Eric headed down the long concrete tunnel to the locker room, trying to get his head on straight.
Football. Football. Football.
He tried not to let his mind wander back to the car and the love he made with his wife not even thirty minutes ago. He tucked in his polo shirt.
Shit.
He grinned.
Don't think about it. Stop smiling.
Don't think about how good he felt, don't think about what he was going to do to his wife tonight to pay her back for that pleasure. He was going to lay her across their bed, find the places with his hands, his lips, his tongue, that made her melt, made her grab his hair. He was going to…
"Hey Coach!"
He jumped. Tim Riggins and Smash flanked him suddenly. How long had they been there for?
Don't think about it.
"What the hell, where'd you come from?"
"Flat tire, huh Coach?" Riggins grinned wickedly as he clapped Eric on the shoulder. "Man, I hate those. You get it all fixed up?"
"Ugh, flat tires," Smash chimed in. "But sometimes, you know, a little manual labor can clear your head."
"Damn, Coach, is that why you're so sweaty?" Riggins cackled.
"What the hell are you two talkin' about? Get in the damn locker room!" Eric pushed them away with his clipboard. "And quit touchin' me!"
He slammed the metal door closed behind them.
Don't think about it.
Later, when he took the field with his team, he couldn't help but look up in the stands at his wife. She was beaming, she was golden, she was his love.
Shit.
He grinned.
