3. Tate
TATE
Coach Anderson was naked. Not that I wasn’t used to seeing naked men in locker rooms, but this was different. This was Coach Anderson. And he was hard.
What the fuck. Why am I struggling to keep my eyes off his dick?
“Ahh shit, sorry mate,” he grumbles as he waves me into his room.
My shock must’ve taken control of my body, because for some unfathomable reason, I follow him and shut the door behind me.
He staggers across the room, and I do my best to keep my eyes off his arse.
I get the impression I dragged him from bed even though it’s three in the afternoon.
We all had a big night after the win of a lifetime, but I’m surprisingly not hung over and have been up for hours.
Which means I have spent said hours sitting and stewing, watching comments flood in, watching the screenshots float around online, and I couldn’t wait any longer.
I was struggling to understand what had happened, and even though I needed answers, I was shit scared of getting them.
Knowing I had to speak with Coach before I went crazy, I headed to his hotel room.
Which meant going to the hotel reception, but I don’t know if that was a good idea.
I saw the moment the receptionist recognised me, which was unfortunately after I had asked her for Vincent Anderson’s room number.
No doubt the media will catch wind of that soon, and the headlines will add on how we were not holed up in his hotel room together.
There was nothing I could do about it now though, I had to figure out what was going through his head—but given the state of him, I wonder if he has seen it all yet.
My eyes fall to his arse as he bends over to pull on a pair of trackies.
I have never—ever—thought of a man in a sexual way before.
I don’t think I even am now, but this whole situation is just baffling to me.
I try not to laugh at how pale his arse is compared to the rest of his body.
Tan lines across his hips and middle thigh suggest he spends a lot of time shirtless and in shorts.
Part of me wants to comment on it, but all that will do is draw attention to the fact my eyes still haven’t left his arse.
His pants cut off my view, and I shake myself back to the reason I am here.
“Coach… I—” I start, but he cuts me off.
“Nope. I need coffee before we talk,” he groans, walking over to the kitchenette and starting the coffee machine.
“You sit, I got this,” I say, pushing him aside. “You look like you’re about to fall over.”
“It was a big night,” he complains. “Clearly, I can’t drink like I used to.”
“You say that like you’re fifty, not twenty two,” I laugh. “You were parting this big in your seasons only a few years ago, I’m sure.”
“Eh,” Coach grunts, sinking back in his chair.
“Theres a lot to be said for exposure. When you drink and party a lot, you get used to it. I am not the man I used to be. Plus, I don’t drink much these days, haven’t since I had to cut it out when I was rehabbing my injuries.
Meds and alcohol don’t mix, and that left me feeling worse than I do right now. ”
“How are you going, anyway?” I ask, purposely keeping my back to him as I fiddle with the coffee machine. Thank God this is a hotel that has pod coffee machines. I am a football player, not a barista, and it shows. The machine finishes his coffee, and I start a coffee for myself.
“Good, I guess. I’ll never have the range of motion that I used to, and having a few surgeries under my belt and retiring so young was never in my plan, yet I am glad that I was able to stay in the sport. There is no way that I could’ve gone back to some ‘normal career’,” he laughs.
“What’s normal anyways,” I laugh with him, I feel the same way though. Imagine me in banking or a corporate office somewhere. The mere idea is laughable. “Want any sugar?” I ask him.
“Two,” he grunts, causing me to chuckle.
I add the sugar, finding it ironic that we have our coffee the same way, then hand it to him, sitting down across from him with my own coffee, unsure how to start this conversation.
“That final goal, man, you did such a good job. How was it celebrating the winning goal in your first premiership match?” He asks, taking me off guard.
“Um… it was good. Definitely wasn’t expecting it to be me who got us over the line.
Those last few minutes, I really thought the other team had it in the bag.
” We were down my four points, the whole game had been neck and neck, then by total fluke, I was able to kick a goal from directly in the square and won the whole game by two points.
“It’s all that hard work you have been putting in, Tate. You deserved it,” he says, reaching out and patting the back of my hand.
I blush and look down at my coffee. I need to just bite the bullet and get this out there.
“Listen—” I start.
“Did you—” he says at the same time.
“Uh, you first,” I say, running my hands through my hair. Needing to take a moment to find the courage—based on his demeanour, I’m assuming he has no idea what has happened overnight.
“What’s going on?” he asks, crossing his arms and resting against the table.
He is still shirtless, having stopped after pulling on his trackies, and the way his biceps bulge has my eyes dropping to his chest.
“Uh,” I clear my throat, guess it is finally time to discuss the elephant in the room, and I do not mean his boner. “You, um, you got pretty drunk last night, didn’t you, Coach?”
“Yeah. Not really proud of it,” he grumbles, “but that was my first Premiership win too, mate. Jack and Jim were flowing, and I probably had a few too many. But I don’t get what that has to do with you being here, no offence.
Not that I don’t want you here,” he fumbles, “but, its early and this isn’t usual for us. ”
“It’s not early, it’s mid-afternoon,” I laugh.
“Fuck, is it? I guess I really cannot party like I used to.” He runs his hand down his face, clearly still waking up.
“There’s something I need to tell you,” I blurt out.
“Did you get an offer from another team?” He all but grunts.
“Ah… no?” Why would that warrant a private conversation in his hotel room? “Wouldn’t you know before me if someone was trying to trade me, Coach?”
“Uh. True. Righto then. Someone got hurt last night?” he guesses. “I mean, it’s not ideal, but we can rehab it before the next season. That would make all the notifications on my phone make sense.”
“Ah… no. Not an injury either. You haven’t, uh, looked at the notifications yet, have you?”
“I woke up to you hammering at my door at the same time my phone was going berserk. As you probably figured out with the whole….” He waves in the general direction of his body. And my mind floods again with the images of him naked, hard toned body, tan lines, his cock saluting the morning.
I shake my head out of those thoughts. It’s only on my brain because it just happened, and I already have too much that I am trying to process at the moment. Not for any other reason.
“You don’t remember, do you?” I ask stupidly, fiddling with my coffee cup as he takes a sip of his coffee. I figured he had to have no idea based on how normally he was acting. Well, normal adjacent.
“Tate, I am hungover and confused,” he says, his voice short and blunt. He’s almost never like that with me. I don’t like it. “Spit it out.”
I’m mature. I’m mature. I’m mature.
“That’s what she said,” I blurt out, unable to control myself.
Apparently, I am, in fact, not mature.
“Listen Tate, I remember a lot of the evening and what we all got up to, but nothing crazy or scandalous happened. I went to the party, and I came back here. Alone, even. I don’t know what it is we need to talk about.”
“Uh… I don’t know if it will be easier to tell you or to show you,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck. His stormy grey eyes heat with lust or something like it as his gaze flicks between my face and my arm, and fuck… am I preening?
No. No, I’m not.
Shit. Dropping my arm, I pick up my coffee, needing something else to do.
“You’re really starting to stress me out, Stone. What is going on?”
I’m back to Stone… I don’t know why that causes a sting in my chest. This whole thing has me more fucked up than I expected if I am getting upset that he is calling me by my last name. The horror. Not like he doesn’t always call me Stone. Gah, what the fuck is going on with me.
“You did something online last night,” I say, pulling my phone out of my jeans. “I’m sure we can chalk it all up to booze and drunk ribbing or something, but the media have caught wind of it, so we can’t just sweep it under the rug.”
“Online?” He asks.
I open Instagram, selecting the post I made in the early hours of the morning.
“I’m no saint, and I was totally wasted when I posted this,” I hand my phone over to him.
“Oh, yeah, I remember seeing this last night,” he says, meeting my eyes. “Oh shit, I sent you a DM, didn’t I? Like some skeevy guy trying to slide into your messages.”
“Not quite, Coach,” I say, doing my best to keep eye contact. I don’t know if I have the balls to tell him.
“No, I remember typing out messages to you. Did I text you instead or something? How did the media get hold of that?” he asks, forehead wrinkling in confusion.
“You didn’t message me,” I finally get out, taking a deep breath. “Scroll down.”
His thumb moves, and I watch as his face pales, and he sees what he’s done.
“You commented, Coach,” I say, trying to break it to him gently.
When I woke up this morning and saw it, I had no idea what it meant or how to process it at all.
I kind of wanted to defend myself and say that it was just a random person—I didn’t even know her name.
If I had known he would feel bad about me not posting him, then I would have…
I don’t know. Not posted a photo of her, I guess?
I don’t think I even have a photo of me and Anderson together.
“I’m trying to not read into it, honestly, but the media have picked it up and are making articles about how you sound like a jealous lover,” I admit. He hands my phone back to me, and I open one of the many posts that are circulating this morning and slide the phone back to him on the table.
He doesn’t pick it up, leaving it so we can both see the screen, and reading the title aloud. “‘Who Is She?’ — AFL Coach’s Emotional Meltdown Over Star Rookie Tate Stone.’ What the fuck, Tate?” He says, meeting my eyes. “What the fuck did I do?”