Coach's Daughter

As fast as he blew into my apartment, he’s gone, the door closing behind him.

My heart is ten times its usual size and stuck in my throat, stuttering and aching. He loves me. A part of me knew there was nothing rational about our connection the night we met. It was instantaneous and heavy and unrestrained. But hearing the words repairs something inside me that was broken a long time ago. When my mother took the cash and abandoned me. When my father shelled out a payment so his reputation wouldn’t take a hit. Time after time of watching people in my life use money to make people they used to love go away. After all of that, I stopped believing in love, but I can’t help but doubt that conviction now.

I can’t help but believe Eric.

How can I do any less when he says those three words to me in that agonized tone? How can I doubt him when he looks at me with a wealth of feeling and truth in his eyes? He loves me.

And I love him, too.

It came on like a whirlwind, but that doesn’t make it any less real.

If anything, the swiftness increases the potency.

Oh my lord, I do. I love him. But can I forgive him?

My phone rings on the nightstand and I reach for it, finding my father’s name on the screen. Sighing, I hit talk. “Hi.”

“Hey, Greta.” He’s been cautious with me ever since the scene at the arena. We’ve never been close and because of that, I’ve never let him see me so upset. But over the last week or so, he’s been calling to check in on me, the way a father is supposed to. It’s almost like he’s started looking at me and seeing a real, live human being now, instead of a commodity. “How are you?”

I stare at the door Eric just left through, a jagged lump in my throat. “I’m…not that great, actually. Conflicted.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

I consider it, but the relationship between me and Eric has such a wild physical element, I’m sure that conversation would get uncomfortable pretty fast. “Maybe some other time. How are you? Getting ready for your first pre-season game?”

“Tomorrow night!” I hear him rubbing his hands together in the background. “The offense is looking great, thanks to…” He clears his throat. “Sorry.”

“You can say his name. It’s okay.”

My father is silent for a moment. “I worry Eric is actually playing a little too hard lately. He has no sense of self-preservation during practice. It’s almost like he’s hoping to get hurt. He’s…possessed. Not himself. Short-tempered.”

“I hope you’re not calling to ask me to help with that.”

“I’m not. I’m just calling to see if you want tickets to tomorrow night’s game. Front row, opposite our bench. I can leave them at the box office.”

Instinctively, I start to decline. How painful would it be to sit across from Eric for two to three hours? To watch him play and miss him up close? But I sense my father is trying to repair some of the damage between us and I don’t want to turn him down outright. “Sure, that would be nice.”

We say our goodbyes, we’re about to hang up, when a curiosity pops into my head. I’m not sure why. I hadn’t even thought about this before, but… “Dad. Um…just wondering. What phony name did Eric sign on the contract?”

A beat passes.

When he answers, there is a grudging smile in his voice. “He signed it Mr. Greta Welding.”

I end the call in a daze, my pulse flapping at the base of my throat.

My feet move on their own and carry me to the window where I look down at Eric where he has resumed his post outside my building. His hair is mussed from my fingers, his mouth swollen from the vigor of our kisses, arms crossed. Absolutely gorgeous. But not just on the outside.

In my anger, I’ve forgotten how he came to my rescue at the club.

How he carries the responsibility for the loss of his friend.

How he allowed me to restrain him so I’d be in charge of my first time.

I’ve been so focused on his trickery, I haven’t stopped to think about how fiercely he is fighting for me. And that…that is something I haven’t witnessed throughout my life. Nor have I experienced. Not with my family. Not with anyone.

He’s not like everyone else.

My heart beats with that truth and I can’t deny it anymore.

I know what I have to do.

Eric

I just want to be unconscious.

No matter how many risks I take, no matter how many times I drive the lane at men seven feet tall and built like tanks, I can’t seem to catch that blessed elbow to the face that will finally knock me out. I don’t want to be awake because the pain is too sharp. My heartbeat is beginning to flag, my head full of sand. To call this the worst eight days of my life wouldn’t even begin to cover it—and now I’m expected to win a basketball game. To prove the worth of the investment made in me when all I want is to be outside her window. Waiting outside her classes. When I’m close to her, at least I know she wasn’t a dream.