Coach Me

by Shanora Williams

  By the time we finish, we are starving. Mama takes out her pamphlet again as I fight a laugh at her about it. She’s going to wear that pamphlet out. She reads over the list of restaurants near campus and we decide on getting sandwiches from Jason’s Deli.

  “You know who would have loved this?” Mama asks after we’ve seated.

  “Who?” I ask, mouth full of turkey sandwich.

  “Your father. He wouldn’t have missed this for anything.”

  I stop chewing, picking my eyes up from my food to focus on her. I finally swallow, then pick up my sweet tea. “He would have been happy I chose BU. He used to talk about this school and Chapel Hill all the time, remember?” I laugh. “He didn’t care so much about track then. He just wanted me to get into a school where I’d get the best education.”

  “Yep.” Mama chuckles and then she sighs. A moment of silence rains down on us. “Oh, baby…I hope you know I am so proud of you. Your father is proud of you too. I know it. You’ve worked so hard to get here.” Tears line the rims of her eyes and I look away. I don’t want to cry on my first day here. I promised myself I wouldn’t—that I’d be happy and cherish it.

  “I know, Mama.”

  She sniffles, sips her water, swallows, and then lets out a deep exhale. After clearing her throat, she says, “Okay. Let me stop before I ruin the mood. This is a good day. A happy one.” She peers around the deli. “This is good though, right? You think you’ll like it here?”

  “I think so. They have good restaurants within walking distance. My classes are at good times. The earliest one is at eight.”

  “That’s good.”

  And it is. I used to wake up at six in the morning with Daddy. Seven on my own. Eight should be easy.

  After we finish eating, Mama walks back to the apartment with me but there is still no sign of Kendall. Mama hangs out about an hour longer and then, before I know it, I’m standing by her car, hugging her goodbye.

  “Be safe, you hear? And don’t get too crazy. I always heard how crazy college life was when Jeremy was going to school and the last thing I want is my daughter turning into a little thot.”

  “I’ll be good, Mama,” I say with laugh over her shoulder. “I promise. But did you just say thot?” I pull back, looking her in the eyes as I hold her shoulders.

  She smirks. “I got that from you. Ain’t that what you called the girl who kissed your friend’s boyfriend? Yeah, I heard that phone call!”

  I break out in another laugh. My mom is too much. Daddy used to love her sense of humor and how she could lighten the mood anywhere she went.

  After one last hug and a kiss on the cheek from my mother, she climbs into her car, reverses out of the parking space, and drives away.

  I watch her go, unable to move. My eyes burn as I watch the rear lights of her Corolla fade away, and when she’s completely gone, I turn to face my apartment building.

  My new home.

  The start of a new era.

  And a new life that I’m not quite sure I’m ready for.

  TWO

  My roommate Kendall is the complete opposite of me.

  Kendall Ramirez is a master at hurdle racing, her favorite food is ramen (real ramen, not that fake shit in Styrofoam cups, as she likes to say it), her favorite color is lime green, and she loves getting tattoos. No, really. She’s covered in them.

  “Yeah, my sister is a tattoo artist, so I used to just go to her shop when I wanted to get inked up. Got my first one when I was fifteen,” Kendall had said. She came charging into the apartment around seven. She said she’d been catching Uber rides all day to find some good ramen, and that’s how I found out she likes real ramen, not that fake shit in Styrofoam cups.

  From there, we started asking each other questions and answering them. I didn’t think Kendall and I would get along at first. When I first met her, she seemed really upset about something. Her brows were furrowed, and her responses to some of the apartment manager’s questions were clipped. When I introduced myself to her as her roommate and new teammate, all she said was, “Cool,” and left it at that. She didn’t even tell me her name. I had to find out from the emails that were sent to me with the Know Your Roommate information.

  Now, she seems much more chill, but I’ve never been the type to hold my tongue.

  “Do you remember when we met? That day of orientation?” I ask her.

  She slurps down the last of her ramen. “Yeah, I remember.”

  “Yeah, well that day I got the feeling that you didn’t really like me,” I confess, laughing a little.

  She licks her lips, focusing on my face. “Did you?” Then she shrugs. “Nah, it was nothing like that.”

  “So…what was it then? I shook your hand, told you my name, and you just said cool, like you didn’t care who the hell I was.”

  Kendall looks me over, then places her bowl down on the floor in front of her recliner. “I think you read me wrong. I have no problem with you at all.”

  “Well it had to be something, right?” I’m nervous-laughing now, trying to tread carefully. The last thing I want is to come across as a pushy roommate.

  She sighs. “Okay, you know what? I didn’t think I’d have to say this to you, but I guess I will. But I’m warning you now that it isn’t my fault if you get offended. You want a real answer and honesty is all I’ve got.”

  “Okay.” I sit up higher in my chair.

  “All right. Well, it’s ‘cause I was hoping my roommate wouldn’t be…attractive. Like I was praying hard to share an apartment with an ugly girl.”

  “Oh.” I press my lips, my face suddenly on fire. I look away, embarrassed now. Not for me, but for her.

  “I thought you were attractive. I’m a shit when I’m caught off guard by looks, so that’s my bad. But don’t think it’s anything deeper than that,” she adds hurriedly. “I think you’re still nice-looking and all, but I have boundaries. Number one being never mess with a teammate and definitely not my own roommate. Plus, I’m not really into girls who aren’t into me…if you know what I mean.”

  I look at her again. “I think I do.”

  “Shit. I just made this weird, didn’t I? Look—if you want to transfer or make me transfer, we can do that and get it over with. I don’t want you feeling weird around me. Trust me, the last thing I want is to walk around on eggshells in here.”

  I laugh. “I don’t want a transfer, Kendall, so you can chill. Your sexual preferences may be different than mine, but that doesn’t bother me at all. As long as we can establish boundaries, I have no issues with you. In fact, I’m glad you told me.”

  She smirks. “All right, then. Cool.”

  “So, you’ve met all the coaches, right?” I ask, adjusting on the love seat.

  “Yep. Met Coach Hamilton when I signed with BU.”

  “Me too.”

  “And yesterday I headed to the track and got to meet Veronika, the conditioning coach, and also one of the assistant coaches, Torres.”

  “Torres?” I’ve heard that name many times before.

  I looked up the women’s track team coaches for Bennett University and there was Coach Freya Hamilton, the head coach, Veronika Nowitzki, the conditioning coach, and three assistant coaches who specialized in different areas of track and field: Ben Hill, Anna Foster, and Joaquin Torres. Torres was the coach who didn’t smile while the other four beamed proudly.

  “I only met Hamilton and Mills when they scouted me,” I say. “Tomorrow we’re supposed to meet as a team on the track, so hopefully I get to meet Torres too.”

  “Yeah. From what I hear, Torres is the hard ass, so don’t get too excited to meet him.” Kendall chugs down some water from her water bottle. “Hamilton is tough too, but Mills is the one you can push over a little, from what I hear. Foster can be a cunt, supposedly, but everyone says Torres is a straight up jackass on and off the track. But he’s good at what he does. A great trainer too, apparently. Of course, all the girls want to be with him.”

  I
roll my eyes. “Why would they want to be with him if he’s such a jackass?”

  She shrugs. “Girls love the arrogant, broody guys, I guess. Not like it can ever happen for any of them anyway. I’m sure he eats it up.”

  I sigh. “Well, let’s just hope he’s not the one we have to answer to for every practice. Sounds like Mills is our kind of guy.”

  “Let’s hope,” Kendall laughs as she stands. “So, 200-meter, huh?” she asks, and we start talking about our positions and how ready we are to start training for the upcoming season.

  Truth is, I like Kendall. She’s smart, funny, and her tattoos are cool as hell. She even mentions how she’s going to take me to her sister’s shop to get a free tattoo one day when I’m ready. I tell her I have no idea what I would even get, or where I would get it, but that a tattoo would be nice.

  We talk for hours, no TV necessary to fill any silence, and from how things are going with our conversations, and how smoothly we can transition from topic to topic, I can tell we’re going to make really good friends, roommates, and teammates already.

  I just hope I can say the same for the rest of my team.

  THREE

  I believe being nervous would be a huge understatement for how I’m feeling right now.

  I read over the email from Coach Hamilton three times this morning, just to make sure I had my timing right. She’d sent the email three days ago, along with a team welcome email and a few details listed above.

  I expect all team members to be present and on the track at 2:30 pm on the dot. - Hamilton

  That part of her message stood out, bold and clear and highlighted in bright yellow.

  I checked the time on my phone often while Kendall chilled in her room on her bed, listening to music. I could tell Kendall didn’t care much about what went on around her. Whether she was prompt or late, it didn’t matter to her, but with me as her teammate and roommate, she’d never get the chance to be late.

  One of the things Daddy taught me was to be prompt. Always arrive fifteen to twenty minutes early if you can. It shows that you care. He always said it and he definitely lived by it. Whether we were going to the track for a meet, to church on Sunday, or even to a friend’s birthday party, we were always early. Mama was the one who happened to be late for everything.

  At 2:00 p.m. on the dot, I tell Kendall I’m heading to the track. It’s a twelve-minute walk from our apartment, and we could get lost on the way, so I’d much rather get an early start.

  Kendall reluctantly climbs out of bed, grabs her headphones, and follows me out of the apartment in her Adidas slides. I’m wearing lime green yoga pants and a white shirt, along with my favorite non-running running shoes.

  We lock up the apartment and make our way across campus, passing wide fields of green grass, towering brick buildings with cement pillars, and even the baseball field.

  As we approach the football field that’s painted red, gold, and white, my heart beats faster. I can’t believe this is happening. Legit one of the best days of my life is what it feels like and yet I’m slightly freaking out inside. I’ll meet my teammates, all my coaches, and we’ll discuss future practice dates and everything.

  “Are you not nervous?” I ask Kendall as the soles of our shoes touch the red rubber of the track. The track wraps around the football field in a thick, wide oval. The rubber feels smooth, and I can tell the track lines are freshly-painted.

  “Not really.” Kendall chomps on her gum, looking around. “Arena is fucking huge. Bet you they don’t sell out of tickets, though. BU football sucks ass.”

  I snort at her comment. I realize this is how Kendall deflects. She is nervous, but she doesn’t want to admit it. She always wants to look “cool.”

  “Well, I’m kinda nervous,” I admit, and I’m even more nervous when I see a cluster of people already standing at the end of the track by a red bench.

  “Oh, boy. Here we go.” Kendall inhales before exhaling, and as we approach the cluster of people, some of them turn back to look at us. More of them look at Kendall, which doesn’t shock me because she’s wearing a T-shirt with the sleeves cut off and it reveals all the tattoos on her arms. She’s not your average-looking track runner, that’s for sure, but I like that about her.

  I scan the crowd as they scan me too, then they turn away, their brunette and blond ponytails swinging as they focus on one of the girls in the middle of the group.

  The girl they put their attention back on is thin. Tall. Her hair is blond, and her lips painted a bright pink. She’s not your average blond woman. She has high cheekbones, a petite nose, and plump lips. She’s pretty and she knows it.

  She’s talking animatedly about the classes she’ll have, and the girls are nodding as they listen. The way they listen is strange. You’d think she was telling them how to easily win a million bucks. Only thing they need to be doing is taking notes.

  As I pass, I notice the way the girl in the middle cuts her eyes at me while still going on in conversation, but I ignore it. I’ve had many looks like that in my life. At this point, I don’t even let them bother me anymore.

  I sit on the bench with Kendall who sighs, and looks around the stadium. “Are you noticing what I’m noticing?” Kendall asks under her breath.

  “That we’re the only girls of color on the team?”

  “Bingo,” Kendall sings.

  “Oh, yeah. I’ve noticed. Don’t let that get to you.”

  Just as I say that, Coach Hamilton walks our way. She has a clipboard tucked beneath her arm and is donning a sky-blue Adidas track suit and hat.

  Two men and another woman trail behind her, and I recognize them instantly. Coach Mills, Coach Foster, and Coach Torres. As the coaches approach us, my eyes can’t help but swing over to the one male coach I haven’t met before. Torres.

  He looks so much younger in person. Tan skin, hair dark and sleek, loose tendrils hanging on his forehead. There’s a slight trace of stubble on his chin and around his mouth, and as he rolls his head to crack his neck, I can’t help focusing on his throat. Damn. He has a delicious throat.

  He’s not wearing a matching track suit like Hamilton and Mills. Just a pair of track pants, a white T-shirt that hugs his chest and biceps, and black running shoes. It literally looks like he rolled out of bed, finger-combed some gel through his hair, tossed on some clothes, and met the coaches only moments ago for this meetup.

  Torres is nothing like the image I saw on the college’s website. In the image, he was crouching in the middle, his hands lax between his thighs, not a trace of a smile on his lips.

  But now that he’s standing here—now that I’m seeing him in person—I understand why all the girls want him and why he probably eats it up, like Kendall said.

  Coach Torres is walking sex on a stick and I am one hundred percent intrigued by him.

  FOUR

  It’s just my luck that after Hamilton delivers speeches about diligence, perseverance, being at practice on time, and good sportsmanship, that I’m assigned to Coach Torres to discuss my track skills.

  It’s ironic that we’re even doing this considering these coaches scouted us, and have known our skills since before we even took them up on their scholarship offers, but I don’t complain. It’s the first team meeting and I’m here to make a good impression on all the coaches.

  Kendall is assigned to Mills, which leaves me stuck with a dozen teammates I don’t know. The women’s track and field team for Bennett University is much smaller than most colleges, which I liked when signing for the scholarship because it made it seem more exclusive and intimate.

  I want to say I’m the only freshman in my assigned group, but there is one other girl who sort of looks out of place. She has long, bone-straight brown hair and really pale skin. She’s not talking to anyone and she looks young. Then again, I can’t tell if she’s nervous or just bored.

  There’s also Melanie and Christa, whose names I found out because Hamilton kept telling them to pipe down while she read
from her clipboard.

  Melanie is the pretty one who everyone couldn’t help listening to as if her words were gold, and I can’t help sensing that she and Christa are close. Christa hovers around Melanie, waiting for her to say something just so she can respond right away. Cliquey.

  “All right, so I’m going to make this quick,” Torres says as he flips through the papers on the clipboard in his hand. When he speaks, Melanie and Christa are fully alert, batting their eyelashes. “I’m going to have you speak to me in groups. I’ve got twelve of you so—what the hell is so funny?” Torres lowers his clipboard, picks his head up, and locks eyes on the giggling Christa.

  Christa stops her giggling immediately, straightens her back again, and her face turns serious. “Nothing—sorry, Coach.”

  Torres glowers. “Don’t interrupt me again.”

  “Okay. Sheesh.” Christa says the last word under her breath, but we can all hear it. She’s trying to play it cool, but her face has turned several shades of red. Melanie takes a step away from her, as if Christa has caught some kind of rare disease.

  “Rose, Howard, and Lakes, you’re up first. Then it’s Gerald, Hunter, and Mooney. Then the last three of you. You know who you are.” Torres walks past us to get to the long red bench on the sidelines of the football field.

  I follow him and notice Melanie going the same direction I am, as well as the girl with the straight brown hair and pale skin. I let them sit first, before taking a seat at the end of the bench. Melanie is in the middle, her hands on her lap, now beaming.

  “You know, Torres, you really shouldn’t be so mean to my friends,” Melanie says, and I frown. Is she really flirting with him right now?

  “Wouldn’t have to be mean if your friends learned to shut up when necessary.”