Total pages in book: 40
Estimated words: 40420 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 202(@200wpm)___ 162(@250wpm)___ 135(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 40420 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 202(@200wpm)___ 162(@250wpm)___ 135(@300wpm)
“Motorcycle accident,” he says. “Mostly everything else has healed up by now, but I shattered my femur and they had to put me back together. Didn’t do a great job at it, though. Ended my career back then.”
I nod, not surprised by the injury. I knew that he got hurt a while ago and couldn’t play football anymore, which is why he went into coaching, but I didn’t know it was from a motorcycle accident, or that he still had lingering pain from it.
That’s the sort of thing football players don’t think about. Each and every one of them is beat to hell with multiple cuts, bruises, lacerations, you name it. They’re basically existing on painkillers and tape to hold them together.
But nobody complains. The guys that whine about the pain are called weak, picked on by the bigger, stronger players. It’s like a frat, except these men are professionals at hurting other people on the field.
I can completely understand why Coach Wood wants to keep this from his players. They treat the staff almost the same way they treat each other, and respect has to be earned. At this level, all the players know what they’re doing, and they only listen to a coach when the coach can prove his worth.
Limping around, complaining about an old injury is not going to get him very far.
“Think you can help?” he prompts me from my thoughts.
“Yes,” I say. “I think so. We’ll try some massage and some exercises at first and go from there.”
He nods. “Very good. And listen, please, keep this between us. I don’t want word getting around that their new coach isn’t up for this.”
“I promise, it’ll stay between the two of us.”
He leans back against his desk, arms crossed. I stare into his eyes, not letting myself glance down at his package again. I was inches away from it, practically ready to open my mouth and taste him. It’s so crazy to be thinking about my boss like this, especially when I’ve only been working here for like a week.
Then again, nobody’s been working here long. The Fargo Chainsaws are part of a new NFL expansion program, and it’s the latest team to get thrown together. The facility was only opened about two weeks before I was hired.
“How often?” he asks.
“Every day if we can,” I say, biting my lip. The thought of being close to him like this every day…
“We’ll make it happen. Thanks again, Leah.”
I don’t know how he knows my name, but I’m not complaining. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Coach Wood.”
He grins at me. “Call me Cole.”
“Okay, Cole.” I roll the name around my tongue, feeling it out.
“See you tomorrow.”
He goes around his desk and I leave his office, my mind buzzing, confusion and desire warring inside of me.
He’s probably twenty years older than me. He’s my boss. He’s the head of a new NFL team.
He wants me down on my knees, massaging his thigh, inches from his big cock.
I don’t know how I ended up in this situation, but work just got a lot more interesting.
2
Cole
I walk through the hallway of the stadium, my new home office, and I can’t help but smile.
This was years in the making. I went from an assistant high school coach, to head of a Division 3 college program, to now running one of the new NFL expansion teams. We’re based out of Fargo, North Dakota, which isn’t exactly where I ever wanted to live, but it’s still amazing.
My own NFL team. I worked fucking hard for this, but it’s still a miracle. I never expected to be here, but here I am.
I walk past the weight room, the swimming pool, the whirl pools, the equipment room, and any number of storage closets and offices. It takes a lot to run a successful NFL team, and fortunately our owner understands what’s necessary.
We have everything, the best of everything. I couldn’t ask for anything else…
Except maybe not to be based out of Fargo, North Dakota.
I rub my thigh absently as I go. The injury always bothered me, but this last year it’s gotten a lot worse. I think maybe because of the stress of this new venture, or maybe because I’m on my feet a lot more. Either way, it’s painful.
I keep myself from limping. A couple of linebackers come walking down the hall, heading toward the pool room. I nod at them and they nod back, a sign of respect.
Respect which is earned, not freely given. If I walked around here like an old man, they wouldn’t give a shit about me.
“Coach,” a familiar voice says.
I turn and spot Robby coming toward me, his hat pulled down low over his face, his glasses pushed snug up his nose. He’s staring at a clipboard with some papers on top of it, probably full of numbers.