Chapter 4: The Coach's Knock and a Wet Reward
The pounding on the door wasn’t a knock. It was a series of blunt, authoritative thuds that shook the wood in its frame.
Josh jerked awake, adrenaline slamming through his system before his eyes were fully open. The room was dark, the blackout curtains doing their job, but a sliver of harsh morning light cut across the floor. Mia stirred beside him, her long leg shifting over his, her hand sliding sleepily down his stomach.
“Joshua!” The voice from the hallway was unmistakable—clipped, gravelly, and simmering with impatience. “Open up. Now.”
“Fuck,” Josh breathed, the word a hollow exhale. He scrambled out of bed, the silken sheets tangling around his ankles. The room was a mess of discarded clothes and the heavy, sweet scent of sex. “Bathroom. Quick.”
Mia opened her eyes. She didn’t startle. She blinked, processed the pounding, and a slow, perilously playful smile touched her lips. She rolled off the bed in one fluid, naked motion, her body a pale curve in the gloom. She picked up her torn black dress from the floor, gave a slight, irreverent shrug, and padded silently to the bathroom. She didn’t look rushed. She looked amused. The lock clicked with a soft, definitive sound.
Josh yanked on his boxers, his heart hammering against his ribs. He ran a hand through his chaotic curls, took a breath that did nothing to steady him, and opened the door a crack.
Coach Derek filled the space. He was in full team tracksuit, arms crossed over his broad chest. His eyes, pale and flinty, swept past Josh into the shadowy room, taking in the disheveled bed, the lone champagne glass on the nightstand, the general aura of debauchery.
“You look like death warmed over,” Derek stated, his voice devoid of sympathy.
“Rough night,” Josh rasped, rubbing his stubbled jaw.
“It’s eleven in the morning. You missed the team physio session. Mandatory. For the man of the fucking match.” Derek’s gaze was a physical weight. “Where were you last night after you left dinner?”
“I told you. I felt sick. Came straight back here.”
“Right.” Derek didn’t believe him. The silence stretched, thick with accusation. Josh fought the urge to glance towards the bathroom door. “Your phone’s off.”
“Battery died.”
“Convenient.” Derek let out a long, weary sigh, the sound of a man dealing with a recurring, disappointing problem. “Look. You’re a grown man. What you do on your own time… after the series is won… is your business. But we have a week before the final Test. We have appearances. We have a discipline to maintain for the press. This isn’t a holiday.”
“I know, Coach.”
“Do you?” Derek’s eyes locked onto his. “There’s a team meeting. Strategy session. Lobby. Six o’clock sharp. Not six-oh-one. Sharp. Be there. Clean, sober, and focused. Or so help me God, I’ll bench you for the final and tell the media you’ve got a groin strain that could end your career. Understood?”
The threat was cold, professional, and utterly credible. “Understood.”
Derek gave a final, dismissive nod, turned on his heel, and marched down the plush hallway, his footsteps silent on the carpet.
Josh closed the door. He leaned his forehead against the cool wood, eyes shut, and exhaled a tremor he hadn’t realised he was holding. The brass lock felt cold under his thumb as he engaged it.
The bathroom door opened.
Steam billowed out, carrying the scent of her hotel shampoo—coconut and salt. Mia stood in the doorway, a white bath towel tucked loosely under her arms. Her hair was damp, her skin glowing. Water droplets clung to her collarbone.
“All clear?” she asked, her voice a low hum.
He didn’t answer with words. He crossed the room in three strides. The towel fell away as he reached for her, revealing the sleek, wet lines of her body. He kissed her, a hard, claiming press of lips that was more about expelling the tension than desire. She yielded for a second, then pushed back, her tongue meeting his with equal force.
The shower was still running, hot mist fogging the mirrors. He guided her back into the humidity, the tile floor slick under their feet. She stepped under the spray, water cascading over her shoulders, beading on her nipples, tracing the path down her stomach.
He kicked off his boxers and joined her.
The water was scalding. It pounded on his back as he crowded her against the cool, marble wall. He saw the faint red marks on her hips from his grip the night before. Possession surged in him again, sharper now, edged with the risk of getting caught.
“He knows,” Josh muttered, his mouth against her throat.
“He suspects,” Mia corrected, her hands sliding down his back to grasp his arse. “Big difference.” Her green eyes held his, fearless. “Worth it?”
In answer, he hooked his hands under her thighs and lifted her. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her body opening for him effortlessly. He guided himself inside her with a single, deep, grinding thrust.
She cried out, a sharp, gasping sound that echoed off the tiles, swallowed by the drumming water. She was still slick from their night, and the heat of the shower made the slide feel obscenely fluid. He pinned her there, his forearms braced against the wall on either side of her head, and began to move.
This wasn’t the desperate fury of the door, or the deep, rolling rhythm of the bed. This was something focused, intense, and brutally efficient. Each thrust was a punctuation mark, a physical defiance of Derek’s warning, of the meeting at six, of the entire ordered world waiting outside the steamed-up glass.
“Fuck me,” she chanted into his shoulder, her teeth scraping his skin. “Yeah, just like that. Fucking own it.”
Her words were a catalyst. He drove into her harder, the slapping sounds of their wet skin mingling with the shower’s roar. One of her hands left his back, slipped between their bodies. He watched her face as she rubbed her clit, her eyes clenched shut, her breath coming in ragged hitches.
“I’m gonna come,” she gasped, her voice strained.
“Do it,” he growled. “Come all over my cock.”
Her climax hit her like a seizure. Her back arched off the wall, her inner muscles clamping down around him in a series of pulsing, milking contractions. A raw, shattered scream tore from her throat. The violence of her pleasure tipped him over. With three more jagged thrusts, he followed, his release pumping into her as he buried his face in the wet column of her neck, a stifled, guttural roar vibrating against her skin.
He held her there, trembling, until the water began to run lukewarm. Gently, he lowered her. Her legs wobbled, and he kept an arm around her waist, steadying her under the spray.
They washed in silence. The mundane act felt more intimate than what they’d just done. He soaped her back, his hands sliding over the sleek muscles. She shampooed his hair, her fingers massaging his scalp until he almost groaned from the simple relief of it.
They stepped out, dripping on the bath mat. He handed her a fresh towel.
“So,” she said, wrapping the terrycloth around herself. “Six o’clock.”
“Yeah.”
“Better get you focused, then.” She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. She walked back into the bedroom, a queen reclaiming her territory. She started gathering her scattered clothes.
Josh watched her dress. The black dress was unwearable. She pulled on her jeans from the night before and a simple white vest she’d had in her clutch. She looked like any stunning woman leaving a hotel room, except for the specific, knowing weariness in her posture.
“What happens now?” he asked, the question leaving him before he could stop it.
She picked up her clutch, looked at him. “You go to your meeting. I go do my job.”
“And after?”
“You tell me.” She walked over to him, pressed a soft, closed-mouth kiss to his lips. It tasted like an ending. “You’ve got my number. The ball’s in your court, cricketer.”
She left without another word. The door closed with a soft, final click.
The room was suddenly, oppressively empty. The silence was different now. It wasn’t peaceful; it was anticipatory. The ghosts of the night were gone, replaced by the stark reality of the day.
Josh dressed mechanically. Jeans, a clean shirt. He avoided looking at the bed. He ordered a pot of black coffee from room service and powered on his phone.
It exploded. Message after message. Missed calls from Derek, the team manager, Charlie. Texts demanding to know where he was. A calendar alert for the 6 p.m. meeting, flashing like a red warning light.
He stood at the window, coffee burning his throat, and looked down at Melbourne. The city was orderly, bright, moving with purpose. He saw a couple walking hand-in-hand, a bus pulling into a stop, life proceeding on schedule.
The hollow feeling was back. But it had changed shape. It wasn’t just restless desire anymore. It was lined with the stark, metallic taste of consequence, and the terrifying, thrilling echo of her saying, Worth it?
He had five hours to become the model professional, the team player, the focused athlete. Five hours to bury the smell of her skin and the feel of her coming around him. He picked up his team itinerary, the print-out crisp and official.
His hand was steady. His mind, for the first time in days, was clear.
It was going to be the longest five hours of his life.