Chapter 39 The Wrong Reason to Be Sweaty
Thirty-Nine. The wrong reason to be sweaty
Patrick
For days after the Kaia Philip news came out, the sports world was on edge.
The media took sides and painted her as a harlot.
The headlines of the sports section only focused on her and kept finding ways to question her athletic skills.
Since some asshole thought revenge porn was the right move.
Clearly people still think women should be meek and mild mannered, that their only purpose in life is to pleasure their male partners.
For a country that’s supposed to be developing and progressing, we seem to be regressing when it comes to women. Not surprising, just disturbing.
When I’m not reading the newspaper, I’m doing a million things at once.
Some days, I’m at Sunrise Niketan. Now that Nihal and I’ve signed the papers at the school, work has been progressing.
Not fast enough, but at least it’s happening.
If everything goes according to plan, we’ll have a cricket pitch, football field and hockey turf ready for students in the new academic year.
Thanks to donations from our baby shower and all of Millie and Jonathan’s friends wanting to help, we have enough to make Sunrise Niketan a place to help more than enough kids.
I also spend a few hours every day at the Thunder training centre, whipping the boys into shape.
With the first match only a month away, getting them into the right frame of mind and physical condition is important.
Surprisingly, I’m having a good time. Especially since it reinforces the idea that coaching might not be such a bad gig after all.
Now that I’ve voiced my feelings about retiring, I feel the pressure to make a decision.
If I continue to play the way I have, my body will quit on me eventually.
By then, it might be too late to be there for my baby or my girl.
I don’t want to spend the rest of my life healing from injuries and surgeries.
I want to be present at all times. I want to play with my kid and teach them the simple things in life.
I want to show them just how awesome the world can be if they let it.
Walking away also means leaving one of the things I love behind.
While it’s not the end of the world, it’s a big decision.
I spent my entire life working towards this and I’ve achieved it.
Many times over. I’ve got the medals and trophies to prove it and yet, it feels like it’s not enough.
If I don’t, there’s the other, maybe more painful, side of the coin.
I haven’t brought it up with Dominic again.
He’ll play devil’s advocate, and I’m not ready for that either.
Not ready to face the reality that this might be the end.
So I train the team, I play with them when I can and focus on making sure they do everything in their power to win their first tournament.
Heaving a sigh, I slow the treadmill to a walk instead of the running I’ve been doing for twenty minutes.
My heart’s racing from the adrenaline and my muscles ache from what I’ve put them through.
But I feel good. I hear doors opening and closing, the sounds of chatter slowly working their way past my earphones and I turn my music off.
I wipe down the exercise machine, then my face and arms before I head to the locker rooms. Everyone cheers when I step inside and I roll my eyes as I make my way to the office.
The other coaches are already there, feet up on the table, coffee in hand.
“We ready for a scrimmage?”
The coaches grin, finish their beverages and head out onto the field.
“That was a dirty fucking foul!”
I cackle as a player yells at my back, but I don’t stop.
I keep going, dribbling the ball and passing it to a member of my team.
He works his way around a defender skilfully and passes the ball back.
I swerve and almost lose my grip before dragging it back over and taking a swing.
The goalie is prepared for my shot, so I switch tactics and pass it to another player and in the short second it takes the goalie to realise what we’re doing, my teammate scores a goal.
We all hoot and howl, like the Thunder mascot—a wolf.
Not sure what one has to do with the other, but we don’t ask questions.
We play, practise and knock out our opponents.
“You’re not playing fair, Coach.”
I turn to face them. “You’re all professionals and you’re telling me you’ve never tried the move before?”
I must admit while it’s common in the sport, it’s not something everyone’s taught.
I wasn’t either, but I watched enough hockey growing up to learn it.
It has different names, but the first time I did it, a former coach told me the jink steal1 could get me fouled if I wasn’t careful.
It’s a quick manoeuvre that can sometimes be done wrong and get sticks locked.
But I’ve done it enough times to get it right.
“We play clean hockey, unlike some people,” one of the defenders tells me with a glare.
I grin and everyone laughs. It’s not even a dirty move and probably a lot more safe than half the shit the guys do on a regular basis. “Are you going to whine or do you want to learn it?”
They look at each other and hands go up.
I shake my head and instruct them on where to stand and how to move.
It takes them a few tries to understand they’re coming from behind and the side.
How to angle their sticks without causing interference and get the ball to roll over and away from the opponent.
By the end of the hour, not only have they learned the move, they’ve picked up new skills.
We take a much needed break and I notice the number of people sitting in the stands.
We’ve never had an audience before and certainly not this large a group.
It’s mostly women and I wonder if they’re partners of the players or just random folks showing up to watch half-naked dudes running around.
As the guys preen and flex for the ladies, I check my phone for any messages from Tamara.
Despite my insistence she takes it easy, she’s travelling around the city visiting sites and spending lots of time with Julia Christopher.
I love her, but she’s making it really difficult to stay calm.
I blow the whistle and get everyone back on the pitch.
We switch teams—skins and shirts—and start the next game.
While I push the guys to train together every day, it helps to bring all the coaches in when I can.
It builds camaraderie and a bond between the team.
Implementing everything my coaches have taught me is just the first step.
Making sure they get to the finals is the next one.
For now I’ll accept them getting along, different citizenships being put aside for a few more months.
“Ah, you fucker!” I yell as one of the players tries the jink steal on me and earns his team a goal. They laugh and tease me, but I’m proud of them for doing it so well.
“Whoa, now that’s a woman,” someone says.
“Oh mama. That’s a mom I’d like to fuck, all right.”
I whistle. “No more objectification. Back in position.”
I don’t even want to know which woman they’re thirsting after, encouraging this behaviour is trouble.
When someone whistles and yells awooga, all hope is lost. I chuckle.
I know the voice. I look over my shoulder and see Tamara in one of my T-shirts.
Except she’s ripped off the sleeves and tucked the front into her pants.
“Looking good, boys!” she calls out and I smile. This is what I mean about increasing my blood pressure. “Hey, Daddy Trick.”
That gets everyone’s attention and heads snap to me. I nod, laughing softly as I jog over to where she’s leaning against the fence. Her expression is so bright, freckles dancing across her nose as she grins wider and curls fall out of her messy bun.
“Hey, Lotus.” I kiss her and she slips her fingers through the chainlink to touch my bare skin. A filthy moan escapes her and I swallow it as the kiss deepens. For a brief moment I forget we’re in public with a very attentive audience, but it’s worth it.
“Now everyone knows you’re off limits,” she mutters as the kiss breaks and glances to the stands before focusing on me.
“I don’t care what everyone thinks. Is that why you’re here?”
“Yes and no. I got an alert for your name on social media and a bunch of these thirsty bitches posted pictures and stories about wanting you.” As she explains, she shows me her phone, but I have no idea what I’m looking at.
“I finished my work with Ms. Christopher and Kuriakose brought me over. Besides, I’ve only ever seen you play on television, did you know that? ”
“No, but did I mention I loved knowing you were watching me while I was in Paris?”
She rolls her eyes and pokes my stomach, then makes a face. “You’re so fucking hot, Trick. But this is the wrong reason to be sweaty.”
I grunt at the distracting visuals playing in my head. “The sooner you let me get back to work, the sooner I can get you sweaty too.”
“Okay,” she whispers and leans in for another kiss. “For the record, I like watching you play.”
“I like playing with you more, Lo.” I walk backwards and wink as I blow the whistle to restart the game.
We crash into the flat in a tumble of flailing arms and bumping teeth.
But we don’t stop. I push Tamara up against the door as a means to close it and her hands slip into my shorts and wrap around my cock.
Groaning, I drag my mouth down her jaw to her neck.
She strokes me hard and fast, one hand circling my base, the other sliding up and down, palm dragging over the head.
“Lo, slow,” I grind out.