Coach: Fake Relationships, Real Secrets, Happy Endings

By Jaylen Florian

A surprise invitation for a vacation cruise risks exposing my biggest secret…

Pleasing the coach has always been very important to me. When I played football for him in college, I'd worked incredibly hard to earn his respect. But I didn't have the guts then to tell him the truth. My personal infatuation with him had grown so intense that I didn't want anyone else.

Now, to my complete surprise, the coach needs me for something that has nothing to do with playing ball.

Only hours before boarding a ship for vacation, his security guard canceled on him. His newfound fame in the pro league has brought with it the nuisances and perils of stalkers, irreverent reporters, gold diggers, and others trying to muscle into his privacy, which he fiercely protects.

The coach has asked me to be the stand-in for his safety and security. We'll share a cabin on the ship, and even pretend to be boyfriends at formal cruise events, though in reality I'll just be there to protect him.

The coach and I have unfinished business…

Saying yes to his offer at the spur of the moment is easy for me. This opportunity to be with him in such close quarters gives me the chance to do something I should've done years ago. Shouldn't he know how I really feel about him?

Read now to see if I can lay bare the whole truth. If I can succeed in getting my coach to see me as something more than a football player — or pseudo bodyguard — then I'm inclined to reveal everything to him and let the chips fall where they may.

"Coach" is gay romance fiction and the second novel in the Fake Relationships, Real Secrets, Happy Endings book series. It can be read as a stand alone story without a cliffhanger.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jaylen Florian
• Release date: Dec 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9798223159223

Book preview

Chapter 1

Michael Westholme

SOMEBODY SAVED MY LIFE Tonight.

I hadn't heard this evocative song in ages. 

I'd always liked it.  It'd been released in 1975, almost twenty years before I was born.  I'd bought it on iTunes after hearing it long ago on an oldies—yacht rock—satellite radio station.  Even though it wasn't part of my regular rotation of songs, I chanced upon it this momentous night, and Elton John was singing directly and honestly to me.

The two of us—Elton and me—so distant from everyone else, each needing a miracle.  One of us an entertainment legend, the other a young man not yet on a firm life path.  We were completely connected, however, by the sentiment of profound yearning.

What he and I shared through his music and lyrics wasn't about whining or moping.  It was acknowledging that we each had a hollow core deep inside us, one so vast and colossal that contemplating its true magnitude gripped my stomach in the clutches of an iron fist.

And then the moment of reckoning passed.  Back to feeling partially myself, I was no longer imperiled by a plunge into an empty internal abyss.

Elton continued singing.  We'd flirted with a moment of doom.  We survived.  Yet, what would go unspoken, from this point forward, was that we both knew the real truth now.  He and I needed to be saved from ourselves.

That was the power of a single recording.  An experience that had jolted me to the brink of an existential crisis, then eased me away from the ledge.  One day I could tumble into the chasm.  Or I might change myself and my life and my destiny.

I wasn't impaired during this reflective experience.  Drugs never interested me one iota.  Frankly, moments of reflection didn't interest me too much either.  My natural inclination was to look ahead, not backwards.

But on this particular night, singing along to Elton, alone on the estate, windows open to welcome the late October chill past my curtains and into my assigned room, I couldn't veil the reality that I was suffocating from loneliness and an overwhelming sense of being insignificant.

Elton's song ended.  I removed my ear phones, lifted my head off my pillow, sat upright, and scooted to the edge of my bed.  No more music tonight.  I stared out my window at the dark pool in the backyard.  A refreshing swim usually fixed any of my moods, but I didn't feel like getting wet.  The hot tub, the sauna, computer games—none of it interested me in the slightest.  Dating and sex apps on my iPad?  No.  I swear, sometimes those damn things just made me lonelier.  A romp with a stranger had lost most of its allure years ago.  Encounters like that had been drained of any magic.  Lost guys, all battling their own demons, using sex while desperate for some relief.  In the end, without fail, the demons weren't slayed and the relief was all too temporary.

I didn't own the estate.  It was my uncle's.  Jasper Carbury, my mother's brother, entrepreneur and designer, had built his fortune through clever and practical clothing for travel and outdoor recreation.  A very benevolent and decent man, he'd extended an opportunity for me when I missed getting drafted into the pro leagues after playing four years of football at Niven University in Doyle.  Jasper had just purchased a Victorian mansion on Mallowan Avenue, the toniest street in the neighborhood of Rugged Heights.  I'd jumped at the chance to be his groundskeeper, butler, handyman, and personal assistant.  Being a jack of all trades—that's what I'd always been—gave me formal roles, a generous income, and the ability to acquire hands-on, real-life skills and experience suitable for a career in the hospitality field.  Vaguely, I thought an eventual position in a luxury hotel or resort would be a great fit for me.

I admired my uncle Jasper, his estate, and the work.  I liked staying busy all the time and solving problems that arose on a daily basis around the grounds.  I was fascinated by the people I'd gotten to meet who'd visited my uncle for professional and personal purposes.  I had my health and my loved ones were comfortable and stable.  In other words, I couldn't dare complain about anything.

The truth was, I understood the reason for my melancholy on that crisp autumn evening.  My uncle and his partner had left for an extended Scandinavian vacation.  To my surprise, Jasper had given me two weeks off, fully paid, and some extra cash so I could indulge in a vacation of my own.  I should've been chomping at the bit to get out of town and begin an adventure.  That feeling, though, hadn't grabbed me.  My closest friends—the guys I'd played football with at the university—had all left Doyle since graduation.  I wasn't afraid of being alone.  I'd traveled alone before and thrived with the freedom to determine my own schedule.  But I didn't want to travel by myself this time, and so I spent the first night of my vacation emotionally adrift, listening to music that kicked me in the gut with its raw intensity.

Somebody save my life tonight.

In this darkness, a beacon of light appeared, materializing in the form of a beep on my phone.  An email alert marked urgent.

That instant—so ordinary, so unexpected—didn't seem like much.  It's not like the clouds parted in the night sky.  No melodies played on mystical golden harps.  However, instances of unusual importance and meaningfulness usually arrive without obvious fanfare.

When I looked at my phone screen to check out the alert and see who the message was from, I immediately transformed back to my regular self—Michael Westholme, the jack of all trades, the guy capable of handling anything.  It was akin to a Pavlovian response.  The alert was from my former coach, Craig Carrie.  He wasn't a man of trifling words.  If he was emailing me this late in the evening, after little contact in years, something was amiss.

As I signed onto my desktop and the blue haze from the monitor filled the room, I automatically thought what I'd always thought when called to action by Craig Carrie.

What do you need, coach?  Sure, I can do it.

Chapter 2

Craig Carrie

THE HERCULES LEGEND cruise was scheduled to leave port tomorrow for Hawaii and Craig Carrie really needed to be on the ship.

At forty-two he could no longer work year-round, seven days a week, without a vacation.  It wasn't because of any physical limitations.  A lifetime of sports, on and off the practice and playing fields, blessed him with impeccable shape and conditioning.  Craig was as fit was any of the men he coached.  Mentally and emotional fitness, though, was a different story.  He needed to recharge his batteries to be at his best.  He'd lately been stressed to the point where he was becoming forgetful, getting plagued with headaches, and losing his temper over matters he'd otherwise brush off without a second thought.

Even more importantly, Craig had an enormous decision to make for his career.  The repercussions of his choice would impact the rest of his life.

So Craig really needed this week—floating on the ocean—to clear his mind, get some great sleep, and spend lazy afternoons reading novels instead of scouting reports and football playbook.

Everything had been arranged by Piper, his executive assistant.  Craig would cruise from California to Oahu over the course of a week, depart the ship, and fly from Honolulu International Airport home to Albuquerque International Sunport.

But the trip was now in jeopardy.  Craig's travel companion had to fly home to Albuquerque for a family emergency.

With less than twenty-four hours before boarding began, the easiest solution was simply to cancel the vacation.  It wasn't that Craig couldn't handle himself alone on a ship.  Instead, his travel companion, a longtime employee, served two vital roles. 

One, Craig needed security.  A bodyguard.  The first openly gay head football coach in the pro leagues, he worked to keep his private life separate from his professional role.  The vast majority of people throughout the sports world had supported him, an encouraging sign of the recent progress with LGBTQ rights and acceptance.  A sliver of haters and other detractors, however, apparently threatened by Craig in ways he could not control, passionately scorned him on social media and other digital venues.  Craig's life had been threatened often enough, and credibly enough, that he didn't leave his residences or hotels or sports facilities without sufficient protection.  Even then, he only hired trained guards he knew.  No strangers were hired without a lengthy vetting process, no matter how reputable the security company recommending them.

Two, Craig needed his travel companion to pose as his partner and love interest during the cruise.  This made everything so much easier.  Otherwise, he'd be fending off advances, especially from the likes of actor John Jeffrey Peterson, a one-time flame who'd organized the cruise.  Craig wasn't going to light that candle again, even for a fling, no matter how far the actor might go to reignite their connection.  And among total strangers on the ship, Craig needed to separate out those who wanted to be around him because they were fame whores, versus those who might talk with him during cruise meals and functions with no hope of stealing his affections from a pretend lover.

So, a dual bodyguard and fake boyfriend was the only way to make the vacation work.  Craig couldn't take a chance on his safety.  He couldn't spend the who cruise looking over his shoulder and anticipating harm or fame chasers.  That would defeat the whole purpose of the trip.

One of the problems with fame—and there were many—was that an inherent isolation came with it.  Public outings were a hassle.  Determining who you could really count on was a constant challenge.  One wrong move could destroy an unblemished reputation and end a career.  Craig's detractors would revel in his suffering.  They'd feed on it like a vampire sucking blood.

Craig hadn't made many mistakes, at least so far, because he was private by nature.  He didn't chase the limelight.  Embarrassing or humiliating love life trauma didn't exist with him because he didn't have a love life worth a tin can.  He was much too busy to have time for that melodrama.

Just the thought of dating made him shudder.  No, thank you.  Later, when he'd retired from coaching and didn't have the pressures of a whole team on his shoulders—maybe.  Or maybe not.  Craig was used to being single.  He valued his freedom.

Now, in his bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel, Craig took a call from his executive assistant.  It was bad news.  Every single security guard he'd hired or approved during the past three years was unavailable.  That wasn't really a surprise.  Who could drop everything, fly to Los Angeles on a moment's notice, and travel for an entire week?

I did everything I could, Piper said.

I know you did.

I'm begging you not to cancel your vacation.  You're already on the coast.  You really need the recuperation.

Craig chuckled.  You make it sound so urgent.  It's not like I have dreadful bags under my eyes from not sleeping.

Actually, you do.  Sorry . . .

I've been whacked once or twice with the ugly stick?

Pummeled by the ugly stick is more like it.  You've been beaten to within an inch of your life.

Is that supposed to be funny?

No, it's intended to be persuasive, Piper said.  Please let me just hire a bodyguard from a Hollywood security agency.  They thrive out there with all those persnickety entertainment types.  There's still time to get one of them lined up.

No.

Is that an absolute no?  Or is the door open a crack to the possibility?

An absolute no.

Craig!

"No strangers.  I won't