Coach Me

by Shanora Williams

  “How about you guys hang out here and I go and get it,” I offer.

  “Oh, honey, are you sure?” Mrs. Goldbury asks, her face etched with concern. “I know there are better things for you to do on a Saturday night than go fetch my prescriptions. Technically, I won’t need it until about tomorrow afternoon. I have two more pills and that’ll be enough to last me if you don’t want to right now.”

  “I’m happy to. Don’t worry, Mrs. G.” I pick up Mama’s keys from the bowl on the table by the door.

  “Okay, well it’s under my name, Glenda Goldbury, and it’s the Big B pharmacy downtown. Sorry it’s so far. It’s the only place with good rates with my insurance.” Mrs. Goldbury steps up to me, opening the wallet that I have just now realized is in her hand. “If they ask for insurance, here it is and tell them you’re my granddaughter and you’re picking up my prescription. I’ll call them and let them know you are so they can confirm when you get there.”

  “Okay, gotcha.”

  She hands me a ten-dollar bill. “Get yourself something while you’re out too. You know I hate being a burden.”

  I fight a smile and shake my head, lightly shoving the money back. “Mrs. Goldbury, I am not taking your money. This is not a burden. You need this, and I’m happy to do it.”

  “Good grief, stubborn just like your mother,” Mrs. Goldbury mumbles as she stuffs the ten back into her wallet.

  “Drive slow, Amber,” Mama calls after me as I turn for the door.

  “I will!” I leave the house, going straight to Mama’s car, eager to go out alone.

  I love driving. It helps me clear my head. I’ve been on break for four days and I’m hitting the peak of boredom now. It’ll be good to drive, think, maybe even stop by a gas station to grab some snacks…and also pretend that the memories of kissing Coach Torres aren’t playing reruns in my head.

  The goal is to be over Torres by the time winter break is over.

  Doable? I don’t know.

  I thought the whole flirting with Stephen would get Torres to break and force him to talk to me, maybe even demand I go to his office and make out with him (I know, wishful thinking), but it didn’t. For the most part, Torres became even better at ignoring and avoiding me.

  Honestly, I haven’t even given a second thought to Stephen since the break. I’ve been consumed by that kiss with Torres, and I catch myself thinking about doing more with him. Just last night, I found myself wondering what sex with him would be like.

  Does he go slow, or fast? Is he hard, or gentle? Is he at expert level, or is he one of those guys who is super-hot but shitty in bed? I can’t see Torres being shitty at anything in life, except at being a nice human being.

  After collecting the prescription, I walk out of the pharmacy with the white bag for Mrs. Goldbury, and climb into the car. I take the road through downtown Raleigh to take in some scenery, my drive home unhurried.

  I drive by clubs and lounges and bars and I wonder what it must be like to be twenty-one and older and drinking all night. I have two more years to find out, and I am very much looking forward to that experience. Kendall has already promised a night out at a club on my twenty-first birthday. She swears she’s going to get me “really fucked up.”

  I drive by one of the clubs with big, blocky red letters and the line wraps around the building. There is a hotel next to the club and as I drive by, I can see the chandeliers and even the bar inside that’s surrounded with people. A man in a black sweater and navy-blue jeans is walking to the hotel, his hands in his pockets and his head ducked, and I almost slam the breaks because he looks far too familiar.

  I slow down and take a closer look, glad there aren’t any cars behind me. For a moment, I think my eyes are playing tricks on me but no.

  I am not mistaken.

  That is Joaquin Torres walking from a club to a hotel in my city. What the hell is he doing in Raleigh? And why does he look like he’s on a mission?

  I drive past, my heart beating faster, and my grip tight around the wheel. “Just go home, Amber. It’s none of your business.” Oh good, now I’m talking to myself. I sigh and look ahead, lightly pressing on the gas to increase speed.

  But then the memories attack me.

  That kiss. The stubble on the lower half of his face as it grazed my chin and cheek. His hands cupping my ass. His tongue rolling with mine.

  I give the wheel a hard turn at the light, making a U-turn.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  I send Mama a text, letting her know I’ve stopped by a friend’s house for a quick visit. I hate lying to her. We have an unspoken honesty policy. We are always honest with each other, but there is no way in hell she can know that I’ve run into my coach at a hotel on a Saturday night. It would raise way too many questions.

  I climb out of the car, park across the street from the hotel and pay for a parking ticket for four hours before crossing the street and reaching the door of the hotel.

  Inside, it’s serene. The place shines with gold light from the chandeliers, the floors made of marble. The walls are painted ivory, and there is a concierge by the door.

  I hear glasses clinking and people laughing in unison and look to my left. There’s a bar, and it’s crowded with men in business suits and women in dresses. It’s lined up with people in casual clothing and sitting amongst the casual is Torres himself. He’s the most casual, in his blue jeans, long-sleeved black sweater, and black Nikes.

  I draw in a breath, standing at the entrance of the bar. “This is stupid,” I mutter. I look down at my clothes. A tan sweater, dark jeans, and UGG boots.

  I’m sure the last person he wants to see is me. And what will he even think if he sees me here? He’ll probably assume I’m stalking him because of that one kiss.

  I start to turn back, that is until I see a woman come close to him and say something as she rests her elbow on the counter, practically pointing her bosom in his face.

  He looks at her and shakes his head, gives a dry response, and she seems utterly taken aback. She stares at him a second longer and then walks away, meeting a group of friends who clearly came from the club next door by the way they’re dressed. She seems annoyed, openly ranting to her friends about him.

  I move ahead, getting rid of my nerves. The stool to his right is open and I pull it back and then sit on it.

  “So, what asshole-ish thing did you say to piss off an entire group of club banging girls?” I don’t even know how my sentence comes out so practiced, as if flirting with older guys comes naturally to me.

  Newsflash, it doesn’t. I’m never this witty, but seeing him turn down one girl makes me feel like I have to compete to hold his attention. It’s silly, really. I doubt I need to compete. Me being here will be surprise enough for him.

  Torres turns his head and his brown eyes land right on mine. His irises sparkle from the glowing lights behind the bar that show off the liquor.

  “Wow. I must be really fucking drunk,” he says with a chuckle, then he sips the drink he has in hand. He raises a hand after draining the glass and the bartender pops up. He requests a refill and the bartender tops him off with whiskey.

  “Why do you say that?” I ask.

  “Because out of all the people who could have taken up the seat beside me, it’s you. It could’ve been Rihanna, J-Lo, or even Cristiano Ronaldo, but nope. It’s you. Amber fucking Lakes.”

  I raise a brow. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

  He doesn’t answer. Just sips his drink and shakes his head. The music from the speakers is classical, and I have to admit, this atmosphere doesn’t suit him.

  “She wanted my number,” he says, looking over his shoulder at the group of girls. The one who came up to him is now flirting with a sleezy looking man in a suit who has a wedding band on his ring finger. “I told her I don’t have a phone and that even if I did, I probably wouldn’t give her my number.”

  “Wow, what a dickish thing to say.” I laugh, placing my elbows on the counter. “Why are y
ou even here, Torres?”

  “Got a room here. Came to meet a friend, but he currently has two fingers shoved between a girl’s thighs at the club next door.”

  My face burns instantly. I see when he’s drunk, he has no filter whatsoever.

  “You drink, Lakes?” He glances at me.

  “I’m nineteen, Coach Torres. Drinking isn’t as accessible for me as it is for you right now.”

  He scoffs. “Stop with that Coach Torres shit. I’m only Coach Torres at school. Just say Torres…or Joaquin. I don’t know.”

  “So, this is Joaquin Torres? He sits at a bar drinking whiskey and sulks.”

  “What? How am I sulking? I was enjoying my drink until you popped up…which I still find weird as shit. Are you following me or something?”

  “I live in Raleigh. I don’t think it’s that strange for me to be around. And I’m not kidding. You look a little mopey right now.”

  “Mopey?” He cracks a smile. “You love making shit up, don’t you, Lakes?”

  I roll my eyes. Talking to him is like talking to a six-year-old right now.

  “Why are you even out?” he asks. “How did you even know I was in here—and don’t tell me it’s coincidence because I don’t believe in that shit.”

  “I was driving by, saw you leaving the club to come to this hotel, and thought I was crazy. Sure enough, it’s definitely you I saw.”

  “Thought you were crazy, huh? Why do you say that?” As he sips, there’s a smirk riding his lips.

  I lower my gaze. I’m not about to tell him that my heart sped up several notches when I saw a man who looked like him—that I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me because I was most definitely thinking about him and hoping that deep down, I would cross Torres for no apparent reason other than luck.

  I shrug. Nothing more.

  He unleashes a throaty chuckle. “Go home, Amber.”

  I don’t move. I let the static linger.

  He sips. I fidget.

  “Do you still think about it?” I blurt out. I run my sweaty palms over my jeans.

  “About what?” He side-eyes me, wary this time.

  “The kiss. On the boat. Do you still think about it?”

  He’s silent.

  “Because I do. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since it happened.”

  “Don’t you have your little boy toy now?” He’s deflecting. Screw that.

  “He’s not my boy toy. We aren’t even together. I just flirted around with him to get to you, but I see that clearly didn’t work.”

  “You think it didn’t work?” He breaks out in a laugh, then his head shakes. “You are seriously something else, Amber Lakes. So naïve. It’s almost comical. Almost.” He drains the rest of his whiskey, then digs into his back pocket. After pulling out a twenty, he slams it on the counter and then pushes off his stool. “Go home, Lakes.”

  I frown and climb off my stool as he leaves the bar. A part of me is screaming to just leave—go home where it’s safe and warm and rid of all things Torres. Forget about him and ignore the feelings causing a stir inside me.

  But another part of me wants him again. It wants him so damn bad that it is physically hurting my heart right now.

  And that silly, naïve part of me follows him.

  He jams a thumb into the elevator button just as I step to his side.

  He sighs when he notices me. “I’m not letting you in my room.”

  “Yes, you will.”

  He turns to face me. “Seriously, Amber. Go. Home. I cannot do this with you.”

  “Then tell me the truth,” I demand. “Tell me you still think about it.”

  We’re nose-to-nose. I can smell the whiskey on his breath and I want to suck the flavor off his tongue. I’ve never had whiskey before. It’d be nice to taste it that way.

  The elevator chimes when it reaches the lobby, but he doesn’t let up. He holds my gaze, his brows dipped, face lax.

  The doors shoot open and he finally snatches himself away to walk in. I follow him and stand at his side. Maybe I should just go home. Where is following him around in a hotel going to lead me?

  The doors slide closed and I let out a shaky breath. Torres inhales deeply before exhaling and pressing the button for the sixth floor.

  We ride up in silence. I glance down at my hand and his is close to mine. If I moved just and inch, the back of mine would be rubbing against his. I lift my head again, ignoring the impulse.

  The doors shoot open to floor six and Torres walks right out. I sigh, ready to press the button to go back down to the lobby and go home—stop being a desperate bitch—but just as the doors start to close, a hand shoots between them to stop them.

  I gasp and look up as the silver doors roll away from the tan hand. Torres stands at the opening, his brown eyes trained on mine. “Get out of the elevator.”

  I gulp, but I don’t hesitate. I step off the elevator and he takes my hand immediately, leading the way to one of the rooms. He swipes a key card through it and shoves the door open, and as soon as I take that first step inside, he slings me around to face him, pressing my back to the closing door.

  It clicks shut, and I let out a shaky breath.

  “Yes,” he rasps, his mouth hovering over mine, eyes hooded as he stares at my lips.

  “Yes what?” I whisper.

  “I do still think about that kiss. Just like you, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since the night it happened.”

  I have so many questions now, but it’s hard to think clearly with him so close. If he couldn’t stop thinking about it, why did he dismiss me? Why did he act like he didn’t care? Why didn’t he just say he couldn’t stop thinking about it? Why lead me to believe I was crazy for thinking about it so much?

  But none of those questions are allowed to come out because in an instant, his large hand is cupping the back of my head and his towering body is pressed to mine.

  I moan as his mouth drops down to mine and he kisses me, and this kiss is already so much better than the first one. It’s tender and deep and holds way more passion than the original. Perhaps it’s because he’s drunk, or perhaps it’s because no one is around and he can kiss me the way he really wants to.

  His tongue slips over my lips between the kisses and I can’t help myself as I lace my arms around the back of his neck. He drops the hand behind my head to pick me up in his arms and my back thuds against the door.

  His groin presses on my belly and he cradles my face in both of his hands, deepening the kiss. The whiskey is strong on his tongue and I taste it, savor it.

  Before I know it, my back is off the door and he’s marching through the dark hotel room until my back lands on something soft. As soon as I land, he rocks his erection between my legs, and I clench with need.

  “Was it a mistake?” I breathe when he breaks the kiss and his lips graze my throat.

  “Fuck no, it wasn’t,” he rasps, and something about the deepness in his voice, the cocksure tone, sets my blood on fire.

  There’s no need to stop this time. It’s only the two of us in this hotel room. No interruptions and no holding back. I sit up as he does and help him take his sweater off. He takes my sweater off next, revealing my nude bra.

  “Fuck, Amber,” he drawls. He kisses my mouth. Once. Twice. I quiver. “You’re a goddamn goddess.”

  His words.

  His voice. It brings me closer to the edge. I push up on one hand, cupping the back of his neck with the other, and bringing his mouth down to meet mine. I reel him down with my hand and manage to flip him onto his back. I can’t stop myself this time.

  I’ve waited months to kiss Torres again—months to feel his warm lips on mine and the stubble of his beard grazing my cheek. I grind on top of him and he’s so hard—even harder than he was on the boat. My palm slides down to grip him through the fabric of his jeans. He’s straining so much.

  “Fuck,” he groans.

  I break the kiss to unbuckle his jeans and he l
ifts his hips so he can shove them down himself. He wriggles and kicks them off at his ankles and is left only in his boxers. His cock is pointed at the ceiling, the only thing keeping it somewhat tame being the cotton fabric.

  I tug on the waistband of his boxers, but he clutches my hand, stopping me. “What are you doing?”

  “I want to try something,” I murmur.

  “Try what?”

  “Let me show you.” I fumble with the waistband again. He stops me. I look up, focusing on his eyes.

  “Amber, are you sure about this?” His face seems sincere, but his eyes? His eyes are swimming with so much lust. He’s doing the courteous thing, but his eyes are screaming for more—begging for this to happen.

  “I’m positive, Joaquin.” When I say his name, his eyes shimmer from the moonlight coming through the balcony window.

  I pull the waistband down and this time he doesn’t stop me. He tilts his hips as I use both hands, eagerly towing them down his hips and to his ankles. Once they’re discarded, I fist his cock in my hand and hover above it. He smells fresh, like he showered before going out tonight.

  He hardens even more in my hand, still looking at me with glazed, lust-filled eyes. My heart starts to beat like a drum as I lick my lips. Never have I wanted to taste a man as badly as I want to taste him right now. As a matter of fact, I have never done this before—given head and all—but I’ve read so much about how to please a man with your mouth that I feel like I know what I’m doing.

  Don’t use teeth.

  Moan and make noises while I suck.

  It should be simple. I hope he likes it.

  TWENTY-NINE

  What the hell am I doing with this girl? I should have let her go back down in the elevator. I shouldn’t have taken her fucking hand and brought her to my room. This is Amber—fucking Amber!

  She’s not supposed to be fisting my cock, staring at it like she’s preparing to suck her favorite candy. I should tell her to go right now. Push her hand away and tell her to go home…but then her hand strokes the smooth, throbbing flesh of my cock and a groan catches in my throat.