by Knox, Abby
Of course I’ve touched myself before, but it’s never that easy to find the spot where I’m most aroused. Right now, however, my clit is unmissable. It’s hard and needy and begging for relief. I part my folds and rub urgent circles around the tight bud. It’s never felt this urgent.
I should not be doing this here. I should wait until bedtime, where I can be alone, hidden under the privacy of my blankets. But it’s too much. I have to have relief now.
I close my eyes and all I see is Coach Ford—his grumpy face and huge, shining bulge and the water dripping down his beautiful legs. Those images, along with the rubbing, set me off without warning. It’s so shocking and such an enormous wave of pleasure that I’m not expecting it.
My foot slips off the bench. I yelp as I try to compensate by shifting my weight backward, but my other foot slips out from under me, and I topple to the floor. My hand grabs at the shower curtain as I go, causing the rod, curtain and rings follow me down.
When my teammates come and find me tangled up under the curtain, I lie there like a dolt. Hunter turns off the shower and asks me what happened. Everyone is looking at me.
I lie through my teeth. “Lightheaded. I guess I blacked out.”
Hunter helps me up and sets me down on the bench.
“You’re getting your towel wet,” I say weakly.
“Shut up. Are you OK? Did you hit your head?”
I shake my head.
“I’ll go tell Coach,” says Hadley.
“No!” I urge. “I’m fine. Don’t bother him. I just need some water.”
“But she could sue the school…”
“Oh, Hadley! You would say that,” says Hunter, referring to the Hadley’s law firm family and its long history of attempts — and failures — to force the firing of one Greenbridge headmistress or another over the years. Yeah…this school is full of stories like that.
7
Weston
Adelaide shaved six seconds off her time today, and her muscles are getting stronger, more flexible. She’s a beast of a swimmer.
She must already know that.
8
Addie
At Friday’s practice, Coach Ford is dressed in a baggy t-shirt and loose board shorts.
Hunter frowns and mutters to me, “Where’d the tight little trunks go to?”
I shrug. I’ll admit to myself his new getup is little unprofessional, but at least I don’t have to look at the outline of his dick and then nearly concuss myself in the shower.
That night in bed, I ruminate on why Weston might have switched to baggy clothes instead of getting into the pool with us.
Ever since meeting him on the first day of practice, I have tossed and turned at night thinking about him.
It’s not fair.
A coach is supposed to be an old, boring adult who wears dad jeans, drives a minivan, and talks about the days before everyone had cell phones and social media. Coaches are not supposed to be unbelievably hot, recent college graduates.
You know what’s also not fair? The fact that I’m eighteen, and he doesn’t recognize me as a fully grown woman. All he cares about is whipping the team into shape and making Ridley demonstrate proper form. Like she’s a freaking goddess of the pool or something. Well, compared to me, she is.
I’ll show him. By the end of this season, I’ll have transformed myself from the team’s weakest link to the fastest female swimmer in school history. Maybe then he’ll speak to me like the adult I am. Maybe then I’ll be able to speak to him without my voice going all stupid and breathy when he’s around.
The truth is, anybody would have the drive to achieve her goals with Coach Ford in authority over them. He’s so commanding, it’s almost scary sometimes. When he furrows his brow as he looks over our disappointing times, it just makes me want to work harder. When he barks orders at us, my heart hammers, eager to get into the water and show him what I’m capable of.
And, oh god, when he blows his whistle, down-deep excitement blooms inside me knowing his eyes are going to be on me while I do whatever he asks. My craving to please him, to draw those deep brown eyes and severe expression my way, is all I can think about.
Unable to sleep, yet again, I give up. I roll over and pick up my phone and begin scrolling through my favorite social media timeline.
Coach Ford and I are not friends online, but there’s no reason I can’t creep on his page. I’m sure all the girls do it. Hunter even dared to send him a friend request. I wonder if he actually responded to that.
One way to find out… Unfortunately his privacy settings are such that I can’t see who he’s friends with. He doesn’t even list a relationship status of any kind. Frustrating.
I scroll down, but can see very little. Figures that a guy like that would also be social media savvy. I click on his cover photo, which looks like a group shot of him and a bunch of friends. They all look about his age, and from the surroundings, it appears they are at a concert together. Three guys and three females. One of the women, a redhead about his age, has her arm around his waist. The image shouldn’t be so upsetting to me.
But it’s not just upsetting. I’m obsessed with it. I have to find out who she is. Is she a girlfriend? Sister? They don’t look alike.
I touch two fingers to my phone screen to enlarge the image to look for any more clues about his relationship to this woman. And that’s when my finger slips.
Oops.
I gasp and clumsily drop my phone.
Staring at the ceiling for a moment, I can’t believe what just happened.
My stomach churns. My heart races. My jaw drops. My face, hands and feet start to sweat.
What. Have. I. Done.
I’ll tell you what I’ve done. I’ve just “liked” a photo of my super-hot swim coach at 3 a.m. on a Tuesday. My pulse pounds hard in my ears. In my panic, I have trouble finding the button to “unlike” the photo. I finally find it and undo it. But the damage is done. He’s definitely going to see a notification about this.
“Way to go, Addie,” I say to myself. “That’s one way to get his attention.”
9
Addie
The next morning as I wait for Hunter to pick me up for school, I experience a whole new kind of cringe when it becomes clear that Coach Ford has blocked me on all social media.
I climb into Hunter’s new Infiniti and fail to look as impressed as I should.
She counsels me on the way to school.
“Listen. We are goddesses. We hold our heads high. And besides that, there’s no way he told anybody about you creeping on his page. What good would it do a teacher to mention to anyone that a female student liked one of his shirtless profile pictures at 3 a.m.? They would be asking, what is Weston Ford doing to get the attention of young girls? Nah. He’s too smart for that.”
“You’re right,” I exhale. “And by the way, tell your parents thanks for the upgrade. The other car was beat to shit.”
“Oh. Right. Actually, they’re pretty pissed about this car because, well, I sort of got my way even after they put their foot down.” She bites her lip and seems to be concentrating harder on the road than what is normal for her. I’m thankful for that, but something is up.
“Sounds like quite a story. Care to spill it?”
She takes a deep breath and exhales a dismissive laugh. “Oh, you know, how it is. Daddies can’t say no to their little girls sometimes.”
“True,” I say, still not believing her but changing the subject anyway. “How are things going with the winter musical?”
She nods. “The costumes are coming along. It’s a lot of work. But the truth is, I miss acting. And actually that’s something I need to talk to you about. I’m thinking of going away for a few days over Christmas. So I won’t be around for our annual shopping trip. I ... uh ... I have a meeting with a talent agency.”
Shocked by this news, I silently scream while clapping my hands. Finally, I shout, “I’m so excited for you! I bet your parents are over t
he moon! No wonder you got a new ride!”
“I haven’t exactly told them.” She shrugs. “They’re not excited about my plans to incorporate auditions in the big city into my independent study next semester. So ... I might need you to cover for me over winter break.”
I’m a little confused, but of course I’ll cover for her. I’m also sad that we’ll be breaking our Christmas shopping tradition, but then I have a great idea.
“Hell,” I offer, “Why don’t I just go with you to New York? We’ll go shopping together! Much better shopping up there!”
Hunter visibly winces at the suggestion.
“Hunter, what’s going on with you?”
She puts on a brave smile. “It’s complicated.”
My breath comes out in a louder huff of indignance than I intended. “You could just be straight with your parents and tell them the truth. Then you wouldn’t have to sneak off and make things complicated.”
She cocks her head but keeps her eyes on the road. “Well, they’re going to ask a lot of questions about where I might be staying and what I’m going to do for money.”
“All valid questions. Do you have an answer for that?”
I watch her swallow nervously and take a sip from her water bottle.
“I just can’t answer that right now, and I wish everyone would just give me some space to figure things out.”
* * *
Bummed and confused, I can barely focus on swim practice, but I power through.
My social media embarrassment is overshadowed by the fact that my best friend is acting super weird. So weird, in fact, that she doesn’t even show up to eat lunch with me under our favorite tree. We’ve been eating lunch together under this same tree since we started attending Greenbridge Academy in elementary school.
It’s just as well; I’m not feeling hungry anyway.
* * *
While Coach Ford spends most of practice going over the plan for our first meet this Sunday, I keep trying to get Hunter to make eye contact with me. For some reason she keeps darting her eyes over to Ridley, who is looking sullen and is quietly spouting off to Hadley about one injustice or another.
“And my dad’s flying off to New York over Christmas, but I have to stay here in dumb old boring Greenbridge with my mom and her latest fiance, plus the dorky soon-to-be step-sibling. Just the latest in her attempts to model the perfect, traditional family holiday for her Instagram followers.”
Hadley says, “Yeah, but think of the guilt presents you’ll be getting out of it from your dad! What do you think it’ll be? Front row at Fashion Week?”
“Please. That was last year’s guilt present. And anyway, I doubt he has any guilt at all. He’s been acting really strange for the last month. He’s suddenly got this whole thing about me needing a better work ethic, saying I’m not getting a new car for graduation, but he’s instead gifting me his old Land Rover.”
Hadley laughs. “And by old you mean, what? Five thousand miles?”
“I have busted my ass for how long and done everything my parents ever asked me to do, and I don’t even get new car smell? I don’t know what the hell is going on with him.”
I glance at Hunter and she’s positively green.
“Hunter, what is it? You look like you’re going to ralph!” I whisper.
“It’s too much to discuss at swim practice, I’ll tell you that much,” she says, anxiously tucking stray hairs back into her swim cap.
Coach Ford’s voice booms over the whole scene. “If you girls are quite finished with your drama, we can get started.”
I turn to glare at him. He is openly, brazenly staring at me. My eyes travel downward to his baggy board shorts. I can’t see an outline at all, which is a damn atrocity. Forcing myself to meet his gaze again, frustration heats my cheeks.
He purses his lips around the whistle, furrows his brow, and lets out one short blast.
“Here’s how this Sunday’s meet against Saint Mary’s Prep is going to go…”
He continues, and I take it in while staring at him in challenge.
When he’s finished, he asks if anybody has any questions.
For the first time in the history of swim practice, even going back to the age of twelve, I have a damn question.
“I do.”
He raises one of his brows at me. “Shermer?”
“Yes, my question is… How dare you call us ‘girls’ and belittle our problems by calling it drama? We are fucking women!”
The howls of shocked laughter bounce off the water and the walls, but I pay no attention. I keep my eyes on him and he keeps his on me.
For a second he narrows them at me like he’s considering what to do next. Considering what kind of punishment to dole out. He crosses his arms in front of him, his whistle in one hand. He presses it to his lips, just tapping it there as he thinks for a minute.
All my teammates are chattering because they still can’t get over what I just said. Coach puts the whistle between his lips and gives a quick burst to silence everyone.
“All right, Shermer,” he says, “it’s about time you woke up. Stay mad, get your ass in the water and use that fire to show us what we can expect from you on Sunday.”
I can hardly believe it. I just cussed him out—about as heavily as I will ever cuss out anyone—and he’s not going to punish me.
I hop on the platform and dive in at his whistle.
His loud, angry corrections through the bullhorn compel me to go faster, push harder, do better. The more he shouts, the more his stern voice echoes off the damp walls, the more I want to please him. And beg him to keep pushing me. To give me no mercy.
I want this man to ruin me. Wreck me. Take me in his office and break my cherry with his fingers. Oh my god, do I ever want that—the sooner the better.
When I’ve finished with my practice event and hoisted myself on to the pool deck, he marches up to me. My blood rushes and I gasp, but then realize he’s coming over to show me the timer. He leans in close to show me my time on his watch. I pop my goggles onto my head and look closely, but all I sense is his cologne. This is as close as we’ve ever been to each other, physically, and it’s everything I can do to keep my knees from buckling under the spell of his fresh, woodsy scent.
He speaks, leaning in closer to make sure I see my numbers. “Shaved off eight seconds, Shermer. I knew you had it in you.”
I just stand there and breathe him in. Everything is falling apart around me. I’m sad, I’m angry, I’m confused. But I stand there for a few seconds and breathe him into my lungs.
Weston Ford. My torturer, my hero.
Before I can catch myself, my eyes flutter closed. It’s just for a second. When I open them, everyone is staring at me—including him.
For a brief moment it feels like everything around us has fallen away. The pool is gone, the people are gone. He and I are equals. And I feel calm. Everything is going to be OK.
“You OK, Shermer?”
I nod and turn away, harsh reality coming back into focus.
His voice is sharp again, booming, like he’s preparing us for battle.
Somehow, he and I are going to happen.
It has to.
Or I might go mad.
10
Weston
So. She can stick up for herself.
Good girl.
I ask her to stay after practice; I have a valid excuse, because her first progress report is due for her independent study.
We meet in public because I haven’t completely lost control of my senses. Her and I, alone in my office way back in the aquatics wing, is a recipe for shenanigans. So what am I thinking, asking her to meet with me now, instead of during school hours? The answer to that is simple: I just want to see her. Talk to her. Be near her.
She offers to meet me outside on the walking path of the school grounds.
I wait for Shermer by the main entrance with its massive limestone archway. When she arrives, she still looks salty.
When she approaches me, I tell her, “You look full of piss and vinegar.” It comes out dumb, not good-natured ribbing, as I intended.
“What?” She furrows her brow at me.
I wave it off. “Something my grandmother used to say about me. Forget it. Let’s walk.”
Shermer and I make our way along the stone walkways that encircle the high school building. The conversation goes as expected, as she fills me in on her progress on her project. Frankly, I don’t care as much as I should, and most of it goes right over my head. But I do enjoy listening to her voice. She radiates confidence when she talks about things she cares about. Her eyes become fierce. The young woman who usually lacks confidence disappears and she shows me who she really is.
Before I realize it, we’ve walked away from the high school building and are clear on the other side of campus near the elementary building that served as a convent a long time ago. I pause to sit on a stone bench under the covered walkway near the bird-watching garden. A neglected, moss-covered statue of Saint Francis holding a bowl of bird seed watches over the place.
Shermer finishes catching me up, and I make the mistake of broaching another topic.
“We need to talk about the Facebook thing,” I say before I lose my nerve.
She shifts uncomfortably on the stone bench. When I turn to look at her, I see she’s mortified and angry. But I know the fierce, confident woman is still inside there, somewhere.
“This was a mistake,” she says, her eyes blinking rapidly, like she’s looking for something to stare at that’s not me. “I should go.”
