As I pass, I notice the way the girl in the middle cuts her eyes at me while still going on in conversation, but I ignore it. I’ve had many looks like that in my life. At this point, I don’t even let them bother me anymore.
I sit on the bench with Kendall who sighs, and looks around the stadium. “Are you noticing what I’m noticing?” Kendall asks under her breath.
“That we’re the only girls of color on the team?”
“Bingo,” Kendall sings.
“Oh, yeah. I’ve noticed. Don’t let that get to you.”
Just as I say that, Coach Hamilton walks our way. She has a clipboard tucked beneath her arm and is donning a sky-blue Adidas track suit and hat.
Two men and another woman trail behind her, and I recognize them instantly. Coach Mills, Coach Foster, and Coach Torres. As the coaches approach us, my eyes can’t help but swing over to the one male coach I haven’t met before. Torres.
He looks so much younger in person. Tan skin, hair dark and sleek, loose tendrils hanging on his forehead. There’s a slight trace of stubble on his chin and around his mouth, and as he rolls his head to crack his neck, I can’t help focusing on his throat. Damn. He has a delicious throat.
He’s not wearing a matching track suit like Hamilton and Mills. Just a pair of track pants, a white T-shirt that hugs his chest and biceps, and black running shoes. It literally looks like he rolled out of bed, finger-combed some gel through his hair, tossed on some clothes, and met the coaches only moments ago for this meetup.
Torres is nothing like the image I saw on the college’s website. In the image, he was crouching in the middle, his hands lax between his thighs, not a trace of a smile on his lips.
But now that he’s standing here—now that I’m seeing him in person—I understand why all the girls want him and why he probably eats it up, like Kendall said.
Coach Torres is walking sex on a stick and I am one hundred percent intrigued by him.
FOUR
It’s just my luck that after Hamilton delivers speeches about diligence, perseverance, being at practice on time, and good sportsmanship, that I’m assigned to Coach Torres to discuss my track skills.
It’s ironic that we’re even doing this considering these coaches scouted us, and have known our skills since before we even took them up on their scholarship offers, but I don’t complain. It’s the first team meeting and I’m here to make a good impression on all the coaches.
Kendall is assigned to Mills, which leaves me stuck with a dozen teammates I don’t know. The women’s track and field team for Bennett University is much smaller than most colleges, which I liked when signing for the scholarship because it made it seem more exclusive and intimate.
I want to say I’m the only freshman in my assigned group, but there is one other girl who sort of looks out of place. She has long, bone-straight brown hair and really pale skin. She’s not talking to anyone and she looks young. Then again, I can’t tell if she’s nervous or just bored.
There’s also Melanie and Christa, whose names I found out because Hamilton kept telling them to pipe down while she read from her clipboard.
Melanie is the pretty one who everyone couldn’t help listening to as if her words were gold, and I can’t help sensing that she and Christa are close. Christa hovers around Melanie, waiting for her to say something just so she can respond right away. Cliquey.
“All right, so I’m going to make this quick,” Torres says as he flips through the papers on the clipboard in his hand. When he speaks, Melanie and Christa are fully alert, batting their eyelashes. “I’m going to have you speak to me in groups. I’ve got twelve of you so—what the hell is so funny?” Torres lowers his clipboard, picks his head up, and locks eyes on the giggling Christa.
Christa stops her giggling immediately, straightens her back again, and her face turns serious. “Nothing—sorry, Coach.”
Torres glowers. “Don’t interrupt me again.”
“Okay. Sheesh.” Christa says the last word under her breath, but we can all hear it. She’s trying to play it cool, but her face has turned several shades of red. Melanie takes a step away from her, as if Christa has caught some kind of rare disease.
“Rose, Howard, and Lakes, you’re up first. Then it’s Gerald, Hunter, and Mooney. Then the last three of you. You know who you are.” Torres walks past us to get to the long red bench on the sidelines of the football field.
I follow him and notice Melanie going the same direction I am, as well as the girl with the straight brown hair and pale skin. I let them sit first, before taking a seat at the end of the bench. Melanie is in the middle, her hands on her lap, now beaming.