Page 12 of The Coach

The evening went smoothly after that; we talked about our lives, shared funny anecdotes from our past, and ended up on hopes and dreams for the future. I watched her swirl her wine, her slim fingers twisting around the stem of the glass. She noticed me passing up the booze and going for the sparkling water. For a moment I considered telling her some comfortable lie, some acceptable excuse, but then I decided to go for broke and own it up: I was a former drunk. It kind offelt good talking to someone about it, other than my sponsor Adam. After all, I was sober for almost a year now, and if Mandy had a problem with dating a recovering alcoholic, she didn’t show it.

“Don’t beat yourself over it,” she tried being supportive. “Death of a loved one can destroy a person. Your drinking problem was a defense mechanism to a tragic situation. But the most important thing is that you conquered it.”

“Yeah,” I said. There was the unspoken question lingering in the air between us, a simple human curiosity. She wanted to know more about what happened, how my wife died. But… I wasn’t ready to go into it just yet. And certainly not on a first date.

We switched to lighter subjects after that. Her laugh—bright and lilting, like small bells caught on a breeze—echoed in the restaurant’s candlelit hum, a soft undercurrent to the music and chatter surrounding us. She laughed easily, her gaze steady and unblinking, leaning in closer in a way that felt both intimate and practiced. Mandy Richards was the kind of person who seemed perpetually at home in her skin.

“…and that’s the thing about personality,” she was saying, lifting her fork, a delicate swath of pasta tangled around its prongs. “It’s never just one thing. There’s the you at work, the you at home, the you that wakes up at three in the morning regretting eating that second bowl of ice cream.”

I smiled at that. “And who are you at three in the morning?”

Mandy’s eyes flickered—blue, unambiguous, direct. “Oh, you know. A bit more honest. A little restless, but still the same me.” She smiled then, and her foot brushed against mine under the table, a warm, deliberate nudge. “Perhaps you’ll get the chance to see for yourself.” My eyes flickered down, catching the movement, then darted back up to meet her gaze. It was all there in her eyes, laid out like a card spread. A green light. A slow go-ahead.

I ought to have felt something—a thrill, a nervous flutter,something. This was what I wanted… wasn’t it? A pleasant dinner, a charming woman with whom I could discuss personality theory and indulge in dry humor over glasses of sparkling water and Chardonnay. This was supposed to be the answer to the unspoken question that had hung over my mind for weeks. After all, Mandy had been flirting with me since I’d arrived at Williams, and her interest had been a flattering surprise in a life that had grown rather, well, monastic.

But as her words floated around us, her polished laugh and her knowing looks, a single image flickered unbidden behind my eyes: Tyler, his hands clenched as he moved fluidly across the mat, a sheen of sweat on his pretty face, the fierce, unfiltered passion in his expression. The memory snagged on something deep in mychest as if a thread had caught. I took a slow sip of soda, trying to wash it down.

Mandy’s voice pulled me back. “Do you think people ever really change?” she asked, tilting her head as she watched me, waiting. The glint in her eye suggested she knew what my answer would be.

I shifted in my seat, feeling a faint unease. “Well, sometimes change is less about becoming someone new and more about admitting who you’ve always been,” I replied.

She lifted an eyebrow, intrigued. “Admitting it to yourself, or to others?”

I hesitated, feeling the weight of my words before they left my lips. “Both, I guess.” It sounded trite, a phrase better suited to a self-help manual than a serious answer. Mandy seemed satisfied with it, though, and the conversation drifted onward, her gaze warm, the clink of glasses and shuffle of footsteps around us forming a kind of background lull.

When the dinner ended, I found myself steering us toward her car, my hand on the small of her back. We drove in silence toward the quiet street and the small, rented house that was my home in Williamstown. It was a short ride, with no time for silence to become uncomfortable, but we both knew where this was going. When she parked the car on my driveway, I heard myself asking, “Would you like to come inside?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” she said, smiling.

I unlocked the door and led her into my living room. Taking off my suit jacket and loosening up my collar, a part of me wondered how the scene would unfold, as if it were a film sequence and I merely a character moving through the beats of an act.

Inside, the low light wrapped around us like a shawl, softening the edges, easing us into a kind of relaxed familiarity. I went into the kitchen and poured two glasses of water while she turned on my stereo and put on some smooth jazz. We then sat side by side on the couch, the warmth curling in my belly, lingering there like mellow music playing around us. Mandy leaned closer, the subtle floral scent of her hair drifting toward me. Her hand rested on my thigh, tentative but intentional.

When she kissed me, I kissed her back, letting myself be led by her rhythm, her confidence. Her lips were soft, pliant, yielding, but a strange detachment gripped me, as if I was watching the moment from a distance. Her hands roamed over my shoulders, sliding across my chest, curling at the back of my neck. I responded on an instinct, almost forgotten, my hands resting at her waist, following the contours of her body the way my mind thought they should.

But something was missing—an ache, a tug, that essential spark that seemed to burn too brightly for just anyone. Her lips moved along the edge of my beard, her hand running through my hair, yet nothing within meflared to life, no surge of urgency or need. My cock was limp, uninterested.

Only when the scene from the locker room flashed through my mind—Tyler spread across my lap, his butt plump and juicy like a peach—did I finally feel the faint stirring in my chest, a flicker of something deep, visceral, half-forgotten. It took me by surprise, this response that bloomed at the thought of another, someone other than Jen. I felt my pulse quicken, my skin grow warm, and my cock finally start to harden. But it wasn’t Mandy that was causing it.

I pulled back. Shock and disgust were written all over my face, and I tried to hide it, turning my head away, seeking the shelter of the shadows. But Mandy’s gaze found mine, searching, and her expression softened into something cautious, understanding, as if she had seen through me in the semi-darkness of the room.

“Talk to me, Blake.” Her voice was gentle, an offer for a way out. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

I shook my head, struggling to keep my voice steady. “Mandy, I—” I let out a slow breath, feeling the truth stretch before me, shocking yet plain and simple, impossible to ignore any longer. And still, I chose the coward’s way out. “I don’t think I’m ready.”

Her eyes held mine, warm, perceptive. “I get it. Really,” she murmured, resting her hand over mine. She gave my fingers a reassuring squeeze, the light in her eyes softening. “I shouldn’t have pushed you. We agreedto take it slow, but I thought you just needed a little nudge.”

I nodded, grateful but humbled, feeling the weight of my admission press heavily against me. Slow, yes, butslowhad been my excuse for too long. My pulse had already quickened, my heart had already leaped—only, it had been for the wrong person. Or the right one, depending on who I dared let myself be.

Mandy was watching me with that quiet analytical stare, a touch of curiosity in her expression, a touch of regret. I knew she sensed it now, sensed that somewhere within me lay a pull that her presence couldn’t reach, a spark she couldn’t ignite. She rose to her feet, smoothed her skirt, and said, “You know, I had a great time tonight. We had agreed to remain friends if it didn’t work out, and I meant it. I’m here for you—as a friend—if you need me. Deal?”

“I…” My instinct was to rebel and fight, but, truth be told, the only thing I felt at that moment was an incredible sense of relief. “Deal.”

“Good. Then I’ll see you tomorrow at work.” She tilted her head, considering me, and for a moment, I thought she might probe further. But then she smiled, kind and understanding. “You’re a good guy, Blake. Just not my guy. And I hope you’ll be happy.”

The ease of her acceptance caught me off guard. Relief warred with guilt, and I tried to smile, though it felt stiff. “Thanks, Mandy. That… means a lot.”

She leaned in and pressed a quick kiss on my cheek. “Goodnight, Blake.”

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