by Lulu Pratt
“I know what Title IX is,” I said. “But I don’t see how it applies here.”
Grace flipped her hair. As pre-law, she delighted in answering legal questions as though she’d already passed her LSAT and was on her way to Harvard.
She explained, “Well, you know how Title IX also covers sexual assault?”
I nodded, vaguely aware.
“So,” she went on, “it kind of covers two prongs of the Alan and Melanie situation. One, their relationship could mean that a woman athlete has been treated differently from a male athlete, and two, because Alan was in a position of power over Melanie, he could also be brought up on misconduct charges. I’m kind of oversimplifying it, but… yeah.”
Had the air grown thinner? Because I was having a hard time breathing. I turned away from Grace and put a hand to my chest, to ensure that my lungs were still pumping.
Obviously, I’d understood that getting involved with Simon could result in backlash. I knew he might lose his job, or I might lose my scholarship. But I thought those were kind of opaque formalities, like we’d be punished and that would be the end of it. I didn’t think a theoretical relationship between us would trigger legal action.
I asked Grace the question that felt most relevant to me, “But what if it’s consensual?” I quickly corrected myself. “What if it was consensual?”
She shrugged. “Like, whenever somebody with some kind of institutional control over another person sleeps with that person, the lines are blurry. But okay, sure, let’s say it was consensual. Then no one would lawyer up unless they were at the risk of legal action by the school — for instance, losing a job or losing a scholarship.”
I froze. Was she answering the questions casually, or did she know exactly what I’d been asking? Her face betrayed no sign.
“All that being said,” she continued, “what really matters is that, either way, the school could be found in a violation of the Title IX rules as they pertain to women’s sports. If a school is found in violation of that, the courts could theoretically pull funding from the school — provided it’s a public university, like ULA — or shut down entire wings of the athletics department until the case was resolved.”
I gasped, a noise that was far too dramatic for somebody without stakes in the conversation. Grace quirked her eyebrow, but ignored the point.
“Is that all true?” I questioned. “Are you sure?”
She shrugged. “No, I’m not sure. Title IX is good, but it’s complicated. There’s every chance I don’t ‘know my IX.’”
This time, I didn’t inhale sharply, but exhaled easily. So it was possible Grace was just talking out of her ass.
And then she kept talking.
“But,” she said, “of course, our conference itself could choose to suspend the team in question, if there was a relationship between a coach and a player. Now I really don’t know how that works, but we do technically have a governing board that can force a school out for the season.”
Darkness seemed to be closing in on the edges of my vision.
I’d been prepared — I shouldn’t say that. Rather, I’d been considering what might happen if I were to, say, fuck Simon’s brains out. I knew there would be consequences for both him and me, if any, but they seemed like individual, and frankly earned, consequences. Like, I would know our relationship — I’m getting ahead of myself — our intercourse — was consensual, but I wouldn’t blame the school for raising questions. Historically, they’d be right — when situations like this had happened in the past, they more often than not weren’t consensual, not really.
I wasn’t ready to face the individual fallout, which was why I’d kept my grubby little paws off Simon’s hot bod. But I’d thought, maybe one day, I’d get so needy that I’d just like, let loose, give in and devour him.
However, there was no single solitary world in which I would put the Stallions in jeopardy because of my own actions. I could make big decisions for myself, but I absolutely couldn’t make them for my team. What if my brief dalliance affected the lives of the people I loved most on this campus?
I needed final confirmation from Grace.
“So Alan and Melanie,” I began, electing to distance myself from this as much as possible, “the two of them sleeping together, and continuing to work for the team, that could’ve gotten us kicked out of the conference?”
Grace hedged, “I think so, yeah. I couldn’t say if it was likely or not, but it is definitely a possibility.”
My legs, growing weak, realized for me that I’d been standing throughout the entire conversation. Now, I threw myself into an overstuffed bean bag, willing the folds of fabric to suck me into their depths, obscuring the outside world from my vision forever and ever.
“You okay, Catya?” came Grace’s voice from somewhere beyond the tiny realm of my squishy chair.
“Yeah,” I muttered. “I’m fine.”
“You seem upset.”
Shit. I couldn’t let her think that this discussion had been, in any way, a personal thing. So I summoned my team captain instincts, and let them serve as a smokescreen.
I explained, “I am upset — about losing Melanie, about losing Alan, about the whole thing. It just feels like a really unfortunate situation. I’m sorry that it had to happen to our team, and I’m even more sorry that I never addressed it with the other girls. Seems like something I should’ve, you know, brought up in the locker room, in case anybody wanted to air some feelings about it.”
Grace denied this, saying, “I know you take being captain seriously, but this just isn’t part of the job description. Don’t ask so much of yourself.”
Beat.
“And besides,” she went on, “I’m sad about Melanie, but I ain’t mad at Alan’s replacement.”
“Simon?” I asked. Duh, Catya, my brain responded.
“Duh, Catya,” Grace said aloud, once again reminding me of our borderline creepy mind meld. “He’s like, stupid hot.”
“Ha, yeah,” I tried to chuckle back, but my voice cracked in the middle.
Grace eyed me, a look of inquisition flashed across her face, but she must have decided against it. With a very specific, very careful tone, she returned, “Too bad he’s still our coach. And still, y’know, kinda old.”
Was she trying to give me a warning? Or protect me? Had she once again read my mind and responded directly to its innermost contents?
No, I was just being superstitious, or overanalyzing things. Simon and I had behaved totally aboveboard during practice. She couldn’t have seen anything untoward.
Right?
Nervous and unsure, I replied with a forced laugh, “Yeah, he’s old.”
“Okay, twenty-seven isn’t that old,” she allowed. “And like, God willing I look that hot at twenty-seven.”
“Amen.”
We smiled at one another.
“Do you need help up from that ridiculous bean bag?” she asked.
I tried to squirm out of it, and then realized the extent of my predicament.
“Yes, please,” I whimpered.
She strode over to my bean bag and stuck out a long, strong arm. My hand clasped hers and she forcefully tugged me out of the bag, straight to standing.
“Thanks for the lift,” I joked.
“Anytime. You ready for bed?”
“Yeah.”
I was more than ready for bed. I was ready for about three days’ worth of bed. Maybe this time, Simon wouldn’t haunt my dreams. The thought was welcome, but seemed unlikely. Everything I did now was tinged with him, and even sleep wasn’t safe.
But it never hurt to hope, right?
“Let’s go to bed,” I said.
Chapter 11
Simon
Mmm, something felt good.
Yes, that was it, right there, that was, oh, so nice.
My eyes opened, still thick with a layer of sleep, and I jumped up when I realized that, in my lucid state, I’d been grinding a raging morning wood against my mat
tress.
You know, when I entered my twenties, I’d sort of hoped waking up with a boner would wear off, but it never really did, which made mornings quite the task — I had to jack off before I could even go about my business or I’d have blue balls all day.
But even then, this morning’s, er, offering, was still unusually large and hard. I tried to recall my dreams in the way that recent risers do — the moment I grasped onto a thread of a narrative, the entire stitching fell apart between my fingers.
I expected to be met with this familiar sense of having lost something I’d had only moments ago.
I was wrong.
Immediately, it dawned on me that I’d been dreaming about Catya. Again.
Even now, I could see the way that Dream Catya had caressed me, how I’d held her in my arms, our bodies moving with a passion. Her nipple. Her ass. Her hip. Her mouth. The sweet nothings that lay below the band of her underwear. I was awake, but I could still taste her.
“Stop it,” I scolded myself aloud. “Not okay.”
I shook the taste of her off my tongue. It didn’t matter how turned on I was, the more I let myself think about Catya that way, the harder it would be to resist the feelings in her presence. And that was a battle I needed to keep fighting, for her sake as much as mine. She was still young, though she didn’t seem it, and I was still her coach, though I didn’t feel it. It was hard to make sense of the confines of our situation when she seemed so mature beyond her years — and, if I was being honest, so into me.
Last night. That was why I’d awoken so hard this morning. Last night, what I’d seen her doing… it seemed impolite to even reflect on it, but can you blame me?
I’d been telling the truth, for what it was worth. I really had waited for everybody to go home so I could retrieve my stupid towel, and I really had shouted into the locker room to check if anybody was there. I swear, I wasn’t some kind of crazy perv who just voluntarily rushed into women’s changing rooms to check them out.
But so I’d wandered to the showers, in search of said towel, and there she was. Have you ever seen The Birth of Venus, by Botticelli? It’s a famous old painting, where Venus stands, clothed only by her tumbling hair, in the open mouth of a scallop shell. The painting itself isn’t sexually explicit, but the way Venus just barely covers her naked body with long locks of hair is arousing in and of itself, the way she looks to be merely playing at modesty.
I don’t know what I’m saying, but it must be that — Catya looked like an artist’s rendition of pleasure, so hopelessly ecstatic was she. Her entire body seemed bent to the purpose of reaching orgasm, her fingers deep inside her like it was searching for buried gold. And she, like Venus, had long hair that covered her nipples.
My glimpse of Catya’s intimate time had only lasted for a moment. I’d immediately turned around, to shield both her dignity and my boner. While she searched for my towel, I touched my dick, hoping to tamp the erection down, but I was so aroused that the merest touch was enough.
I came in my pants. The sticky white substance sprayed, and I did my best to remain standing, knowing full well that Catya was behind me. I’d never experienced a nearly touchless orgasm before, but it was something else. Sweat dripped down my face, and other bodily fluids dripped down my thigh. By the time she passed me the towel, I was panting and spent, and hoping to all hell that she didn’t know what had just transpired.
But my body’s sheer delight didn’t make up for the fact that this was wrong, so, so wrong. As I’d gone to bed, I swore to myself that I would never touch her, and I’d do my best to not even think about her. My spontaneous orgasm had been the last time I would allow myself to think of her in a sexual way.
Then, of course, my subconscious had some different ideas. It helpfully provided me with a litany of images of Catya in the exact sexual way I was trying hard to not consider. Damned brain.
What could I do? I allowed that I couldn’t fight my subconscious, something over which I had no control. So… guess that meant I’d have to restrict my conscious, and with it, my actions.
So when I arose that morning, hard as a rock, I vowed that I wouldn’t jack off. Not to the thought of Catya, never again. She deserved better than me, some old horndog. And I deserved to keep my job. Was this what it felt like to be a star-crossed lover? Because Romeo and Juliet always seemed romantic, but this was awful. Crappy. The worst.
I twiddled my fingers, trying to keep them occupied such that they wouldn’t slip down to play with my cock, those little bastards. What to do, what to do…
My mum!
Sorry, er, let me seriously clarify that statement. I meant that I’d call my mum. It’d been awhile since we’d spoken, and if anything could kill my boner, it was talking to her. Perfect.
It was still early in the day, so it should’ve been about mid-afternoon for her, right around when she’d want to be taking a break from her shift. She’d worked at the Canning Town tube station since I was a little boy, and not much had changed — the trains still ran on time, sort of, and even after all the years of announcements on microphones, her voice had stayed the same. I think she was coming up on her twentieth year at the job. God, could that be right, twenty years? I suddenly felt even older than when I’d been thinking about Catya.
I grabbed my computer, pulled up Skype, and gave her a ring. We only ever video conferenced via an app, as neither she nor I could afford the cost of a long-distance cell call. Maybe someday.
One, two, three rings… just as I was beginning to think she must be busy, and I’d call back later, she answered.
“Oh, Simon, dear!” she exclaimed. “How lovely to hear from you.”
“Hey, Mum,” I replied, smiling into the camera.
I’d left the UK a few years back and hadn’t returned since. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to, of course, but with immigration and money and so on, it wasn’t feasible.
“How’s life?” I asked, knowing she’d give the same answer as always.
Sure enough, she replied, “Oh, the usual, dear, I’m getting on.”
This, I’d learned, was her polite way of saying that the job was still boring as all hell and a bad living to boot, but that she refused to make mincemeat over it. She was a tough old biscuit, that one.
“Got any EastEnders updates?” I queried. It was her favorite show on the telly, and she watched it with an almost religious fervor. When asked about it, she could go on for hours. While I personally thought the show was absolute rubbish, I enjoyed seeing her face light up.
She went on a rant about something or another that this Ian fellow had done, and to be honest I tuned out. When she took a breath ten minutes later, I nodded cheerfully and said that the show sounded like it was going in an exciting direction.
“Oh no, love, it’s bollocks,” she explained. “But what are you going to do?”
This was her attitude concerning everything — ultimate resignation in the face of mediocrity. I don’t mean to sound harsh, it was just a defining trait of hers. After a lifetime of getting knocked down, resignation was about the best she could manage.
“But how are you, dearest heart?” she inquired with the sincerity only a mother could muster. “How’s the new job? Settling in all right? Good team? Tell me everything.”
I smiled, and replied, “It’s great, Mum, thanks for asking. I’ve got plenty of responsibility, the campus is nice, my room and board are free, and the team shows real promise. Did I miss anything?”
She laughed, and I smiled once more. I loved her laugh. Even an ocean away, that sound was unmistakable.
“Do you like the girls?” she questioned casually.
I froze. What should I say? The truth? Because the truth was that I liked the girls far, far too much. Well, girl, anyways. Singular.
With those maternal instincts, she homed in on my hesitation, and asked, “There’s nothing wrong, is there?”
“No, Mum, nothing at all.”
“You seem upset.”
I sighed. Why did she have to be so insightful? “I’m not upset, it’s just — this is a big step up for me, and I don’t want to botch it.”
“Is that all?” she said. “Simon, you’ve been training for this since you were a wee one. I told all the neighbors—”
“Mum!”
“I’m your mother, I get to brag. I told them all, and you know something? Even Miss Read was quite chuffed.”
That made me blush. Miss Read was the old bag who lived three doors down, and she positively despised my mum and me. When I was a kid she’d scowl at me, and when I was a teenager she’d call the bobbies on me and my mates just to prove a point. So her being proud of me, well… I wasn’t ashamed to say it, it filled me with pride in myself, too.
“And I told them all what you were making, in US dollars of course—”
I groaned. “That’s not appropriate.”
“Sue me. I told them, and they said you’ll be fit to be king soon! When you come back home, you won’t even want to chat with the likes of us.”
“Don’t be crazy,” I chided. “I’ll always be a Tower kid be at heart.” I paused, and added, “But that doesn’t mean I won’t get you that little cottage out in Brighton.”
Her one dream, since she was a small girl, was to retire to that seaside town. We’d visit once a year when I was growing up, and she’d show me all the cottages she had her eye on. Sometimes, we’d even drop into a Realtor’s office, though of course given her salary, nothing ever came of it. When I was only ten or so, I’d sworn to her that I’d grow up and earn enough to buy her a cottage. She’d called me her knight in shining armor.
“You don’t have to buy me a cottage, dear boy,” she said. “It was sweet when you were a child, but I’m not going to hold you to it.”
I shook my head. “Don’t be ridiculous. A promise is a promise.”
