Possessive Coach

“Not my student. And I’m not a professor.”

“Still.” I bite my lip. “We shouldn’t, right?”

“We shouldn’t,” he agrees and cocks his head. “But I want to anyway. Let me cook you dinner tomorrow night.”

“Okay,” I say without thinking.

He nods once and stands. He helps me up then we start back toward his truck. We get halfway there before I remember that I need to go to class. I check my phone and realize I’m only a couple minutes late, and I can still make it if I hurry. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I need to run. I have class. I totally forgot.”

“It’s okay,” he says. “You sure you’re okay? I can walk you there, if you want.”

“No, it’s totally fine. I’ll go there then straight home. Really, I’m okay.” I turn to jog away, but he catches my hand.

“Tomorrow night,” he says.

“I’ll see you then.”

He nods and lets me go. I hurry off, heart hammering, head dizzy, unsure of the implications of what I just did, but very sure that it felt good. I’m not normally the kind of girl to give in to what I want, to kiss the man I want, to let him take me and defend me like that. I’ve been on my own for a while, or at least fighting my own battles for as long as I could remember.

But David’s different. He wants to protect me. He wants to help me. And I like that about him. I liked watching him get worked up over Erik pushing me, grabbing my wrist, hurting me. I liked watching him punch that cocky asshole in the face.

I don’t know what that says about me, but I liked it all the same.

And I want more. Even if it’s a mistake, even if it’ll get us both in trouble, I want more.5DavidPractice goes smooth the next day, but in my pocket, I can feel the folded-up paper pressing against my leg. I stalk down the field, the grass giving underneath my sneakers, and watch as Erik goes through his drills. I’m tempted to make him run, make him do laps around the team, make him run again until he pukes, but he’s only proven that won’t work.

The guys finish up and jog into the locker room. I head down the long tunnel, my shoes making a soft echo on the concrete floor. I pass gold carts lined up along the walls, cones and balls stacked on stables, and water coolers piled in a corner until I step in through the red locker room door.

I head through the group, nodding at some, stopping to talk with others. The lockers are old, haven’t been updated since the fifties, but they’re kept in good shape. They’re painted the school’s colors, white and blue, and they’re large enough for each guy to keep his whole kit in there, from extra clothes to his pads. I spend some time with a linebacker that needs to work on keeping his eyes on the QB before heading into my small office crammed in the back corner near the showers.

I sit at my desk and wait. It smells humid, like an indoor swimming pool, mostly because my office shares a wall with the showers and the cinderblock isn’t exactly great at insulating. It’s sweltering in the summer and freezing in the winter, but I never complain. Most guys my age would kill to have an office at all. I kick my feet up on my desk and survey the neat space: a small TV for watching game tape on top of a filing cabinet, low horizonal bookshelves crammed with playbooks and notes, and a row of VHS tapes lined up on top, one tape per game I’ve coached, the wins marked with a W, the losses marked with an L.

After a half hour, the talk slowly starts to die out as the guys leave. I get up and wander back into the main locker room. It’s nearly empty except for some low voices toward the back. I find Erik sitting there, surrounded by his little cronies, just like I knew he would be. I nod at them. “Get lost,” I say. “Except you, Erik.”

They shoot him a look but he seems unconcerned. The cocky asshole shakes all their hands before sitting back and looking up at me. I wait for the guys to head out before facing my asshole, renegade QB. He’s wearing gym shorts and a white t-shirt, and has a rolled towel draped around his shoulders. His locker hangs open, and I can see the mess he made of it, his clothes jammed all over, the playbook haphazardly shoved in a corner.

“I know what you did,” I say.

“What do you think I did?” he asks.

I take the paper from my pocket, unfold it slowly, and hold it out to him. He looks at it and doesn’t react. “I saw these,” he says. “All over campus. Looks like that girl’s making enemies.”