Dirty Curve

She stops on the second step, and I place myself in front of her, moving down a couple spots, so we’re eye level.

I gently grab her arm to hold her there, but when her eyes shoot to mine with undeniable concern, I quickly let go.

“Look, sorry I said all that, all right? But I don’t appreciate you bad-mouthing someone who’s like family to me.”

Her jaw sets, her lips pressing tight. “I can ... respect that.” She swallows. “We’ll avoid the topic to cut out the problem.” She speaks quietly, gives a tight-lipped grin, and walks on past.

I turn and watch her walk away, which is a total waste of time, since I can’t make out the shape of her ass hidden by all that cotton.

It’s maddening, and you know what? So is she.

Swear she does all this to irk my nerves.

Speaks but says virtually nothing.

Stares but hides her every emotion.

Wears that stupid fucking sweater.

It’s almost as if the girl lives in some sort of invisible box, one she keeps locked tight around her, and if I were to try to punch past it, I’d be met with a triple layer of bulletproof fucking glass. My knuckles would be reduced to fractured fragments first try.

Not that I’d try.

If I did, though, I already know she’d simply keep doing what she annoyingly does.

The exact opposite of what I expect her to.

q

Meyer

I hustle away from Tobias as quickly as possible, biting the inside of my cheek to keep my emotions in check. Emotions that seem to be all over the place.

Having to sit and listen to him praise his beloved coach isn’t something I factored in, nor is it something I can stomach.

It was clear, right there in those blue eyes of his. His coach means a lot to him. The man is obviously an important part of his life.

I bet he’s supportive and uplifting, maybe even a father figure for him, like a good coach would be.

Like a good man would be.

I wonder what he’d say if he knew, if his opinion would change.

Not that it matters.

Reality is as sad as it is serene.

Speaking of the devil, a text comes through demanding my presence at the man’s office, so off I go.

Of course, he’s on the phone when I get in, and leaves me to wait there for several minutes without so much as acknowledging I’ve entered the space

I stand several feet away from the wooden desk, fighting a frown as I stare at the plaque proudly displayed at the edge of it.

Coach Thomas Reid it reads in bold, golden letters, Coach of the Year printed in cursive just beneath it.

The sole qualification must have been having a winning season.

“Meyer,” he snaps, and my head jerks up.

“What?”

“Are you hearing me?” he asks, but he’s not looking for a response, his obnoxious sigh quickly follows. “I said I’ve pulled a few of your guys and gave them to that other girl.”

My muscles clench and I take a step closer. “What do you mean you pulled a few of my guys?”

“I mean, I pulled some of your ‘students’ and assigned them to the girl you recommended.”

“You said you needed another person dedicated to your department. I never would have introduced her if I had known she would be taking from my schedule.”

“I did need someone, and now I have her, and I’ll give her whoever the hell I wish.”

I take a deep breath, look at the one and only potential bright side here and hope that just maybe ...

“Tobias will take precedence.” He kills my thought quickly. “The others you can fit in wherever so long as they pass their classes and can play, but you had too many blocked out days for the hours my pitcher requires.” He tosses a paper my way.

It falls to my feet, so I bend to pick it up, noting Tobias is slotted Monday through Saturday now, doubling our time together.

“This ...” Anxiety begins to build, making my skin warm and itchy. “This isn’t normal. This is more time than the students with learning disabilities are allotted.”

He shrugs, daring me to object.

I quickly scan along the page, my head shaking frantically.

“You took four.” My eyes dart up to his. “I’m being cut four students to accommodate one?”

“The time has been filled in.”

“Time?! I’m paid per student. If I have him six days a week, I’m losing a quarter of my income. I’ll have to find another job and—” I stop abruptly.

He leans forward, his light blue eyes hard and disgusted. “Not my problem, is it? Your job is to tutor the boys I need you to, that’s what you signed up for, and I need you to tutor Tobias Cruz. Our schedule is getting tougher, we have Cal Poly coming up in three weeks, and I need to know school won’t be a stress for him.”