Coach Long

by K. Webster

A few kids turn our way, curious about the outburst.

  “You know why,” I seethe, my eyes dropping to her chest briefly before raking over the paper.

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah,” I agree. “Wow.”

  She stalks back over to her desk, but not before muttering that I’m a prick under her breath.

  I call after her. “Detention, Emo.”

  I cannot believe he gave me detention. Detention! I’ve barely been at this school a day and I’m already in trouble. Which seems to follow me around like a lost little puppy. I can’t seem to tell it no, I just feed and nurture it. Hell, I even named it. This particular trouble’s name is Asshole.

  Dad is going to be so pissed.

  I’m already in so much hot water with him. Sure, I’m eighteen now, but Dad always reminds me that as long as I’m under his roof, I have to follow his rules. Chicago nearly broke our family apart and it was all my fault. Quickly, I snuff out those thoughts because I’ll get upset all over again. My thoughts drift back to detention. I’m confused about how I’m going to try out for the track team if I have to spend an hour after school with my ass stuck in a chair.

  Way to nail your first day, River.

  The rest of my classes are easy and I even have that funny kid, Caleb, in a few of them. I hadn’t expected to make a friend the first day but he didn’t seem put off by my bad attitude. Unlike Coach Long. Everett.

  As I walk back to his class where detention is being held after the last bell rings, I try not to think about how attractive he is. This morning, I’d been shocked speechless when Mr. Polk introduced me to the brooding track and field coach. He was tall, well over six feet, and beautiful. I’d been drawn in to his handsome features almost immediately. His dark hair was messy and he was sporting a close-shaved beard. He’d flared his nostrils as if he was angry about something before I ruined his day further and his dark brown eyes flickered with barely controlled rage. And yet, despite the fury storming inside of him, he’d stood there with his sculpted arms crossed over his chest, acting the part of responsible adult.

  But then the asshole opened his sexy mouth and made fun of my name. Dissed my style. Called me a stripper.

  I’m pissed by the time I reach his classroom. When I walk in, he’s grading those stupid pre-tests he made us take earlier. He’s not frowning though. His handsome face is impassive as he scribbles corrections on a sheet. I stare at his jaw a little too long. Strong. Chiseled.

  Why does he have to be so good-looking?

  “Take a seat, Emo.”

  I bristle and lift my gaze to find him staring at me. His lip is slightly curled up in disdain which makes me want to flip him off. But something tells me he won’t take that well. Instead, I ignore his stupid nickname and stomp through the classroom. His eyes never leave mine. When I reach him, I drop my bag to the floor and sit in the chair backwards so I can face him. He crosses his arms over his muscular chest and we have a stare down.

  “What’s your deal, Coach?” I ask with a frown. “You’ve had it out for me since the moment you saw me.”

  His features soften just a bit. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You’re a bully.”

  Shock morphs his features and his mouth opens. “What?”

  “You made fun of me in front of all those kids,” I accuse, hurt lacing my voice. I dealt with enough of this shit at my old school. Especially after word got out of what I did. “You called me a stripper.”

  He chuckles darkly and I’ll be damned if it doesn’t make my core throb. “I did not call you a stripper.” His eyes flicker to my chest and he nods. “But that, right there, is unacceptable and you know it.”

  “I don’t like bras,” I argue.

  “And I don’t like seeing little girl tits while I’m trying to do my damn job,” he snaps.

  We both stare at each other for a brief second before horror washes over his features.

  “Fu—” He stops mid-word, then scrubs at his scruffy beard in frustration. “I’m sorry. That was out of line.”

  I smirk. “They’re not that little.”

  He cracks a small smile. “We’re not talking about the size of them.”

  “As long as we don’t discuss the size, we can speak of them?” I challenge with a grin. “Like the color of my nip—”

  “Emo,” he warns, that chiseled jaw clenching.

  “Fine,” I huff. “But can we just end detention already so I can show you I’m good enough for the team?”

  His angry exterior seems to fade some. “You’re not wearing that.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  We walk outside side by side. The football players are practicing on the field but we have the track to ourselves. I’m surprised when Coach sits and starts stretching. I try not to provoke him and follow his lead, keeping things simple. The last thing I need is to have every football player on the team knowing about my flexibility. I don’t need a fan club.

  “What did you do at your old school?” His brow lifts as he reaches for his toes.

  I’m stunned silent for a moment as I admire his form. His gray T-shirt with the school’s bear mascot on the front is practically molded to his body. It makes me wonder what he looks like underneath.

  “I said stretch, Emo,” he barks. A lock of dark hair has fallen in front of one of his eyes, giving him a wild look about him.

  I nervously play with my tongue ring and spread my legs until I’m practically in the splits. Then, I flatten my chest out on the asphalt and reach forward with my arms. The burn feels good.

  “Were you a dancer?” he asks, his tone gruff.

  I walk my way back up on my hands into a sitting position. “Ballet since I was five. It wasn’t until I hit high school that I decided I wanted to run track.”

  “A novice then,” he states.

  A harsh laugh escapes me. “Novice? I can probably run faster than you.” I mutter the last part under my breath. “Asshole.”

  “I highly doubt that,” he snorts.

  I lift my arms in the air and stretch them above my head. “I’d be willing to wager.”

  His eyes narrow as he glares at me. I’m not sure what it is about me that pisses people off—especially him. “I don’t bet.”

  I twist my body and reach toward my left toes. “Then you’ll always lose.”

  He scowls and quickly stands. “Up. Show me what you got. What do you want to do?”

  I rise to my feet and peel off my T-shirt. “Hurdles.”

  “Glad to see you’re wearing a bra this time,” he says in a dry tone, motioning at my black sports bra. His gaze drops to my stomach before he storms away from me toward the hurdles.

  Following after him, I wonder why his panties are once again in a wad. “You’ve got a winning personality. Anyone ever tell you that?”

  He ignores me and makes an exaggerated gesture to the hurdles. “Impress me, Emo. I don’t let just anyone on my team. Especially not foul-mouthed brats.”

  Fire explodes within me and I actually do flip him off this time. “Bully.”

  His hands go to his hips and he spreads his feet apart as he watches me. He looks good enough to eat in his navy blue track pants. God, I hate him.

  “I won’t time you at first. I want to see your form,” he instructs, ignoring my outburst. “Go.”

  I walk over to the starting point and dig my toe in. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and exhale all of my frustration. Then, I fly.

  I run faster than I ever have before and leap over each and every hurdle without problem. By the time I reach the end, my chest is about to explode and I’m grinning like an idiot. I wish he would have timed me. I know it would have been a personal best. When I turn around, he’s storming my way wearing his signature scowl. Unease skitters down my spine as self-doubt creeps in.

  What did I do wrong?

  Nothing.

  I know this.

  Then why is he mad?

  “Your form sucks, Emo.”

&nb
sp; I don’t cry often but my eyes prickle with tears. “What?” I choke out.

  He grits his teeth. “Again.”

  “What’s wrong with my form?” I demand, my chest heaving with exertion.

  “You jump too high. You’re losing precious seconds,” he says in a bland tone.

  “Time me this time,” I snarl, as I trot back to the beginning. This time, I make sure to focus on my form. I’m slower but I think I did better.

  “Nope.”

  I’m still bent over catching my breath when he makes his way over to me.

  “Still too high. Your time sucks, Brook.”

  “River,” I snap.

  He smirks and checks his watch. “I don’t have all day. Again. I want you to slide over those hurdles. This isn’t the high jump so don’t jump so high.”

  Defeat weighs on my shoulders and I swallow down tears of failure. Again and again I run. My focus is so much on my form that I know my time gets slower and slower. He makes me do it so many times I lose count. The football players have long gone and the sun is setting on the horizon. I’m starving and thirsty and tired.

  “Again.”

  If he says that word one more time, I’m going to choke him with my bare hands. With tears in my eyes, I attempt to ignore the burn in my calves and hamstrings as I prepare to do it again. I focus all of my anger and frustration into my speed. But my form is better and I can tell I’m nailing it as I fly across each hurdle. My focus is on the end when my leg gives out. I’m jumping so low that my toe clips the last hurdle, causing me to crash forward. I land on my hands and knees, fire exploding through me. The moment I roll to a stop, I collapse and burst into tears.

  I hear footsteps coming toward me but I can’t face him. I’m a failure. He knew all along. I’d stupidly believed I was going to start over at this school. Apparently not.

  “Hey,” he says, his voice soft. “You okay?”

  “L-Leave me alone,” I sob. “You w-were right. I’ll get my schedule c-changed in the morning.”

  I’m still feeling sorry for myself when I’m scooped into his powerful arms. I make the mistake of looking into his brown eyes. That they’ve softened with concern only makes me cry harder. He holds me to him as he carries me into the side door of the gym. The school is now empty and half the lights are off. I cling to his shirt as he carries me into the boy’s dark locker room. He takes me into a small room and turns on a light. It has a table with a mat on it in the center of the room and the shelves are lined with medical tapes and gauze. He’s gentle when he sets me on the table.

  “Lie back,” he instructs. “I’m going to take care of you.”

  He leaves the room and reappears a moment later with two bottles of water. I mutter my thanks before chugging it down. He hands me the second bottle before rummaging through the drawers.

  “I said lie back,” he barks.

  I’m too exhausted to argue so I fall back and close my eyes. He’s surprisingly gentle as he cleans and dresses my skinned knees. Despite my being drenched with sweat, a shiver ripples through me at having his strong capable fingers on my bare legs. He simultaneously turns me on and pisses me off.

  “How are your hands?”

  “Better than my knees.” A sharp pain rips through my hamstring. “Ow.”

  “What’s wrong?” His brows are pinched together in a worried manner. I like that look on him better than the asshole look.

  “I think I pulled my hamstring,” I admit with defeat.

  He chuckles and the sound is dark and rich. It warms me to my core. “Let’s see what you did, Emo.” He rummages around in another drawer until he locates some cream. When I point to the thigh that’s searing with pain, he nods and uncaps the tube. As soon as the cool cream touches my flesh, I let out a yelp.

  “That’s cold,” I whine.

  He grins at me and he’s positively adorable. I decide right then I’ll try and get him to smile more. Later. Right now, I’m dying.

  “Good thing you’re tougher than shit, Emo.”

  My neck heats both from his compliment and hearing him curse. “Detention,” I mock in a deep voice.

  He rubs his palms together. “I do not sound like that.”

  “Lake. Ocean. Whatever your name is. Stop acting like a stripper and run those hurdles,” I imitate. “Again.” I’m pretty sure I say that word in the same annoying tone he does.

  “Brat,” he mutters, a grin tugging at his lips.

  “Bully.” I smile back.

  His palms smooth over my thigh and I let out a gasp. It’s cold but his hands seem to light me on fire. I can’t meet his gaze anymore. I’m so turned on by him touching me. If I look at him, he’ll know. With practiced efficiency, he kneads the sore muscle. I wince in pain. He lightens his touch until it’s soft and teasing. My eyes close every time his fingers brush along my inner thigh and I shiver.

  “Cold?”

  “No,” I whisper. “Feels good.”

  He continues rubbing my thigh. My nipples harden and are pointing straight through my sports bra. I’m drenched in sweat but I’m pretty sure the wetness in my panties is all from Coach.

  “You did well out there,” he says, his voice hoarse.

  I crack an eye open and give him a confused stare. “What? You made me do it a million times, Coach. Then, I ate pavement.”

  His fingers dig into the inside of my thigh and I let out a moan. Our eyes dart to each other’s. I’m shocked to find something dark and unreadable in his gaze. He starts to pull away and I grip his wrist.

  “It hurts. Just a little bit longer,” I murmur. I know my muscle will be fine but I like how he’s touching me. It feels way too good. God, he’s trouble. Trouble is like my favorite chenille blanket. You just want to wrap up in it and roll around in bliss. Trouble is a drug I’m quite addicted to.

  His long fingers brush against my thighs just under the hem of my skimpy running shorts. I bite on my lip and stifle a groan. My eyes flutter closed. He continues massaging me in a gentle but sure way.

  “How’s your backside?”

  My backside is fine but I lie. “Sore.”

  “Roll over.”

  I don’t make eye contact as I roll onto my stomach. His palms are on me again, rubbing the back of my thigh this time. My knees sting but my entire body quivers in anticipation of having him massage me. He rubs out the soreness with no rush in his movements.

  “How are your glutes?”

  “Sore.” More lies.

  His palms ghost over the tops of my shorts. He kneads me through the fabric. We’ve stepped out of what’s appropriate and are delving into territory that could get him in a lot of trouble. Anxiety spikes through me as I worry about what would happen to him if anyone found out about this.

  “Do you want cream there?” His voice is low and deadly.

  “Yes.” My approval comes out in a ragged breath.

  He hooks his fingers into the top of my shorts and drags them down my ass. The air is cool. I should be embarrassed that my math teacher is looking at my bare ass but I’m so turned on I can’t see straight. Once he pulls my shorts and panties down my thighs, he places his perfect hands on the globes of my ass.

  “I want you on the team, Emo,” he says in a husky voice.

  A thrill shoots through me and I turn my head to look at him. He pins me with a hungry stare. I shiver and nod. “Thank you.”

  He gives my ass a playful swat. “Relax.”

  With my hot-as-sin coach’s hands on my bare ass, there is no way in the world I will relax. Not a chance.

  What the fuck am I doing?

  I’m trying to get fired. To get my face splashed all over the front page of the newspaper.

  And yet my dick doesn’t give a damn. This girl has me so wound up, I think I might snap and lose control at any moment. I’d always been disgusted when I’d hear other staff members joke about students or mention when they thought one of them was hot. The rumors about Sean Polk were downright deplorable and I thou
ght he was a sick bastard. I wasn’t like him or them. I was different. But that was all before she came along.

  River.

  God what I wouldn’t give to drink from her.

  She lets out another moan of pleasure that has my dick straining against my track pants. Her ass is perfect. Clearly, I can’t take my hands from it. Now that I’ve touched her, I can’t seem to stop—if I do, whatever spell this is will be broken.

  I don’t want to break it.

  I’m a selfish fuck.

  Surely I can cling to it a few more minutes.

  “Are you married?”

  I squeeze both of her ass cheeks. “No.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Thirty-seven.”

  “Hmmm.”

  I tense at her response. She seems pleased by that answer, not turned off. What the fuck do I care? She’s just my student.

  “You should shower,” I grumble and force my hands away from her.

  “I can’t get up.”

  “River…”

  “I’m for real. Every muscle in my body is on fire.”

  I try to help her shorts back up her thighs but they are too sweaty to move. “You’re just going to have to take them off,” I huff out in frustration.

  She laughs. “So forward, Coach.”

  “Emo,” I warn. “I’ll close my eyes, but you need to take them off and get in the shower. I’ll go grab your bag of clothes.”

  “Ow,” she groans as she tries to move.

  I slide her shorts and panties down her legs. Once I’ve peeled off her socks and shoes, I toss her shorts and panties to the floor. My cock is about to rip right out of my pants if I don’t send her on her way soon. With my eyes cracked so I can see what I’m doing, I attempt to help her sit up.

  “Where’s your bra?” I snap.

  “Thought you weren’t going to peek,” she responds dryly. “Besides, you’ve seen them already.”

  My chest rumbles with a sound of irritation but I let my gaze rake over her cute tits. So perky. I could fit one in my mouth. A little sweet snack. Fuck, this is not helping my boner. Why did she have to take that damn bra off too?

  “You…” I trail off. “Shower.”