had to have been thinking something.

‘Christ’ was all he muttered.

You drew nearer, until just the tips of your toes were about to graze his own, and you kicked off Tess’s shoes with a nonchalance you were amazed you were able to feign. Inside, your heart was hammering against your chest, and your stomach doing somersaults as Joel’s gaze drifted back up to your face. His chewing had slowed, but you could feel the faint fragrance of mint on his breath. You wished he would touch you, but he didn’t.

“Figured we could just...cut through the—” you started.

“No.”

It seemed Joel loved to interrupt. Loved telling you no.

You leaned back a little, both eyebrows raised. You were about to take a step away, sensing by the stern look that had crossed over his face that maybe he wasn’t in the mood to touch, or kiss, or do anything with you at all. As much as rejection would’ve felt like a punch in the gut, and likely compounded your embarrassment tenfold, you would never try to cross that line without his permission.

You’d just sucked in one last inhale of spearmint and failure when you felt a hand on the front of your top.

Joel’s index and thumb pinched the fabric.

They tugged you toward his body, gently.

At the first influx of relief, you smiled—thank fuck you hadn’t creeped the poor guy out—and started to reach for Joel just the same, but his other hand stopped you. Again, it was tender, but appreciably firmer this time:

Don’t touch me.

Your face fell. Hand dropped limply beside you and eyes winced with confusion as Joel continued to pull forward.

He brought you to a stop before your bodies made contact. Then he slipped his touch from your belly, up your sides, before eventually settling on your...shoulder?

He applied light pressure. You didn’t understand why.

When he pushed harder and made your legs buckle underneath you, the message rang a little more clearly.

Your knees made the gentlest splat atop wet hardwood, the office floor soaked from your body and Joel’s. You’d barely managed to keep your balance between his feet and had just started to tilt your head up to meet his gaze, hands instinctively reaching out and gripping his thighs for support, when the fabric rustled under your palms.

The soaked, black shorts were being peeled off, slowly.

You blinked up at Joel in disbelief. Did he seriously—

“Think you should say you’re sorry first,” Joel said.

Your heart thudded even harder. You scarcely had another second to process his words before Joel had pulled his shorts down just enough for a strip of skin to show; for the material of his boxers to glide down and leave the tiniest bit of plaid fabric to contain himself.

Coach Joel smoothed his other palm across the back of your head, nudging you closer without pushing you in it.

Amazingly, there was still a palpable undercurrent of concern, even as he had you planted on your knees in front of him. He stroked your scalp with his thumb.

“Nicked my balls pretty good this mornin’—least you could do is give ‘em a kiss to say sorry, right, darlin’?”

You continued to blink, still not quite capable of speech.

“Uhhhm—” you sputtered, only for Joel to intervene.

“‘S’just fine by me if you don’t,” he murmured, “Figured they’d feel a bit better with your pretty lips on ‘em is all.”

From the sweet and encouraging lilt in his voice to the gentle rubs of his finger going back and forth across the crown of your head, you felt a stab of saccharine pride. An urge to preen beneath his touch and soak in the tiniest streaks of affection wrought by the pad of one thumb and a smile taking shape lazily above you then.

Joel didn’t tug the waistband of his boxers any further; you did. The gears in your brain whirring alive with a desire to have him keep smiling at you like that, keep stroking your head and voicing his dulcet appreciation, you reckoned the effect was something akin to a drug.

You weren’t watching his cock when it finally sprang out. Your eyes were just glued to Coach Joel’s, holding his gaze and hoping he liked the sight of you there beside it.

Beside him.

Beside every inch of him, and— oh fuck were there a lot.

Your attention momentarily diverted, you peered up at Joel’s cock as it sat nestled against a small tuft of grey-black hairs at the base of his belly and almost coughed.

He was huge in every aspect. Your mouth fell open.

Seeing your lips so parted, Joel had to fight back a chuckle, it sounded like, and gently nudged your head.

“‘S’okay, baby. Just the balls, remember?”

Your gaze flitted back to his, visibly unnerved. Confused.

“Just…the balls?” you breathed.

At length, the short, shallow exhales from your lungs were fanning across Joel’s family jewels, and you almost couldn’t believe he wanted you to neglect his cock completely in favor of kissing them. You swallowed.

When your mouth reopened, caught somewhere between a look of curiosity and muted surprise, Joel pressed the pads of his fingers into your scalp once more. Prodding you gently toward the source of his desire without applying too much pressure on the spot.

“Right…there.”

Your lips latched onto the smooth, warm skin as he said it. It was strange, landing straight on a plane of flesh that you typically didn’t pay attention to until you’d licked and bobbed your head down his cock a few times. These soft and rounded globes felt almost foreign to you, as you curled your lips into one, gently, and then felt them spring back with a pop. Your mouth was watering.

Joel groaned at the slippery wet friction from that kiss.

While you stared and started in for another soft peck, Coach Joel sucked in a hiss of a breath through his teeth.

“Feels better already, honey,” he grunted.

You kissed the other. You ran your tongue along the underside and guided it back to your mouth so you could suckle some more, and the fingers noticeably tightened.

Another soft, punctured breath. Another rumbling moan.

“Fuck— baby, you look so pretty. Kissin’ ‘em so well.”

Feeling confidence swell in your chest, you locked eyes with Joel and opened your mouth wider. If you hadn’t been otherwise preoccupied, perhaps you would’ve felt a small twinge of embarrassment at the drool that leaked out of both corners of your lips as you did it, but, at any rate, you were busy, and evidently, the sight had only made Joel’s cock harder. Your eyes shifted to the stiff, thick, veiny member standing upright above you, all but pulsing with need, and you lifted your hand to touch it.

Joel brushed it away.

“Nuh-uh,” he tutted.

Without meaning to, you whined. Tongue ushering more of that soft, smooth flesh against your lips and jaw hanging slack as your cheeks stretched to accommodate as much as they verily could, you felt deprived, in a way.

You pressed your fingertips into his thighs, pleading.

And, as if to answer your question, Joel shook his head.

“An apology to me ain’t about what you want, darlin’,” he said, voice gravelly as he spoke, “Keep your hands off it.”

Something in his tone, though not unkind, grated on your ears like some of the worst news you’d ever heard. An aura you hadn’t been able to decipher until just now seemed to sink beneath your skin, made you sick with it—that feeling of dread that you’d disappointed the man. Perhaps it was because he was a coach, because he knew how to assume an authoritative stance and hold you to it, that you felt especially dispirited by his words. That simple, clipped ‘hands off’ hurt more than expected

You tore your gaze from his and resumed the quiet ministrations with your lips and tongue on his balls, bracing yourself tighter against his thighs as you did.

“‘M’sorry— I—” you said, voice muffled between kisses and gentle laps of your tongue, “—didn’t mean to, Joel.”

You felt the muscles in his legs stiffen as you bathed him with attention, spit smeared all over and lips working tirelessly to massage him, give him more pleasure.

“It’s alright, pretty girl,” Joel murmured, voice strained with the force of another moan clawing out of his throat. At length, he gave in—squeezing your head to him a little tighter and letting out a sound so obscene that you felt a new wave of warmth pool into your panties, trickling fast.

And, as if he could hear your arousal seep out, knowing just what his honeyed praises were liable to do to you:

“Good girl, just like that— fuck, your mouth feels nice.”

The sting of his last admonition was beginning to fade. Your lips worked hungrily over him, suckling and kissing and taking more into your mouth, as much as your jaw would allow. You were just about to try and squeeze all of him in, when you felt Joel shift in front of you slightly.

Then stepping back, crouching down to your level.

You probably would’ve fallen flat on your face had he not scooped you up in his arms the second after. Your knees were like jelly, your brain scarcely more functional and feeling a little self-conscious about the spit on your chin. You were just about to wipe it off with the back of your hand when Joel got it for you—using his mouth to do it.

Licking a stripe across the lower half of your face, mixing his own saliva with yours and tickling your cheek with his mustache in an act that seemed almost pornographic.

“You are so fucking sexy,” Joel murmured, teeth nipping at wet skin and lips pressing light kisses here and there.

Before you could respond, he turned you around and shoved you onto the desk. Pressed a hand to the small of your back, flattened you facedown on the table’s surface with your ass hanging over the edge, and then stepped behind you, quietly. Quickly. Working to rid himself of clothes that were still clinging to his body like a second skin, Joel shrugged his shirt off, yanked his shorts and boxers the rest of the way to his feet, then kicked all three articles of clothing aside as he drew closer to you.

You heard four drawers open beside you, underneath you, in quick succession. Joel was rummaging again.

Where excitement normally would’ve taken root at this point—pleasure pooling between your legs as the man hastily procured a condom and tore the wrapper open, worked it onto his dick—you felt uncertainty instead. Sadness, even. You kicked your feet back and forth, toes scraping the oak floor as though the friction might conceivably rouse something lighter inside you. It didn’t.

Joel returned, and you couldn’t see his face. He gave your ass a taut smack, then kneaded the flesh in his palm, and you couldn’t be sure if he was smiling or frowning or simply glowering down at you with a look of indifference. When you felt his touch graze over your hands and tuck them coolly at the small of your back, you wanted to tilt your chin some to face him. You didn’t.

Instead, you stared at the wall across from the desk and hoped that he liked whatever he saw. When you felt something wrap around your wrists, you didn’t protest, only bit your lip and waited for him to tie it extra tight.

Joel leaned in and dropped a quick kiss on your shoulder.

The knot he made was snug but not suffocating.

You really wanted to see him now, for some reason.

“This OK?” Joel said. He tapped your wrists.

Before you could answer beyond just a nod, though, he tugged the knot and made a noise in his throat that sounded like a scoff. He pressed something cool and light against your palm, and a shiver pulsed through you.

“Is that…your, uh…” you breathed out an awkward laugh.

He’d tied your hands behind you with his whistle.

“Uh-huh,” Joel hummed, sounding pleased.

And in the next, you could hear a trace of a smirk:

“Always wanted to tie a slut up just like this, y’know?”

Ouch.

Joel was great with praise, but his degradation hurt a bit. You squeezed the metal whistle and tried to pretend like there wasn’t a strangely painful lump taking shape at the back of your throat—it shouldn’t have felt like that at all.

You shouldn’t care what a total stranger thought of you.

That’s all Coach Joel was after all: a stranger to fuck.

But as you felt him unclasp the fastenings at the bottom of your bodysuit, tug your panties down, and line himself up with your entrance from behind, you kind of wished he wasn’t. Maybe you’d been mistaken in initiating this thing and would’ve been better off accepting the date like he’d offered. Maybe then you wouldn’t feel so weird.

At any rate, he was already gripping your hips in his hands and starting to ease himself inside you. Groaning at the pressure and warmth enveloping his cock and uttering curse after curse with just the head notched in. You could sense the slightest sting of latex at your center; Joel’s girth felt every bit as imposing as it had looked, and now your face was screwed up with a wince trying to take him in. Your clit was untouched, throbbing.

Just as you’d bit down on your lower lip with discomfort, Joel dropped his head back and let out a satisfied groan.

“Fuck me,” he grunted, “You’re so…fuckin’ tight.”

Next, ‘good girl’ was quick to become a strangled refrain on his tongue as he worked a couple inches in and out of your aching hole. It felt okay, as you’d gotten plenty wet on your knees for him before, but it stung with each stab of his hips, and your body had gotten overly tense. Worse yet, Joel was so focused on getting himself in that his fingers still hadn’t found your clit. They massaged your ass instead, evidently in awe of how small you looked taking him inch by inch; the sight mesmerizing to him.

“Joel—” you started to whimper.

“This what ya wanted all along, huh? Gettin’ fucked over my desk like a little slut?” Joel’s words were equal parts indelicate and venomous—even sexy as they crawled off his tongue—but the tone with his thrusts was too much. He was gripping too hard, pushing too far, being unkind in a way that would’ve been alright if you were a doll. But you weren’t. The least you needed was concern. So, gently, you let out a breath and turned your head.

“Joel—”

Before bottoming out completely, Coach Joel slapped your ass once again and groaned through his teeth.

“C’mon an’ tell me how much ya like it, baby, how—”

“JOEL.”

He stopped. From the corner of your eye, you spied a startled, half-blanched face. Joel pulled out immediately.

“Wh— hey, you okay, sweetheart? Hey,” the man said, leaning in and loosening the restraints on your wrists. When you nodded for him to keep untying, please, he tugged the whole thing off and turned you back around,

“Is everything okay?”

His eyes were much wider than you’d expected to find them, hands gripping you by either arm as his gaze scanned your face. Out of some unsettled feeling, it seemed, he drew closer, hastily, until your legs were nearly enmeshed and his hands cupped your cheeks.

“I don’t…like that,” you answered in a small, soft voice.

“You don’t…” Joel trailed off, blinking slow at first, then appearing to process your words and turn to stroking the cusp of your jawline with his thumbs while he did.

When it hit just how much you hadn’t liked that and why, he paled even more. Like he couldn’t get his touch to be apologetic enough, his eyes soft and glossy and sorry.

“Did I—” Joel leaned in, squeezing your face, “I’m sorry—did I hurt you any? You can tell me, honey, honest.”

“Not much.” And you tried to crack a smile, but the man wasn’t having it. He switched positions, hoisting you up.

He carried you over to the sofa. Held you in a semi-awkward cradle once he realized the couch was all but broken in two from decades and decades of use, then resigned himself, gladly, to just holding you in his arms.

Pretending not to see you make a face as if to say, ‘Joel, I’m alright now,’ he nuzzled his own closer to yours and started sponging little kisses near your chin and neck.

“‘M’sorry,” he mumbled again, voice now stifled by skin.

You tried not to get too squeamish, or giggle in his hold, but the fact was that his lips were so light—feather-like, almost—and the places he was kissing were so sensitive, you couldn’t help but let out a couple sounds that were half-laugh, half-strangled gasp. With each one of these, Joel would start smiling in between affectionate pecks.

And his dark, dampened curls, though striated with grey, framed his face in a boyish way; he grinned and lost a decade. You were amazed what a difference a glimpse of him could make, and now that he was caressing you, kissing you, your body knew it too, suffused with warmth

When Joel’s lips found yours, you almost forgot it was the first time he’d done that today. Or ever. You kissed each other comfortably, without a shade of pretense or pause, and found that your mouths worked so well together it was a small wonder you hadn’t thought to do that sooner. Joel pulled away, still holding your face.

“We did this backwards,” he said, sounding deflated, “Date first, kiss second, embarrassingly bad sex last.”

You shrugged. Smiling. Silently hoping Joel hadn’t felt your cheeks warm while he cupped your face like that and then tried deflecting that attention away by saying:

‘Two out of three isn’t that bad, Coach.’

And, just as swiftly as he’d brought you over to the sofa, Joel had you flipped and pinned under his body on the old, misshapen cushions and squealing out a laugh.

“I thought ya wanted it rough, honey,” he groaned against your throat. Kissing the skin as you giggled.

“And your idea of rough is—” you started.

“Callin’ ya names, slappin’ your ass, all that kinda sh—”

“—constantly interrupting people while they talk, too?”

Joel suspended his affectionate ministrations just long enough to swap his lips and tongue with teeth, giving your neck a light bite. For all his outward displays of Southern gentility and gentleman-like behavior, he was, after all, still a coach: the kind of guy whose primary sustenance was competition, whose ability to hold a conversation reflected the desire to dominate, always.

Maybe he didn’t like having this fact brought to his attention, stated so plainly as his body blanketed yours and his head burrowed even deeper into your neck. Joel squeezed the sides of your body, about to pull you closer, when you squirmed out from under him and sat upright.

You glanced down and saw that Joel had already chucked the condom. He was starting to lean back into the sofa, length standing semi-erect against the shelf of his belly while his hands fumbled over your thighs and hips. Trying to steer you into his lap, he muttered another string of apologies along with some words like, ‘I know.’

“You’re right, I know I’m bad about that, I—” he began.

“Get another.”

Now you were the one to interrupt, limbs resisting his pull as you nodded to the desk. Telling him to go.

“You wanna—”

“Yeah.”

When Joel blinked a couple times and didn’t move, you stood up yourself. He reached for you; you ignored him. You strode over to the desk where he’d retrieved the condoms the first time and grabbed the box, snagged a square metallic wrapper out of it, and walked back over.

You sat down beside Joel and didn’t wait for him to take the lead. You tore the packet with your teeth and, careful not to chomp down on the latex itself, pulled the rubber out. It wasn’t until you sank down on your knees in front of Coach Joel on the wet, hard floor that he stirred at all.

He grabbed your wrist before you could slide it on.

“C’mere.”

Again, you resisted his efforts to pull you into his lap—‘Joel, I wanna do it now, I swear’—and when it seemed you were going to remain as defiant as you ever had been, on the floor, Joel leaned forward and kissed you.

Somehow, he reached you even deeper than he had before. You were on your knees, chin tilting to his and lips parting, slowly, and Joel cupped both sides of your face to drive his tongue inside. Now he wasn’t just touching but tasting, too, his efforts quick to be accompanied by the gentlest of sounds from his mouth to yours. Thumbing your cheeks even harder when his tongue moved against yours and a grunt crept out of his throat.

“I wanna—” he said in between soft, strained breaths.

You already knew what he was going to say. You shook your head against his before pulling away. Watching him watch you with a hungry look and follow you to the floor.

“I need you to fuck me, Joel,” you cut in. You scooted back and spread your legs, and Joel crawled forward.

He murmured something about eating you out, licking that pretty pussy clean before he gave it to you again, but you just told him no, again, and fisted the damp grey ringlets at the back of his head to pull him closer to you.

Joel was already slotting himself between your legs, dismayed not to be able to taste your cunt but also keen to join you as you came to lie supine on the floor before him. His eyes were alight with curiosity, mouth opening and closing with the threat of a teasing word or two on his tongue until you started to slide the condom down.

You almost couldn’t believe it yourself: how forward you were being—sober this time. With the sting from Joel’s first entry reduced to a mere throb between your legs, the space where he’d been before was pulsing, blood pumping, and with each new second you could feel the need amplify. Your legs curled around his waist and pulled him closer, hips inching forward on hardwood beneath him to get his cock pressed flush with your heat.

“Take it…real slow this time.” Joel was already sliding a hand under your head. Cradling the back of your skull as his tip moved over the wet and sticky warmth that had pooled between your folds. His eyes searched your face.

Just sensing the weight of his gaze, his grip, the restraint from his lower half as it hovered over yours, you already felt safer. Silly, almost, for how much that wordless reassurance and concern from Joel came as a comfort—and had you writhing under him for more, now, please.

“We’ll get there, hon, don’t you worry your pretty little head—” And as he said it, Joel pressed a kiss to your forehead, “—and if it hurts any, ya tell me, alright?”

“I will, Joel, please,” you whimpered.

Smooth and bulbous and just a pinch too snug in that latex, the head of Joel’s cock made a dizzying squelch against the rim of your cunt. The tip was all it took to remind you just how big he was, how tough it was probably going to be to adjust to his size, how—

“Hey,” Joel said, voice grounding you immediately.

You looked up to meet his gaze.

“I’m still takin’ you on a date, by the way,” he mumbled, and you smiled, “If you wanna save this part for later—”

As though your bodies had both said ‘no’ at once, Joel’s cock eased forward slightly, softly, and notched into the slick ring of muscles that had kept your parts separate. The intrusion was barely an inch, and not your very first, but it felt like a novelty—something tender and delicate to steal a breath from your chest and Joel’s—and the stretch, now, was a welcome one. Your legs tightened at Joel’s sides, and his lips pressed over your own, briefly.

“This okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you nodded.

“You sure?”

“Mmmh—ohhhh, fuck, yes, Joel.”

The words flew from your mouth without meaning to. Your hands moved up to his chest, his shoulders, squeezing his trap muscles and sinking your nails in the skin while a welt of pleasure blossomed between your legs. Joel kissed the corner of your mouth, smile already starting to tug at both ends of his. Then he kissed it again.

Joel swallowed his awe—and pride—and leaned closer.

“Shoulda been treatin’ her sweeter, baby, I’m sorry,” he hummed against your cheek. Then he sank his length even deeper inside and relished the soft pulse of you.

He was rutting gently with just half his dick, and still, your body and brain were on the fritz, all but overcome with that swollen, coiling bliss. You glanced down and were half enrapt with the heft of his stomach boring into yours. You trailed your fingertips over the soft plane of flesh, pinched it gently while Joel’s steady and shallow thrusts split you even further open, and you smiled, too.

“That’s a first,” he said, chuckle rumbling low.

“What? Fucking on the floor?”

“That— that too,” Joel tried to make the same amused sound but was interrupted by a groan bubbling up in his throat. You’d clenched, and he drove in even deeper, “You…you touchin’ my, uh…my stomach, I mean.”

You pinched it again, feeling soft grey hairs in your palm.

“Your tummy?”

Joel couldn’t help but grin a little at the word.

“My tummy,” he repeated, as if he didn’t believe it.

Again, you could’ve sworn you saw a flush of pink creep up the side of his throat, but you decided not to mention it. Instead, you just slid your hands back up to his chest and stretched your legs even wider to take more of him in. Joel obliged with the last remaining inch and groaned.

You moaned too, squeezing tighter. He’d just bottomed out, and you were already, somehow, on the brink.

It didn’t matter that you were getting fucked on the frigid wood floor by your little brother’s baseball coach, water pooling around you and between you and commingling with the minuscule beads of sweat that were starting to form on your bodies. Joel was as handsome as he’d ever looked, brow drawn inward and lips taking the shape of an ‘o’ whenever they weren’t sponging kisses over yours. The stretch you felt was approaching euphoric now, walls fluttering with each slow and gentle stroke inside you. Joel was deep, and he was measured—and he was careful in the force of his thrusts, taking pains to watch your expression for any changes or signs of discomfort.

He was praising you, too. Strings of ‘Right there, baby—doin’ so good for me’ and ‘Feels so nice’ and ‘Keep goin’ were like music to your ears, nudging you closer and closer to climax with every tender thrust. When Joel’s hand descended to your hip and the cadence of his own body grew a little more deliberate and fixed, you were certain he would be teasing out your release any minute. You wound your fingers through his hair, preparing to pull tight in anticipation of that heady, blissful feeling.

Evidently, Coach Miller wasn’t as ready. He wrenched himself out of your grip and withdrew the next second.

And, try as you might to contain the sound, a whine tumbled off your lips, followed by a ‘Joel!’ just as quick. A hollow feeling swallowed your lower half; you felt you had no other choice but to prop yourself up on both elbows, cast a despondent look between your legs, and groan:

“I was so clo—”

“Couldn’t wait. ‘M’sorry, honey.”

You might’ve liked to give him a little more hell for that—particularly observing the smug smile that had crawled onto Joel’s face as he said it—but the feeling was short-lived. Just when you opened your mouth to speak, you watched him glide down your front. He was painstakingly slow, then swift as soon as he slipped between your legs. His shoulders bumped your thighs, heedless of the feeling the motion would evoke, and came to rest with his face between them. Happy. Or pleased—even eager.

You couldn’t fault him for that enthusiasm for long, either, because the next thing you knew, Joel’s mouth was lowering further. Slotting his lips and tongue against your glistening folds and nudging you gently, teasingly, as if knowing exactly what you lacked in that moment. Your fingers found his hair again and this time were free to tug as long as they liked; Joel busied himself intently.

He flattened his tongue and licked a stripe up your slit. He lapped at your folds, collecting whatever sweet, tangy parts of you had trickled out over the stretch of that morning, and didn’t flinch when the jolt of pleasure it sent caused your hands to make fists in his hair. In fact, the sting on his scalp only seemed to make his actions that much greedier. He grinned when you whimpered.

“Still close?”

The fucking tease.

“N-N— No shit, Miller.”

You hated the way his mouth made a faltering mess of your own. In spite of the impairment, though, it was clear that this state wouldn’t last for long; a couple more strokes of his tongue and a soft, semi-complaisant suction on your bundle of nerves and you would be gone.

Coach Miller was mean, but he wasn’t so cruel as to deny you the sublime pleasure of getting to cum in his mouth. With one hand, he gave your thigh a comforting squeeze, and with the other, he trailed his touch to your entrance. When his index and middle fingers first slid in, he held your leg again and stroked the skin in small, tight circles.

“You’re good, hey. You’re okay,” he assured you softly, the fingers of his other hand sinking even deeper.

You felt pathetic and squeamish, but the heft of that one push just felt so good. Paired with his tongue on your clit and a vicious little suckling here and there, his mustache dragging back and forth along the cusp of your mound, it came as no surprise to you or Joel when next your body tensed and your lower half flooded with pleasure.

What little remained of your resolve not to cry disintegrated in less than a second—by turns, your thighs clamped down around Joel’s head like a vice, your eyes squeezed shut, and the whine that tore out of your throat was as shrill and piercing and high as you’d ever heard it. Succeeded shortly by a fuck, fuck, FUCK, Joel, fuck and a gush of warmth down his chin, your climax couldn’t have been more pronounced if you’d tried. Fortunately, the fully-drenched man beneath you didn’t mind at all; if anything, he saw it as a personal success.

Climbing back up your body, bracketing his bare, muscly arms about your torso, and gripping the base of his cock, triumph was there, painted clear across his every feature. It softened his face. Made his length even stiffer and more ready than ever to re-enter your warmth before you could press so much as a hand to his chest, sighing gently. Joel snagged your lips between his for a kiss.

“That’s it, pretty girl, keep goin’.”

His words were muffled by your mouth—a tiny gasp.

“Gonna make this last a little while longer, that alright?”

He breached the first two inches of your swollen, shiny, still-pulsing cunt as if to punctuate the question. All raw and tender from the last orgasm he’d coaxed out of it, and being stretched around his tip without fair warning, your muscles spasmed again. You both let out a breath.

“It’s— Joel, it’s—”

Another inch. Almost too good to bear. The man appeared to nod in understanding, before he smoothed a hand over your face and cradled it. He drove in deeper, while your voice broke off in some low, muffled whine.

“A lot. I know,” he finished, softly, as if commiserating with you while splitting you open on his cock, “I know it’s a lot, baby. You just tell me if it gets to be too much.”

His words had all the air of a calm, measured authority, spoken in tones you knew too well. He sank further. No inflection quite as stern or steady could have belonged to anyone else but a coach, you reckoned. Coach Miller, the hard-boiled voice of reason for the baseball team, so-called ‘silent type,’ object of every last housewife’s desire—and also the guy you’d kneed in the dick that morning.

It was only fair he got to return the favor in his own way.

Now he was holding your hip in his free hand, pinning you down to the floor while he started to ease in and out of your cunt at a generous pace. He knew you were spent. He sensed he was already on the brink himself, most likely. He also probably knew he couldn’t leave your limp, boneless body well enough alone before he felt the urge to make you hurt a little too—and enjoy it, of course.

Joel was all shining, hopeful eyes as he stabbed inside and found that spot, watching your own flutter closed.

“Coach.” It came out without much thought on your part. It just seemed like the right thing to call him, no matter how ethically grey or downright weird it was.

Joel liked it.

He squeezed your palm when it reached for his, and he brought it up to his mouth, peppering soft, sloppy kisses across the back of your hand while he fucked you into the floor. Shamelessly, he also used your grip on him to gauge how near you were to your next release. From what he could tell in the sights and sounds and frantic little clinches of your fist, you were close. Still loath to give in to that feeling, or else afraid to accede so quickly after the last, though, your breaths were labored. Timid.

“I-I-I don’t know if I can,” you cried, shaking your head.

Inside you, there was a big, swelling something taking shape at the pit of your gut, and with each new brush of Joel’s cock, it only got larger. The sensation was so keen and acute it might well be construed as pain if he kept at this any longer. You didn’t know if you could cum again.

“Go on an’ try, sweet pea,” Joel cooed and lowered your hand, still grasping his, between your trembling legs, “Won’t take any more’n a second or two, just touch—”

His thumb fumbled with yours and made a hapless little circuit on your clit, which almost shrieked at the feeling.

“—right here, and—”

“Fuck me,” you panted.

Your fingers and his were drenched in your nectar, all but oozing down with each slick, deliberate thrust from Joel.

“That’s what I’m doin’, no? Ya like it?” He couldn’t help it.

Frankly, neither could you. From the near-sated, happy-and-about-to-cum-on-your-dick glint in your eye, you sensed he’d know what you meant when you said, next:

“It hurts.”

“Good?” Joel grinned.

“So good.”

The man delivered a thrust that felt like it might puncture your lungs, and with it, your last resolve.

He drew even closer, until his nose and yours were brushing, smiles faint but there all the same, and his thumb guiding your own across your throbbing clit:

“Give it here, baby. Make me feel it.”

And you did. With one more stroke inside, you let it all flood out, cunt spasming and pulsing and leaking liquid heat down the length of Joel’s cock. He fucked you full, only the condom between you, and as your moans gave way to whimpers and whines, the noises in his own throat took on an even more desperate kind of timbre.

Your stuffed, overstimulated hole felt as greedy as it had ever been, and the man rutting into it was still needier. Using your body, squeezing your hand, panting out hot and frantic breaths that all but begged you to keep letting him fill your cunt—please, baby, feels so damn good, keep goin’. Try as he might to maintain the upper hand whenever he could, it was clear this time around he was fucked, top to bottom and ten ways to next week. He had a look that struck you as pleased, pained, and on the last trembling webs of cum being emptied from his body, Coach Miller held onto your face and kissed you.

While your highs died down, he stayed inside—still kissing, grunting, mumbling how good you felt. You barely had the presence of mind to hear it, but you smiled and let him go on. You’d made a mess of yourself.

Of Joel, too. Apart from the sheen of sweat and still-damp and dripping hair, his body was wrecked. Groaning. Lower stomach painted with your slick, chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. Now that the fucking was done and the room was mostly consumed by silence and strangled breaths, you had the distinct, albeit less sexual, pleasure of seeing some other things.

Like the way the joints in the coach’s knees made a pop when he tried to sit up. How the soft and weathered face pinched tighter, wrinkled further as he ventured to drag you with him, in what would eventually only be a semi-seated position on the floor, against the coffee table. How you straddled his lap, still impaled, and felt a groan vibrate through his chest when you tilted your hips the tiniest bit. He just might’ve grimaced if he wasn’t so spent and lazily fixated on you, eyes glued to your lips. He traced the seam of it with his thumb, looking amused.

“You really thought I was tryin’ to kidnap ya earlier, huh?”

Your cheeks warmed. You hoped he wouldn’t feel it.

“Well, you…you were reaching for me!”

Menacingly, you wanted to add.

“Grabbed you a couple times after that, too, didn’t I?”

And the smile on Joel’s face said he’d already felt the temperature rise in yours. You tried turning your head, embarrassed, but he held it, letting his palms sink in.

“Yeah, well, I’d say we’re even now, Coach.” Your words came out a bit muffled with his hands squishing your cheeks between them. Adamant as you were, defiance was hard to feign when the man was making you pout. You made as if to get up, but Joel just held on tighter.

“Far from it,” he said. He kissed your puckered lips, and you couldn’t ignore the little flutter in your stomach.

“How come?”

“‘Cause I owe you a date.”

You should’ve known he wasn’t the kind to give up, or forget, that easily. Even when you gave a playful push to his chest, pretended not to revel in the spattering of kisses he’d begun dropping along your collarbone—‘That’s a bad idea and we both know it, Coach’—he just pulled you even further into himself, and you felt your defenses falter, if only for a second. Maybe he was right.

“I can take you now,” Joel added.

“Like hell you will,” you laughed.

Your voice was even, but beneath it, the façade unsure. Joel was lifting you to your feet, then looking around.

“I know a place,” he continued, casual. His eyes scanned the room, and you surmised he was looking for clothes. When they landed on the shirt and shorts he’d left for you on the desk, he walked right over. He handed them to you. While you dressed, he grabbed another set from the desk drawer and began doing the same, going on:

“It’s this spot called ‘Amy’s.’ I hear they’ve got gr—”

“Joel.”

Your eyes met his again, expecting to find a smirk on his face. You saw no such expression. Instead, he watched you earnestly. Drew the drawstrings in on his too-tight shorts and smiled. You had to fight with every fiber of your being not to do the same as he strode back over and stood in front of you. You shook your head at him.

“Not happening,” you said. Your lips twitched once.

Meanwhile, Joel’s were stretching into a full grin.

Before you could stop him, he was pulling you out of the office. Leading you back down the hallway from earlier. Your footsteps echoed all through the concrete corridor.

“Think Sam’ll kick my ass when he sees us?” he mused.

“Probably just knee you straight in the dick.”

Even from where you were being tugged along behind Joel, you could feel him wince. He flashed you a sidelong glance, and you returned it with a half-apologetic smile.

“I kissed it all better, didn’t I?”

“I think you missed a couple spots, I dunno.”

And with that, Joel was smirking. Shooting you a wink.

You groaned at the memory of David doing the same.

“Please never do that again,” you begged him.

You strolled into the locker room together.

“Do what?”

“Wink.”

“Oh.”

Joel was slinging the strap of his bag over his shoulder.

“Is that…” he started.

“Creepy as shit? Correct.”

He nodded back in wordless acknowledgment, but deep down, you sensed he was most definitely going to wink at you again at some point in the day, just to piss you off.

You’d get him back eventually.

Or maybe kiss the few remaining spots left untouched.

You were about to tell him as much—maybe give him a preview of what was to come with some road head on the way over to Amy’s, for fun—when you paused. You and Joel were walking back down the hall and headed to the exit when you felt something vibrate in your pocket.

You pulled your phone out and checked the screen.

From: Sam

Leaving Amy’s now

Don’t need a ride 😁

Why the fuck a nine-year-old even had an iPhone was beyond you. You typed as you walked alongside Joel.

From: You

Where are you going?

You approached the set of exit doors and stepped out.

From: Sam

Movies. Frank’s driving us.

You were headed out to the parking lot, listening to Coach Joel argue his case for taking his truck to Amy’s.

From: You

Who’s us? Are y’all gonna need a ride back?

From: Sam

Sarah ☺️

The little shitbird never elaborated when he was talking about his plans. You followed Joel out to his vehicle and thanked him as he helped you into the passenger seat. You weren’t really listening as you focused on the texts.

From: You

Sarah who?

Joel was starting his truck. Cranking the A/C and the volume on the radio—an ‘80s rock station, of course.

John Mellencamp’s voice flooded the cabin, and you could feel Joel’s grin kick up. Luckily, it wasn’t the song.

Something or other about authority, you heard dimly.

Sam was taking forever to reply. You were on the way.

From: You

Sarah who??

“Everything okay over there?” Joel asked. He reached over and squeezed your leg to punctuate the question.

You blinked. You nodded once.

“Yeah, it’s just my brother. He’s…going on a date, I think.”

Again, Joel’s smile stretched wider, like this was news.

“No shit? He��s only like nine years old,” he chuckled.

“Yeah. Third grade going on thirty, this kid.”

You watched your text conversation as if staring harder might procure another message. It stayed the same.

Meanwhile, Joel was pulling onto the highway, and his palm was moving up your thigh. The music played loud.

Your gaze flitted to his, and in it, you saw a brazen look.

“Where’s he takin’ her?” His fingers crawled further up.

Joel would be pulling off to the side of this roadway if he didn’t ease up. You spread your legs a little wider for him.

“The movies, it sounds like,” you murmured back.

Then you grinned and were about to set your phone aside when it vibrated in your hand. You glanced down.

“Sounds like a fun place to go,” Joel hummed, probably thinking of all the things he’d like to do to you in a theatre

From: Sam

Sarah Miller

You scanned over that message and didn’t think twice. Something registered in your mind—a faint recollection of that name, and then a sweet, cheerful face you’d seen at Sam’s school before—and you had to smile a little bit.

You liked Sarah Miller.

You were glad Sam seemed to like her too.

Nerves easing a little bit now, you texted back. Telling him to have fun and be safe, call me when you need a ride home. You couldn’t contain the smile on your lips.

Apparently seeing this pleased look, Joel slid his hand to the inside of your thigh and squeezed again. He brushed the heel of his palm against your shorts, then inched it backward, so that he was grazing the soft heat between your legs. You squirmed a little bit but didn’t stop him. In fact, your teeth snagged your bottom lip, and you were subsequently forced to stifle a sound. Joel leaned over.

“We’re ten minutes out. Think you can be a good girl and cum on my fingers just once before then?” he whispered.

The truck was humming along. The air was warm. The music was as deafeningly loud as ever, and your skin was quickly growing damp with sweat, but you were game.

Biting down on the smallest fragment of a whimper, you nodded your head. Joel’s fingers dove under your shorts.

“Oh, but…” you trailed off, sucking in a quick breath. Remembering. “We gotta get back to my car right after ice cream. Sam’s probably gonna need a ride home.”

Joel groaned.

Evidently, he’d had other plans post-Amy’s.

“Can’t the girl’s parents drive ‘em home or somethin’?”

“It’s just her dad, I think. Sam and Sarah have been fri—”

“Sarah?”

Suddenly, Joel’s gaze was darting right. Meeting yours. The fingers that were moments away from plunging deep within your heat were drawing back. Halting.

“A friend from school,” you finished slowly. “Sarah Mill—”

Oh.

“Miller? Sarah Miller?” Joel interjected again, eyes wide.

You’d never made the connection.

You just remembered the kid with the bright, warm smile and thought nothing else. What are the odds she’d be—

“My daughter?!”

It seemed Joel’s right hand had completely forgotten its former mission, in favor of freaking out about his kid with your brother, in a movie theatre. Alone. Protective dad mode had kicked in instantaneously, and you couldn’t help but smile seeing that development. You sighed at the loss of his fingers but almost wanted to laugh when you saw the truck’s navigation shift from the ice cream shop to the closest movie theatre. Joel’s nostrils flared.

“But our date, Joel,” you whined, tone all faux protest.

Joel shot you a look and glowered at your teasing smirk.

“You’ll get your date, sweetheart,” he answered. Promised. His grip tightened on the wheel and twisted. “Just gotta make sure my player knows how to behave.”

Something told you he wasn’t talking about baseball.

“Whatever you say, Coach. Whatever you say.”

#☝🏼 ONE MORE USELESS FACTOID THAT MIGHT HELP WITH UNDERSTANDING THE STORY:#John Cougar Mellencamp swapped his stage name (Cougar) for his real name (Mellencamp) around 1987 #so joel saying he knew him back when he was ‘Cougar’ and not ‘Mellencamp’ is just a long-winded way of saying he’s old #ANYWAY #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller imagine #joel miller one shot #joel miller tlou

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