Chapter 8
Ethan
My phone burns in my pocket as I sit on the team bus to our away game against Eastshore University.
I haven’t contacted my little devil in over a week, and guilt lies heavy in my stomach.
I need to stop calling her that. She’s not mine.
She can’t be mine. I feel like a real arsehole because I’ve essentially abandoned her, just like her father.
But she deserves better than me. I’m not the right man for her.
The noise on the bus only makes me feel worse. All I can think about is that she’s a similar age to my players, and the question of whether she’s a student at Beckford University rears its head again. This is why I need to cut ties. It’s too risky.
I can’t deny the way she called me ‘sir’ felt so deliciously forbidden, but that’s what makes it all the more wrong. I could be her professor.
“Are you alright, coach?”
I glance up to find my centre back studying me.
“Fine.” I clear my throat. “What can I do for you, Bentley?”
Noah holds up his phone. “I’ve been studying footage from Eastshore’s game last week against BHU and their right side is their weak link, I think we need to switch up with an overload formation to exploit them.”
I raise my brow, accepting his phone and pressing play. It’s easy to miss if you don’t know what you’re looking for, but sure enough, the right back is slow off the mark and he’s caught out of position more often than not.
“Good catch,” I tell him, impressed. “Talk to Whitford and Ritter. Work out your strategy. I trust your judgement out there.”
“Thanks, coach.”
I nod, and Andy grins at me as Bentley makes his way down the back of the bus to talk to his teammates.
Andy keeps his voice low. “The kid’s got potential to be the next captain if Whitford gets the call up.”
“I agree.”
We had a phone call earlier this week from his manager giving us a heads up he’s been in talks with Middlesborough FC. Whitford has no idea his life could change any day now, and I’m not sure if it’s a blessing or a curse.
He’s focussed now—sharp, grounded, with one eye on the prize—but when the spotlight hits, everything shifts.
Expectations, pressure, noise. Whitford has the talent.
There’s no doubt about that, but talent’s only half the battle.
The real challenge will be keeping his head on his shoulders and learning to block everything else out.
As if to reinforce my thoughts on the bus, Whitford shows nothing but composure on the pitch, and his first goal comes fifteen minutes in.
He drifts wider than usual, dragging Eastshore’s centre back with him.
Ritter times his overlap perfectly, surging into the space left vacant by the oppositions sluggish right back.
A one-two pass slices through the defence, and Ritter squares it across the box for Walters to tap in at the far post.
Ten minutes into the second half, we’re two-nil up, and Eastshore are rattled. Their right side’s collapsing under the pressure, forced to overcompensate, and we’re feeding off it. As expected, their coach calls for a substitution and replaces his right back.
“A real leader,” Andy comments as Bentley reads the game like he’s five moves ahead and directs his teammates back to our standard formation, working with the back line to dictate the tempo, switching play when needed, never wasting a touch.
I glance over my shoulder to the bench, where Kincaid is watching the game intently.
There’s been something simmering under the surface between him and Bentley since the latter joined the team after transferring from Perth University.
I wonder if that will impact his ability to captain the team.
A real leader has the trust of every player.
I’ll need to check in with them before any decisions are made.
For now, we’ve got a game to win.
Eastshore claws one back off a scrappy header that bounces in off the post, but it’s a short-lived spark. Our response is immediate. Whitford intercepts a lazy pass in the midfield and threads a perfect ball through their broken line. West’s pace does the rest.
The fourth comes in the final minutes of the game. Eastshore’s frustrated centre back gives away a free kick for a late tackle, and Whitford fires an impressive shot into the top corner of the net.
The bus ride home is rowdy, with the boys celebrating the win, but I’m lost in my thoughts.
I’m ready to move on from my ex-wife. She had no hesitations in moving on from me while we were still married, so why do I feel so guilty about what I’m doing?
Did Vanessa ever have these doubts when she started sleeping with someone half her age?
It’s not like I’ve forced myself onto this young woman. Everything we’ve done has been consensual, and if anyone’s driving this, it’s her. Maybe I just need to enjoy it while it lasts and not put so much thought into it.
Fuck, I haven’t even touched this girl and I’m freaking out.
I don’t know if she’d even want me to touch her.
Maybe the thought of being physical with an older man grosses her out.
She might prefer the allure of me watching her behind the window or a screen over something more physical.
I don’t know how all this kink shit works. All I know is I enjoy watching.
“Are you okay?” Andy asks, studying me carefully. “You look like you’re about to throw up.”
For a moment, I contemplate opening up to him, but then Walters shouts something inappropriate that has everyone laughing, and I’m reminded of where we are. This isn’t the place to have such a conversation.
“Fine,” I grunt out. “Just tired.”
He shoots me a funny look but doesn’t push it.
Half an hour from home, I discreetly open the Euphoria app to check for messages, but there’s nothing.
Disappointment and relief settle in my gut—I had hoped she would make the first move this time.
Maybe it’s a good thing she hasn’t. Maybe I should just delete the app altogether and go to a bar when I get home, try to meet a woman my own age so I don’t need to worry about possibly knowing her father or whether I’m grading her papers. One who knows who I am.
Yes, that sounds like a much smarter idea.
I’m sure there are plenty of single women my age in Beckford. All I need is a good wingman.
I swallow my pride and toss a glance at Andy.
“Do you want to grab a drink when we get back?”
“I was planning on hitting up the club,” he says with a wink. “Care to join me?”
Without hesitation, I shake my head. “I’m good.”
The next masked night isn’t until next weekend, and I’m not game enough to show my face in the club.
It still baffles me that Andy isn’t bothered by people knowing he goes there.
As a university professor, I feel like it’s a breach of ethics or something to frequent a sex club, despite the patrons being over the legal age of consent.
He sighs. “You really need to get laid.”
“I don’t need a sex club to get laid,” I hiss, casting a furtive glance behind me to make sure none of the players overhear us.
“You also need to stop being so sensitive about it,” he says, holding his hands up defensively.
“I’m not being sensitive,” I argue, rubbing my temples. “There are other ways to meet women besides the club.”
“Are you looking for a new wife, or are you looking for a quick fuck? That’s the difference. You just got out of a nineteen-year marriage. You don’t need to find the future Mrs Rourke, you just need some no-strings fun.”
“You’re really crude sometimes, you know?”
“I’m not being crude. I’m being realistic. You’ve been tied down with Vanessa and Dylan since you were seventeen. Think of this time in your life as reclaiming your twenties.”
“My son didn’t tie me down,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “Christ, you’re practically his uncle. How can you say that?”
Andy shrugs. “At least he’s out there living his life.”
My stomach turns as the image of Dylan with those two Beckford U girls assaults my memory.
“I’m living my life,” I grumble.
“Mate, you haven’t had sex in at least two years, probably longer.”
The bus erupts with laughter at that exact moment, and my cheeks burn until I turn to see they’re laughing at Walters, who is out of his seat acting like a fucking moron.
I shout down the back of the bus for him to take his seat before I bench him for the next game, then turn back to Andy. “I’m not talking about this here.”
When the bus pulls up in the stadium’s car park, I busy myself with unpacking the gear and try to avoid my best mate. As an eternal bachelor, he’s content to shag his way through life, and his answer to everything is a good fuck. I guess I’m just not wired that way.
I’ve had two sexual partners in my life. After nineteen years of marriage, I thought what Vanessa and I had was solid, but clearly, I was wrong. She walked away like it was nothing—like I was nothing. Was I ever enough for her? Was she faking it this whole time?
“Ready for that drink?” Andy asks, finding me in the equipment shed.
Rubbing the back of my neck, I shake my head. “I’m pretty beat. I think I’m just going to go home.”
“Don’t be like that,” he says, reaching out to clap me on the back, but I shrug him off.
“I’m not being like anything. I’m tired. See you Monday.”
He calls after me, but I ignore him, heading for my car. When I climb in behind the wheel, I rest my head on it and close my eyes. How did I get here? Who the fuck did I piss off in a former life?
I’m thirty-nine, divorced, and my son barely visits me.
That pathetic feeling rears its ugly head again.
My fingers itch to reach for my phone, but I realise that whatever I had with my little devil isn’t real.
It’s an escape from my reality, and it’s not fair to her. She deserves so much better than me.
Starting the engine, I drive home, letting myself into my house. My footsteps echo in the empty expanse, and loneliness settles deep in my gut. Vanessa took the dog with her, so there’s no one to greet me. No one to ask how the game went. No one to ask how I’m doing.
I drop my keys on the side table near the front door, the same spot they’ve always belonged. I’m nothing if not predictable. For a brief second, I contemplate picking them up and moving them, but I know I’m just being ridiculous.
I don’t even bother turning on the lights as I move through the house.
In the kitchen, I grab a beer from the fridge before heading down the hall to my office.
Twisting the cap off the top, I take a swig and stare at the chair behind my desk, remembering how only two weeks ago I sat in that very spot and got off to the sight of my little devil fucking herself for me.
Recalling the sinful sounds she made turns my dick to granite, but I don’t give in.
I don’t reach down to relieve the pressure, because I shouldn’t.
She’s helped me get over the awkwardness of being sexual with someone other than my ex-wife, and I’ll be forever grateful to her and Andy for pushing me out of my comfort zone. Now, I need to figure out what I actually want.
Backing out of the room, I close the door on that indiscretion.
Maybe I need to leave Beckford. Start over somewhere new.
There’s nothing tying me here now Dylan and Vanessa are in Blue Haven, just this empty house haunted by the ghosts of our past. I don’t even sleep in the main bedroom.
I can’t. Not after Vanessa desecrated it with her little boy toy.
I burned the bed—not my finest moment—but I can’t bring myself to enter that room.
A surge of resolve flows through me at the idea of starting fresh.
My extent of travel has consisted of away games.
When we were together, Vanessa and I never asked our parents for a cent.
We were too proud, wanting to do it all by ourselves.
She didn’t have that problem when she left me.
Her parents were more than happy to help her, but they never liked me, blaming me for ruining their daughter’s life by knocking her up.
The season is almost over. I have two more years on my contract as coach, but Andy could take over in the interim. A change might be just what I need to get me out of this rut.