Coach Me

by Shanora Williams

  I can’t help but giggle at that as I walk away.

  Sighing, I trudge my way in Torres’ direction, my heart beating faster and my throat feeling dry. The other meter runners stand in front of him in a half circle and I move to the end of the circle, avoiding Torres’ gaze altogether.

  “Alright, so today is going to be simple. We can’t exactly sprint like we want to in here because space is limited, so you’re gonna hit the weights.” He reaches behind him to pick up a small stack of papers. He starts on the left side of the half circle and hands each girl a paper. “Work on your thighs, quads, and glutes. I haven’t been seeing the power I want in your legs when you take off, which makes me think your legs are weak. Afterward, hit the track, do two miles. Partner up if you want to, or don’t.” Torres stops in front of me and my heart beats harder, faster as he sticks out a paper at me. “I don’t care what you do, so long as you do your workout and stay out of my way.”

  He looks me right in the eyes as he says his last statement. I frown, snatching the paper out of his hands and looking down at the exercise list as a distraction.

  Fortunately, he moves away from me and blows his whistle, and we make our way to the weight room through the double doors. As I go, I glance over my shoulder at Torres, who folds his arms and looks around the room of the indoor track.

  I should have known he was going to act like a jerk. I mean, after the way he said he’d see me at practice like nothing had happened on that boat, I should have known.

  I felt that kiss—felt it to my core and savored every second of it—and I felt him too. He was groaning, sighing—he had his hands all over me. He was hard as hell in those gray sweats. He enjoyed it just as much as I did, despite how fucked up it was, so he can’t deny that.

  Still, I do my best to let it go and get my work-out in alone. Nicole and Parker insist I join them and eventually I do, but I don’t talk much. After we’re done, I go back to the track and jog my two miles…well, more like sprint the two miles.

  I run hard, passing each girl on the track. I pass by Torres who is standing on the side, next to Coach Mills. Mills is talking. Torres is watching me, his arms folded, eyes narrowed.

  He brings his whistle up and blows it. “Slow down, Lakes! There are other people in here besides you! Show some control!” he hollers.

  I ignore him, still running fast. If he wants to pretend what we did was nothing to him, I can do the same.

  The whistle blows again. “Control, Lakes!” Torres’ voice booms, echoing off the walls.

  I don’t slow down. I run faster and faster until I’m finished with my five laps around the track, and when I’m done, I step over to the side and walk it off, panting wildly.

  Footsteps sound behind me and I look up. Torres is charging my way, his eyebrows drawn together and his jaw clenching. “What the hell was that?” he snaps.

  “I was running, Coach.” I exaggerate the last word, holding his gaze. His eyes soften a touch when he realizes what I’ve done with the word, but his brown gaze turns into steel again in an instant.

  “Get out in the hallway. Now.”

  I turn away, heading for the double doors.

  I’m out of my mind. This is not like me. I’m not one to rebel, but the way he’s acting is pissing me off. The least he can do is say it was a mistake, that way I can try and let go of what happened. He left it up in the air and now I’m confused.

  I shove the door open and walk down the hallway. As I go by the gym doors, I hear the squeaks of the basketball players’ shoes as well as the dribbling of basketballs and deep shouting. I stop in front of one of the exit doors that’s around the corner, and Torres meets up to me.

  “When I tell you how to do something, you need to do it,” he declares, his voice harsh.

  “You didn’t tell us we couldn’t sprint. Matter of fact, if I recall, you said you didn’t care what we did so long as we do our workout and stayed out of your way. Remember?”

  He huffs a laugh, revealing straight, pearly teeth, but nothing about his laugh is humorous. “What is this, Lakes? Huh? Suddenly you’re not listening to your coach? You’re becoming rebellious now?”

  “I’m not becoming anything,” I counter.

  He steps forward, scratching at his eyebrow. “Is this about Saturday night?” His voice is lower.

  I fold my arms. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “The boat ride. Your lips on mine. Your tongue in my mouth. Is this about that?”

  I avoid his eyes, but I don’t miss the way my belly seems to sink at the sheer reminder of it. It doesn’t help that his voice has a guttural edge to it.

  “You want my attention and now you got it, so speak,” he orders.

  I work hard to swallow as he takes another step forward, pressing his lips, waiting for a response.

  “You haven’t said anything about it,” I whisper, finally looking up at him.

  “What is there to say, Amber? What happened was not supposed to happen. You and I both know that.”

  “So why didn’t you stop me before it went too far?”

  He doesn’t respond. Instead, he looks away.

  I take a step closer to him. “H-how am I supposed to practice around you after that?”

  “Simple. Pretend it didn’t happen.” His words are cut-and-dry and I swear it feels like my lungs have collapsed.

  Someone walks past us, one of the basketball players, and Torres takes a step sideways and folds his arms. Luckily for us, the basketball player is too invested in whatever is on the screen of his phone to pay us any attention.

  “So that’s what you’re going to do? Pretend it didn’t happen?” I ask.

  “That’s what I have to do. Not just for me, but for you too. Don’t think about it. Let it go.”

  “It was a mistake, right?” I ask, and damn my voice for cracking. I don’t want him to know that it mattered to me, that for once I felt important and seen by someone since coming to this damn college.

  Torres folds his arms and lowers his head.

  I sigh, then bite into my bottom lip with a nod. “Okay. Yeah, you know what? You’re right. I won’t think about it. I’ll let it go. I’ll do exactly what you’re doing right now and not give a damn about it.” I walk past him, shaking my head. “That’s what you do best, right? Not give a damn about anyone else but yourself?”

  I don’t even wait for him to say anything. I jog back to the indoor track and don’t bother looking back, no matter how badly I want to see the look on his face.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  I can’t focus at all in psychology, and it doesn’t help that Stephen decides to sit beside me today.

  Of course, it’s not because of him I can’t focus. I’m over the thing with him and the carnival.

  I can’t focus because of the conversation I had with Torres yesterday. Of course, he doesn’t care. He could be fired because of what we did.

  If I was the kind of student to brag about the kiss, he’d already be gone because if rumors about me lying over Melanie spread like wildfire, imagine a rumor about me fooling around with my coach.

  Fortunately, I’m not that kind of student, and truth be told, I don’t want Torres gone anytime soon. I want him to see me. I want him to know that the girl he kissed on that unsteady boat is still around and isn’t going anywhere.

  He can pretend all he wants that he doesn’t care, but I do. I care a lot about what happened. Hell, it still blows my mind that it even did.

  When class is over, I pack up and Stephen remains seated beside me while everyone else shuffles about to leave the auditorium. “So…are you going to say anything to me?” he asks, tapping his pen on the edge of the desk.

  I glance at him. He’s smiling. It’s just like him to smile right now. He doesn’t give a shit that he’s a player. He thinks every girl is supposed to fall to their knees for him.

  I stand up and sling the strap of my bag over my shoulder. “I’m just not in a good mood lately.” />
  He tucks his pen behind his ear and stands with me, catching my arm before I can turn away. “Woah—Amber, wait. What’s wrong?”

  I shrug, avoiding his green eyes.

  “Is it because people are saying you hit Melanie?”

  I frown. “What? That I hit Melanie?”

  “Well…yeah. There’s this stupid rumor going around that you were in the café and you got aggressive with her or something.”

  “Wow.” I let out a dry laugh. “Aggressive? Really? Because I stood up for myself and told her to fuck off?”

  Stephen shrugs and tips my chin. “For what it’s worth, even if you had hit her, it would have been badass of you.”

  I smile, only because the thought of giving Melanie one swift punch to the gut does sound delightful. Too bad I’m not the violent type. A girl can dream though.

  “Well, it’s not the rumors,” I say. “I couldn’t care less about what Melanie is telling people at this point. I’m just…tired, I guess. Still getting used to college. I think maybe I’m homesick.”

  Stephen wraps an arm around my shoulders. “Ahh, homesickness. Doesn’t do a college student good, does it?”

  I want to shrug him off me, but I don’t. I let him lead the way up the stairs to get out of the auditorium.

  “Let me take you out to this great soul food place. They have the best fried chicken and baked mac and cheese. Maybe that’ll cheer you up.”

  Soul food? Seriously? Does every white person think black people only want fried chicken and baked mac and cheese when they need comfort? I wonder if he even realizes that he’s stereotyping me.

  I shrug him off as we step outside of the room. “I can’t tonight. I have practice and then I have to study for the genetics test.”

  “Okay. Well, maybe we can study together at my place after practice. Dinner is on me. Whatever you want.”

  I smile as I step backwards, still facing him. “I’ll let you know.”

  “Don’t raincheck me,” he calls out as I turn my back to him.

  I fight a smile, but I don’t look back.

  I’m an idiot. No, truly. I am. What kind of girl lowers her standards and continues flirting with a guy who blatantly played her in her face? Who lied to her? It’s ridiculous, but I don’t care at this point.

  Practice is on a wet track and the football players are preparing for their first home game tomorrow. Stephen has jogged my way several times, begging me to come to the game. I’m certain he’s begged every girl he flirts with to come to his game.

  Every time he goes back for another drill, he kisses my cheek and smiles that perfect smile every girl on campus loves and I always blush like an idiot. I can’t help it. Stephen is a jerk, but he has this way of making a girl feel special.

  While our team takes a break, I notice Torres prowling about and as I stretch, I feel him glaring at me. I ignore him as much as I can. I’m sure he’s seen me talking to Stephen—seen as I let him kiss and flirt with me.

  I may not be rebelling with practice anymore, but this feels like a fair shot. Hook back up with a guy who he pretty much said was just like him when he was younger. If this doesn’t get under his skin, then he truly doesn’t give a shit about anyone but himself.

  When practice is over for the track team, Torres doesn’t bother waiting around. He dismisses us and heads off, but not without giving me a hard, cold stare. He goes straight to the tunnel to get to his office, and when he’s gone, I sigh.

  Yes, this is stupid, but I’m in college.

  I’m allowed to make stupid mistakes every once in a while…right?

  TWENTY-SIX

  It eventually becomes easier to not think about Amber so much as the holidays approach. The kids have tests, which means practices are less frequent, and since it’s off-season, the track team is allowed to go back home for Thanksgiving if they want to.

  I always have Thanksgiving with my mother and one of her neighbors, Mrs. Calloway. Mamá doesn’t believe in Thanksgiving, since she isn’t from the states, but she loves any excuse to buy food and cook, so she enjoys it.

  Mrs. Calloway is a widow with two dogs and four cats. She gets lonely and she loves Mamá’s cooking, so she often comes over to eat and chat with her. It’s just me and two older women. Wouldn’t be so bad if my papa was still around to share a beer with and even it out.

  Winter break approaches and that means I’ll be around the team even less. It’s too cold to practice outside, so we train on the indoor track or hit the weights.

  It’s much harder to avoid Amber inside. There isn’t as much space in here as there is on the outdoor track so when I see her, I feel like I can smell her cherry scent too well. I often catch her looking at me and when our eyes connect, she always snatches her gaze away.

  The good thing about training inside during winter is that I don’t have to see her with that idiot quarterback. Seriously, what kind of shit is that? She was so devastated when she saw him with another girl at the carnival, now she’s back in his arms and hooking up with him again?

  Deep down, I know she’s doing it to spite me. She wants me to react and as badly as I want to call her mi preciosa niña tonta, I keep that comment to myself. It’s true though. Right now, she’s being a precious, silly little girl—precious because she really thinks a little bit of forced flirting with a quarterback on her behalf is going to make me lose my cool.

  She’ll have to try harder than that to get me to react.

  Winter breaks are often boring for me, but it’s the best time to really focus on myself. I run on the treadmill in my apartment every day, doing one fast mile, then two, then three. Sometimes I sprint on it when I’m really pent up…like now.

  I haven’t been able to bring a woman back to my apartment since that damn kiss with Amber. How does she have me so wound up? So desperate for more? What the hell can I possibly do with a college student anyway? I’m thirty years old. I’m a grown-ass man, and yet I’m hungry for more of a nineteen-year-old girl.

  It’s not right. None of this is right.

  I try to sleep at night, but I can’t, so I jack off to the thought of her and that damn kiss—her tongue rolling with mine and the taste of grape on her tongue. I turn up the speed, running faster. My feet pound into the treadmill and it’s a good thing I live on the first floor. When the time on the treadmill is up, and slows down, I hop off, panting wildly, hands on my hips.

  I need to get her out of my head. I have to stop wanting her…and there’s only one person who will be able to help me with that right now.

  I pick up my phone and send a text, knowing damn well I’ll regret this tomorrow.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  It has been a relief to be on winter break and to be back with my mama in our cozy home.

  There are books stacked on the coffee table and magazines left open. There’s a puzzle on the dinner table with only ten or so pieces placed together, the rest scattered, which proves Mama started the puzzle but gave up on it. Most likely because she didn’t have my help.

  “Really, Amby, it’s so good to have you back home.” Mama reaches across the sofa to squeeze my hand. We’re currently watching the new version of Charlie’s Angels on Blu-Ray. The sun is setting outside, making the windows glow behind the blue curtains.

  “I’m glad to be back too.” I squeeze her hand. “I may need to borrow your car soon. I want to buy you something for Christmas.”

  “With what money?” she asks, giving me raised brow.

  “The money you were sending me for food. I saved some of it.” I grin sheepishly.

  “Mm-hmm, okay. I see. Instead of sending my money back to me, you stash it and then pretend to buy me a present with it, but what you’re really gonna do is buy yourself a new pair of running shoes or a pair of shorts from Nike, aren’t you?”

  “What? Mama, no!” I break out in a laugh.

  She purses her lips, waiting for me to crack.

  “Okay, maybe I was going to buy some shoes with some of it,
but I am still going to get you a gift! And not all the money is from what you sent me either. I had some saved from graduation.”

  “Yeah, yeah. All I know is it better be something nice,” she titters just as the doorbell rings.

  “I’ll get it.” I push off the couch and make my way to the door. I check the peephole and see it’s Mrs. Goldbury, our next-door neighbor. She always stands out in her gowns, and with how white her hair is. “Hi, Mrs. Goldbury!” I chime as I swing the door open.

  “Oh, sweet Amber, baby!” Mrs. Goldbury lifts her worn, brown hands to cradle my face. “It’s always so good to see you!” She brings my head lower to kiss my forehead.

  “It’s good to see you too,” I laugh.

  “How is college treating you? Your mama told me about that racist coach. She’s lucky I’m old now.” Mrs. Goldbury walks inside like she owns the place, just as she always does, and I close the door behind her.

  “College is good. Getting better,” I tell her.

  “What do you need now, Mrs. Goldbury?” Mama asks, fighting a smile. Mama likes to pretend Mrs. Goldbury is a nuisance but if anything, Mrs. Goldbury is like a second mom to my mother. My grandma died when Mama was six, but when she moved here and met Mrs. Goldbury, she had an instant connection with her.

  Mama often cooked for her, and when her husband died, she went over to check on her every day. When Daddy died, Mrs. Goldbury did the same for us.

  “Well, I hate interrupting y’all’s bonding time, but I wanted to see if one of you could drive me to the pharmacy to pick up one of my prescriptions.”

  “Well of course we can. We can all go,” Mama insists.

  I look between the two of them. Mrs. Goldbury looks tired and Mama looks equally exhausted. She worked a double yesterday and wanted to spend today with me, but I know what she really wants is to rest. Take a nap, even.