The Jock Script (The Script Club 3)

I was a good runner and wily too. Good skills for lacrosse. But they’re even more effective when you have a little height and bulk—qualities I didn’t possess until I turned sixteen and inexplicably grew nine inches in a year. It roughly coincided with having my tonsils removed, which according to the doctors was just a matter of luck. Fine by me. That growth spurt was my ticket to Southern California. And freedom.

Don’t get me wrong, I loved my family, but I was ready to stretch my wings and see the world. I’d graduated four years ago from Pepperdine and was in the process of finishing my master’s in education at UCLA while working at a private high school in Pasadena, teaching math and coaching lacrosse.

It hadn’t escaped my father’s notice that I’d basically followed his footsteps, albeit on the other side of the country. He frequently hinted about me moving back east to help him run his club team and eventually take over. I hadn’t figured out a nice way to tell him that would never happen. I couldn’t go home and be a version of my real self. Hell, I wasn’t able to be myself here yet either. But I’d get there eventually.

I hoped.

Shana stood as she wrapped up her overly detailed description of the effects of excess cheese on the intestines. “Bad stuff, I tell ya. Everything in moderation, right? Although I’m a sucker for good grades, and it’s report card day. If he comes home with all As, we’ll be eating mac and cheese for sure.”

All As.

My smile spread like wildfire across my face at the rogue memory of the cute blond dude in my bed last week. I’d thought about him nonstop. Not a surprise. I hadn’t been kidding when I’d told him that was the best sex I’d had in ages. He was enthusiastic and unexpectedly sensual. He’d been easy company too, and for whatever reason, I’d wanted him to stay. That wasn’t like me at all.

My sense of self-preservation didn’t allow for prolonged encounters with men. I didn’t necessarily shove anyone out the door as soon as cum cleanup was over, but I also wasn’t the type to offer a second beverage or chat while buck-ass naked about my less attractive personality traits before initiating round two. And I definitely didn’t invite them to shower.

Then again, I’d never had a lover list the clinical names of the bacteria we might have exposed each other to, either. He’d jumped at the offer to rinse off but had insisted that I join him or stand nearby where he could see me in case I really was a homicidal maniac. I didn’t point out that I was almost twice his size and possibly more dangerous to him at close range. Seriously. The guy was a pipsqueak, but there was something in the way he carried himself that made him seem…larger than life.

Hmm. I liked him.

A lot.

But it was over and never to be repeated and—

“…I’ll talk to Carly tomorrow. I think her family is cool and our girls have been supportive, but I don’t know how admin is going to take this. There’s a decent chance they’ll ask her to step down, reciting some bullshit rule about representation. We need that kid. If Carly’s out, we’re doomed.”

That got my attention.

“Hold on.” I stood abruptly and grabbed Shana’s elbow. “What are you talking about?”

She cocked her head and frowned. “Didn’t you hear? Carly came out last weekend. I guess she posted something on social media about her new girlfriend. I wish she’d talked to us too. I found out about it from one of the girls.”

I gaped in dismay, glancing away briefly to collect my thoughts. I hadn’t expected that. Obviously, it made zero difference to me if any of the girls on the team were gay, straight, trans, bi, or whatever, but I’d worked here for a couple of years now, and I knew the administration wasn’t quite as easygoing when it came to what they called social divergence.

Westgate Prep was a conservative private school. Old money and deep-seated prejudices came with the side benefits of extraordinarily well-connected, influential board members who could open doors with a kindly worded letter of recommendation.

Of course, they could kill your shot just as easily.

“Oh. Okay…” I pursed my lips and refocused on Shana. “What can I do?”

“You?” she scoffed. “Nothing, handsome. The girls respect you as a coach, but I doubt they’re interested in your views on homosexuality. It might not be appropriate for you to weigh in. I’m safe. I’m a chick and I’m cool.”

“I’m cool too,” I argued like an idiot.

Shana rolled her eyes. “You’re a little too cool, too good-looking, too talented. You’re perfect, Blake. That can be intimidating when it comes to sensitive topics with hormonal teens. Let me handle this. See ya tomorr—”