Possessive Coach

I lean toward him, barely able to keep my rage in check. I slam my fist against a locker and he flinches. The shiner around his eye still looks tender, and I bet it aches at night when he tries to sleep. I hope he lies in bed thinking about what it felt like to take a punch for being a real fucked-up asshole.

“I talked to the librarian last night,” I say, keeping my voice even.

“Did you?” He smirks. “Sounds fun. You check out anything good?”

“They told me you used your student ID to print out 500 pages of something,” I say. “Did you know they keep track of that?”

His smile falters. “I had a project,” he says.

“You’ve never written or done 500 pages worth of work in your entire life,” I say. “I know what you did. I know you made that juvenile, pathetic piece of shit and had it printed out. The librarian wouldn’t tell me exactly what you printed out, said it was confidential, but assured me you printed it all in one sitting yesterday morning.”

He doesn’t move. He stares at me, his face getting hard. “I don’t know what you’re suggesting, Coach.”

“I’m suggesting you fucked up,” I say. “I’m suggesting you’d better be careful, Erik. Coach let you off easy because there’s no proof that you did anything wrong, but this time, he won’t be able to hide from it.”

“You’re going to him again?” He sounds disgusted, almost like he thinks I’m pathetic.

I stand up straight. “No, I’m not,” I say. “But I’m warning you now. Stay away from Chloe. Keep your fucking head down. Or else I’ll take this and I’ll talk to Hardy about what you’ve been up to with your printing privileges.”

He gives me a hard look before turning away. He slams his locker shut and grabs his backpack. “You don’t know shit,” he says. “I don’t know why you get off on harassing me, but—”

I shove him against the locker. For a second, I see fear cross over his expression as I lean toward him. “Stop,” I say. “Think about the next words that are about to leave your mouth.”

“Touch me again,” he says, “and I’ll make sure your life is a living hell here. You and that stupid girl.”

I stare at him, nostrils flared, breathing hard. But I move back and let him go. He tugs on the towel around his shoulders then turns and walks away. I watch him go, heart beating hard in my chest, but I sit down on a bench and gather myself.

I don’t know why I’m letting him provoke me. I said what I needed to say and warned him to back off. I won’t feel bad if I have to take this back to Hardy, or if I have to take it into my owns hands. Either way, that little twerp is going to deserve it.

But there was something in his expression that drives me insane with anger. It’s the way he doesn’t seem to care that he’s being a bastard, that he’s harassing an innocent girl for doing nothing but rejecting him. He can’t see how entitled, how much of a little piece of shit he is.

And I can’t let him get away with it.

For now, that’s going to be enough. I warned him, and I’ll leave it there.

But I can’t shake the suspicion that it won’t be enough.* * *I put my finishing touches on a chicken dish I learned from my mother. Just a little green garnish, then onto the plate just as the bell to my apartment rings. I wipe my hands on a towel, head to the door, and press the intercom. “David’s place,” I say.

“David’s place?” Chloe’s voice sounds tinny through the cheap intercom. “Do you really answer like that?”

“Just like to be clear,” I say, smiling.

“Well, I’m here,” she says. “And starving.”

“Come on up. Top of the stairs, on the right.” I hit the buzzer for a few seconds, long enough for her to get inside, then head over to the kitchen. I open a bottle of wine in the time it takes her to find my place, then open the door after she knocks. “Welcome,” I say.

She smiles at me, a shy little look in her eyes. Her dark hair’s down and her bright eyes shine at me. She’s wearing a low-cut dark top tucked into high-waisted jeans that make her ass look fantastic, I can’t help but notice, as she walks into my living room.

“Nice place,” she says.

I shrug a little and shut the door. The living room is small but cozy, with a large couch, a simple coffee table, and a flatscreen TV. Some sports memorabilia line the shelves, and a few paintings hang on the walls. “Mostly thrift store stuff,” I say as she wanders over to my bookcase and frowns, leaning close.