Stroker: A Bad Boy Sports Romance
Read Stroker: A Bad Boy Sports Romance Online
Authors: Teagan Kade
A
Bad Boy Sports Romance
Teagan Kade
* * * * *
Published by Teagan Kade
Edited By Sennah Tate
Copyright © 2016 by Teagan Kade
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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DEDICATION
For Karen. Thank you for your passion and friendship. Sorry I wound up writing romance.
BLAKE
What I think is a freight train in my head is actually my alarm clock. I reach over and swat it. Damn thing’s softer than I remember.
“Ouch,” comes a small voice.
I open my eyes to find the bare back of a girl caught between the offending timepiece and myself. I reach a little further and shut it off.
“Sorry, ah…” I want to add a name, but for the life of me I can’t remember what it is. I
do
remember her ass, the way she settled it over my face as she sucked my cock. That’s the thing about a college full of elite athletes—stellar fucking sex.
I take in the blonde hair spilling over her shoulders. Fittingly, I have a feeling she’s a pole vaulter, a freshman here at Carver, and I
do
like them fresh.
I consider pulling her to me and giving Goliath another go at what is no doubt a very pretty little pussy, but she’s soundly back asleep. It’s too bad she snores like she’s chugging a swarm of bees.
“Bro!” The door to my room flies opens and there stands Billy in his boxers. He sees the girl, “nice,” eyes darting sideways to the totem pole between my legs. “Not so nice. Don’t you have a hood for that thing, a leash?”
I spread my legs a little wider. “They don’t make them big enough. Besides, it likes to go free range after a good fucking.”
He tosses a letter into my lap. “Because I love to play the parental, thought I should remind you and your dusky-nippled friend here you’ve got that appointment with the Dean before training today.”
Oh shit.
I leap out of bed, hands hunting on the carpet for clothes, any clothes, but only finding plastic cups and a fuchsia bra instead. I hold the latter up with a finger.
Billy leans against the doorframe. “Might give Dean Williams the wrong idea if you show up in that.” He leans down and tosses me a pair of jeans. “Try these. At least they cover up that electric eel of yours.”
I start pulling them on. “I owe you.”
He looks to the ceiling shaking his head. Things have really gone off the rails if Billy has become a role model. “I could build a bridge to the moon with your IOUs.” He nods to Mystery Girl. “What do you want me to do with Lucy McLeftovers here? Does she have an actual name?”
I’m blank. “Sasha?”
Billy laughs, scratching the dusting of stubble on his chin. “As in Grey, the porn star you were jerking off to last week?”
I shrug. “It’ll do.”
Frankly, I don’t have time for spooning right now. Billy can handle her. She’ll be long gone before I’m back from my one-on-one with the Dean.
I blow past Billy and swipe his toast from the kitchen counter.
Score.
“Thanks. Tell her she was great.”
Billy simply stands there with his arms crossed. “Whatever you say, superstar.”
*
The Dean’s face has a vacuum-sealed quality to it, more scrotum than skin. He leans back in his chair saying nothing. I’m well versed in this tactic—let your subject sweat a little, let them fill in the silence with their confession. Not that you really have to confess when half the campus saw you banging the women’s water polo captain in the bell tower.
She
was
loud.
Dean Williams finally speaks, a wall of books at his back adding to the weight of his words. “Blake, we’ve been here before, haven’t we?”
I cross my feet, recline back. “Where’s that, sir?”
He smiles, taps the desk once with his knuckles. “Shit Creek.”
I would have thought the dean at one of the finest private athletic institutions in the United States would have a more eloquent way to put it, but nothing about Williams is eloquent. He was tough as a two-dollar steak when he played for the Cardinals and he’s tough now, a man of few compromises.
He huffs before me, blowing air through tight lips. “Look at it from my perspective, Johnson. You’re a hell of an asset to this college, the future Michael Phelps if the press is to be believed, but you’re out of control. A rave party in the library is one thing, but the business with that… What does that girl play?”
“Water polo, sir.”
Pretty handy with balls, too.
“Right. That poor, poor girl.”
Maybe he
has
heard the rumors.
“It’s not the kind of image we are trying to promote here at Carver, is it?”
I remain quiet. I have a habit of digging myself deeper whenever I open my mouth.
Williams exhales and leans over his desk, fingers woven together. “I should kick you out on your ass, but Coach Reed can be persuasive. God knows why he goes to bat for you. Long story short, he’ll be the one handling discipline in this matter.”
That’s a twist I didn’t see coming. “Sir?”
“I understand you have training now. I’ll let him fill you in, but hear this: one more incident and you’re out, expelled for good. I don’t care if you’re god’s gift to the swimming pool. Screw up and you’re gone—history.”
I don’t like the way he’s smiling, all Mr. Burns in a khaki sweater vest.
“Dismissed.”
*
I’m first at the pool. Usually I’m here before the sun’s kissed the sky, but my little pow-wow with the Dean has put me out. Coach isn’t around, which means the only thing for me to do is hit the water.
The line—my entire world. I know that three-inch strip of black better than my own dick. I follow it up and down the pool, over and over, tumble turn, back, change stroke. It never ends, but that’s what it takes to be number one. You’ve got to make that line your bitch.
I hit the far end and pop out of the water, eye height with a pair of boat shoes that could double as a prop from Castaway. I lift my eyes up to Coach Reed. “Morning, Coach.”
His expression doesn’t change. “Out. Now. We need to talk.”
I duck under the lane ropes and pull myself from the pool, slinging my goggles off and heading for the showers.
“You can shower later.”
Fuck. It
must
be serious.
Coach’s office sits on the second floor overlooking the pool, its shimmery surface gilded from the apricot sunrise outside.
He points to a chair, takes a seat on the edge of his desk, his whistle swinging between his legs. “That stunt you pulled in the bell tower? Jesus motherfucking Mary of saint shit, that wasn’t smart. I know your brains are in that foot-long of yours, but seriously, Blake, what were you thinking? You’d put your scholarship in jeopardy over a piece of ass?”
I put a finger up. “To be fair, it was a
really
fine ass. I’d sell my soul to slap that peach again.”
Coach slams his hand into the desk. “Fuck me. I don’t care if it was the ghost of Marilyn Monroe up there. You can’t pull that shit here and expect to get away with it.”
I’ve had enough lecturing for one day. “Williams said my punishment was up to you, so hit me then. What’s the damage?”
He stands, moving to the window to look down at the pool, his kingdom, the one he reigns over with an iron fist. Who would have thought a former SEAL would make for the greatest swimming coach in the country? “Oh, I’ve got something
real
special for you, son.”
“A hundred extra laps? No problem.”
He smiles just the way Dean Williams did. “You won’t be the one in the pool this time.”
I don’t know what he’s getting at. “Sorry?”
He continues to stare out, hands behind his back, a habit no doubt picked up during his time in the Navy. The poor souls who copped him as their drill sergeant… Jesus. “My daughter’s coming up from Orlando. There were… complications down there, complications that mean she’ll be staying here for a while.”
I didn’t know Coach had a daughter, didn’t even know he had an ex-wife until a year ago. We’ve shared a lot, been through a lot, but his personal life has always been off limits. An open book he is not.
He turns, eyes drilling into me. “Tia’s a bright girl, but she’s different. In any case, she’s got real promise in the pool. The college has agreed to take her on for a year under my guidance, but
you
will be the one training her.”
The fuck?
I stand, start to protest, the last thing I need is to be babysitting some whiny brat all semester. “Coach…”
“You’ll coach her after training, every weeknight until I’m satisfied.”
“Coach, I don’t finish until six. I can’t be running drills for a...”
Watch it.
“I’ve got things to do, a life. You
do
know what a life is, right? I mean, you were human once.”
He chuckles. “Beer bongs with your squad buddies? Beaver hunting at the Trophy Room? Not anymore you don’t. From now on your nights are mine, or hers, rather.”
“Or?”
If there’s one thing Coach hates, it’s being threatened. “Or you’re gone, no matter how good you are. Dean Williams has put this entirely in my hands. It’s time you learned some fucking responsibility, son. It’s time to grow up. The Olympics are five months away and, although you may think otherwise, you’ve got a hell of a long way to go before you’re even close to being world class.”
I see my entire social life evaporating before my eyes. I can’t do the complete sacrifice thing. I’m not cut out for it. No, fuck this.
“Spending every night teaching strokes to a sheltered Floridian who can’t even clock a hundred in under a minute-thirty? Not my idea of college fun,” I object.
“Fun?” Coach laughs. “Like I said, fun and games are over. This is punishment, remember. What’s the alternative?”
As much as I hate to admit it, he’s right. There’s no choice here. What
is
the alternative? Nothing. There’s no one left. Carver’s all I have, all
we
have.
I rub my eyes, speaking through my hands. “When does she start?”
“Right now.”
“Hi.”
I jump at the voice behind me, spinning around in my chair. I didn’t even hear her come in. Girl’s a fucking ninja.
She extends her hand, looks a little bemused to see me sitting here with a towel around my shoulders. I see her eyes slide to the scripty ‘Champion’ tattoo running down my side. “Tia. Nice to meet you.”
It’s rare I’m surprised, but this isn’t what I expected at all. This girl’s stunning. She wears no trace of makeup, but she doesn’t need it, dark hair washing past her shoulders in waves, a golden tan like she just stepped out of Santa Monica, and the kind of sweet smile you’d expect of a choir girl with the body of a swimsuit model. There’s a softness to her, but also steely determination in her seafoam greens that says ‘stand clear’. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone so immediately compelling.
Sheltered Floridian is cute as fuck.
It’s right at that moment, staring at her sweet, round face, I know I’m in trouble.
She pulls her hand back as I continue to gape, for the first time in my life lost for words, though my cock’s certainly got plenty to say. “Oh,” she says, leaning in, “and I do the hundred in fifty-five”.
*
Billy’s got his feet up on a milk crate when I get back to the apartment. His lap is full of potato chips, a beer in one hand and remote in the other. I wouldn’t be surprised if he proposed to that damn couch soon.
I throw down my sports bag and slump into the sofa, staring at the TV. “Jersey Shore reruns? Really?”
He glances sideways. “What’s not to love?” He reaches for the mini-fridge next to the sofa and tosses me a beer. “How’d it go with Doctor Doom?”
I crack the beer and take a long pull. “Williams got Coach to dish out the pain.”
Billy gives a snort of laughter. “How bad? Pool-cleaning duties? Pushups in the rain?
Apocalypse Now
marathon?”
“Not quite. He wants me to coach his daughter.”
Billy sits up, almost dropping his beer. “Reed has a daughter?”
“Not just a daughter, no. This girl’s something special. I mean,
special
—front, back, top and bottom, a heart-shaped ass you’d go to battle for, but…”
“Ah,” sighs Billy, dropping back into the sofa, “there’s always a ‘but’.”
“She speaks her mind. She actually said to my face, serious as can be, ‘I get the impression you’re a bit of an asshole’. She didn’t even flinch.”
Billy faces towards me. “How’d the old man react?”
I cradle my beer. “The prick laughed, thought it was hilarious. The girl’s got no filter.”
“Does she have a name?”
“Tia.”
“Sure it’s not Sasha?” Billy chides, pulling pole-vault girl’s thong out of his pocket and stretching it over his head, sniffing into the crotch.
I reach forward and pull it off, tossing it over the back of the couch to join who knows how many other despondent articles of clothing. “You’re fucking disgusting.”
“And you’re acting fucking weird. What do you have to do? Teach her how to swim or something? Where’s she from? The Eastern Bloc?”
