Shameless Game (Shameless Sport #1)

Chapter 18

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Please tell me I don’t look like I had a date with Elmer’s Glue.

BLAIR

“Ahem.”

It’s too early.

“Ahem.”

I don’t care if it’s Beau or Colt.

“Ahem.”

I’m not cracking my eyelids for either because they cracked me open last night. My kitty sends her thanks, but my ass is hanging the DO NOT DISTURB sign for at least a day.

Or at least… this morning.

What time is it?

And who turned on the heat lamp? Oh god, I’m sweating like a whore in church.

I shove a body off mine. I think it’s Beau’s. He’s sweating like a pig, too, and…

“Y’all are paid to leave it on the goddamn field, not the goddamn bed!”

What the fuck?

My spine shocks up, my eyelids exploding open. Unfortunately, I find my focus squarely on Coach Williams.

He’s a volcano, his red face spewing fury at the edge of our bed.

I glance right, then left, and yep, it’s our bed. Beau, Colt, and I are naked and tangled in the white sheets.

“Shit!” Colt jolts awake beside me. “Coach? What are you doing? What time is it?”

“It’s time for me to run a goddamn ball down your goddamn throat!” Coach shouts. “Dr. Gary called and said you missed your session. It’s ten in the goddamn morning. You two have milked the fucking clock and all my goddamn patience.”

Goddamn. How many times can he say goddamn?

I reach for the bedsheet, covering my breasts, though clearly I left my modesty in Charleston.

Hell, who are we kidding? I never had it, but still, I’m trying to be a respectful ho.

Because Beau and Colt are in deep doo-doo.

“We’re sorry, Coach.” Beau sits up, tousling his hair. “We’re really sorry. I thought I set my alarm and?—”

“Oh, you’re set, alright!” Coach barks. “You’re set to ride the bench so goddamn long, your ass will go numb. And you, missy… ”

He points to me, and I fight the urge to wipe the corners of my mouth. They feel crusty. Probably because we took a shower before I let Beau and Colt finger and fondle me while they knelt over my face on the pillow, giving me a good night sip of their milk before we fell asleep.

Please tell me I don’t look like I had a date with Elmer’s Glue.

“You missy,” Coach shouts, “are outta here! Pack your bags.”

“Coach, wait!” Beau goes to jump up, buck naked, but Coach gives him the hand.

“I’ve seen enough of your helmets!”

“Coach, look,” Colt jumps in, “we’re sorry. It’s the first time we’ve ever overslept, and it won’t happen again. Ever.”

“Goddamn right, it won’t.” His finger points at me again. “Because she’s outta here. You two can’t get your shit together, but you’ll team play with her? I pay you to give me one hundred and ten percent in every play, not every pussy!” He coughs, addressing me, “Sorry, ma’am. No disrespect. I’m just old-school and ornery.”

“None taken,” I reply. “I’ll start packing.”

“No, you won’t.” Beau reaches for my arm. “Coach, she can’t leave. She makes us grind it out.”

Colt coughs at Beau’s unfortunate pun.

“I mean,” Beau explains, “we’re talking because of her. We made amends because of her. We’re over the interception bullshit, and now we’re working with Dr. Gary to make sure it won’t happen again.”

“You don’t get a goddamn trophy for doing your goddamn job!” Coach shouts. “That’s what you’re paid to do without double poking a pussy!” He coughs again. “Sorry, ma’am.”

And God, forgive him.

Coach is actually a nice guy. I can tell. He just really likes your damn name.

“I know. I know.” Beau surrenders. “We are doing our jobs. We got our shit together. Me and Hawke are finally playing together like we used to.”

Beau keeps stepping into puns, and Coach arches a brow. It’s more dramatic because it’s the only hair on his shiny, bald head.

“So, this is a habit of yours? This is how you play?” Coach jeers. “Y’all used to do threesomes, and we lost the Super Bowl because of what? You missed your goddamn gangbang buddy?”

I purse my lips to keep from laughing.

Poor, Coach. He’s so irate and innocent. He’s fucking up all his fucking references.

I want to enlighten him; a gangbang is three or more on one or more than one. We’re just a wholesome little throuple. But hey, who’s counting or correcting him?

Um, Beau.

“This isn’t a habit.” Beau reaches for my hand. “This is private and between us. And we don’t gangbang her. Hawke and I haven’t done this before. I’ve been in love with Blair since college, and I guess she takes me back. She takes us back to when we were happy, and it was just a game. When he and I were best friends and shared everything.”

It’s so sweet how Beau is proud of us.

It’s so bitter how he has to hide him and Colt.

And it’s so funny how he keeps stepping into puns like cow patties.

Coach shakes his head. “Bronson, you’re not popping my cherry. I’ve seen all kinds of shit with players. And yes, in your home, it’s private. But you’re here on my time and Atlanta’s dime. You two are marquee players. Everything rests on your shoulders. Literally, that’s why I’m doing this guru whatever retreat shit. No one can afford to have an open mind about your threesome.”

“Why not?” Colt surprises me. “Why can’t you have an open mind? Why can’t you keep this between us?” He reaches for my other hand. “If we tell you that we work better like this and play better like this, then why can’t you support us?”

It’s so sweet, too.

And so embarrassing.

Holding their hands drops the bedsheet to my waist, adding my tits to this argument, but the girls are in it to win it, too.

Coach rubs his head, like he’s rubbing a genie’s lamp and wishing our throuple would just “poof!” Disappear.

But we’re not. We’re here—me, Beau, Colt, and my tits—asking for a chance.

“I promise I won’t distract them.” So, I gotta fight for my guys too.

That word makes Beau squeeze my hand, but I get it. I grew up with it. I drop their hands to grab the bedsheet again and cover myself while I plead our case.

“My dad plays in the PGA and?—”

“He’s Duncan Monroe,” Beau interrupts, which makes Coach raise his eyebrows, very impressed.

“Yeah, him,” I continue. Never have I used my dad’s name before, but at least now he can be useful. “I grew up with a professional athlete. I understand the lifestyle. The schedule. The sacrifices. So I won’t get in their way. I’m not some needy, pining piece of ass. I support them. I want them to win.”

I’m so glad Vale isn’t here. She’d run a replay, in slow motion with arrows drawn on the screen and shit, of my last four months where I was a pathetic pining piece of lonely ass missing Beau, but now?

I’m doubling down on happiness.

“And I have a life and career, too,” I argue. “I’ll make us work—the three of us. Just give us a chance. If they don’t prove it by the end of training camp, I’m out.”

Beau protests, “No, you’re not.”

But I look at him because I mean it. If my living with him and Colt negatively affects their game, I won’t do it.

I’ll never forget the 5-iron my dad broke in the driveway, cursing his first U.S. Open loss. I stood on our deck and heard him shouting at my mom. He blamed it on me and Vale. We had a stomach bug earlier that week, and Dad swore, “They distract me! And now, they got me sick!”

Maybe it was true.

But my six-year-old heart will certainly never forget it. The guilt. The shame. The hurt. I was his daughter, not a distraction.

At least now, the experience can help me.

Funny how pain can pay off sometimes.

“You think this won’t distract the media? The fans?” Coach gestures to us, sitting in a post-coital row. “You think our owner? Management? Staff? Hell, everyone and most players won’t have a field day with this?”

See. Told ya.

Distractions are death in a sport.

And Beau’s right.

It feels nearly impossible that we can get away with our secret triad, let alone with Beau and Colt coming out, too. It’s ironic that an all-American game hasn’t caught up to the rest of America.

“They won’t know,” Beau explains. “We’ll be discreet, we promise. Blair is my legit girlfriend.” His hand lands on my thigh. His touch and words make my heart flutter. “And Colt is my best friend. He’s crashing with me for the season, so he won’t be miserable waiting for his house to be done, and she’s moving in with me, so I’ll be happy. That’s what people will see.”

Coach sucks his teeth.

He’s not convinced.

“I need this, Coach,” Colt chimes in. “I had a shitty year losing my mom, and maybe that’s why I tipped the ball. Maybe my head wasn’t in the game. Maybe if I’m happy now, we’ll win.”

“I need it, too.” Beau gets his back. “Maybe I put too much gas on the ball because I’ve been stressed out. I didn’t allow myself to have love in my life. I always said it was a distraction, but maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s the answer. Maybe she’s the answer.”

Cue the violins because Beau leans over, kissing my cheek, and Colt does, too. My thumping heart and blushing face are sandwiched between their adoring beards and Coach groans.

“For goddamn sake.” He rolls his eyes, too. “You three look like a goddamn Hallmark card for Hustler.”

Beau chuckles. “Really showing your age there, Coach.”

“And your porn preference,” Colt adds. “Mad respect. Hustler was a classic.”

“Hey, Pornoisseur,” I joke with Colt, “they still publish Hustler magazine.”

Yep, I have to be a kinky know-it-all, and now is probably not the time.

“Goddammit, fine.” But it makes Coach half grin. “Ms. Monroe can stay, and you two better play. You’ll finish your sessions with Dr. Gary, and you’ll get your heads screwed on so tight, Lawrence Taylor can’t knock ‘em off.”

I glance at Beau. He side-mutters, “Taylor was the hardest hitter in the NFL.”

Coach hears him. “Yeah, well, fuck up again, and I’m about to be the goddamn hardest hitter. I’ll leave you three be. I’ll keep your secret. And I’ll take your promise.” He wags his finger at us. “I want consistency, effort, and perfection in camp, or this is over before the pre-season.”

“Will do, Coach,” Colt assures.

“Thanks, Chris.” That must be Coach’s first name because Beau shares it humbly.

“Yes, thank you, Coach Williams.” So, I put some skin in the game, too. “Goddamn, you have my goddamn promise.”

Coach chuckles, swatting the air as he turns and leaves us to the rest of our retreat.