Page 32 of Yes, Coach

The past six weeks have been the longest of my life.

True to his word, Murphy has maintained professional distance at school. No more private meetings. No more lingering looks. No more stolen moments that made the days bearable.

But what the other teachers don't know is that we've just gotten more creative.

Murphy's been picking me up after my shifts at the diner, taking me to that same cabin he rented or sometimes just parking on back roads where no one will find us. We've fucked in his truck so many times I've memorized every detail of the interior. The way the leather seats feel against my skin. The way the windows fog up when he makes me come so hard I can't breathe.

He's been insatiable, like he's trying to make up for all the time we can't touch at school. Taking me harder, rougher, more possessively than ever before. Marking me in places only he can see, whispering filthy promises about what he's going to do to me once I graduate.

Once I'm officially his.

Today is that day.

I'm sitting in the faculty section of the auditorium, watching as the Class of 2025 files onto the stage in their caps and gowns. It’s usually the Principal that takes the job of handing out diplomas, but today he was apparently too sick to come in. It’s not the first time in the past few weeks either. When I spot myself among them in the program, my breath catches in my throat.

This is it. In about an hour, I'm going to officially be his.

No more hiding. No more sneaking around. No more pretending he doesn't own every part of me.

The ceremony seems to drag on forever, but finally they're calling names. When they announce "Taryn Marie St. Claire," I watch Murphy from my seat in the graduate section. He's trying to look professional, but I can see the pride and possession in his eyes.

The look that saysmine.

I walk across that stage with my head high, and when I accept my diploma, I look directly at him. The smile I give him is full of promise and relief. No more hiding. No more being careful.

As I step down from the stage, Chloe is waiting at the bottom of the stairs. Her eyes are glassy, but her smirk is firmly in place.

"We did it, T," she says, pulling me into a tight hug. "School is officially over."

"Are you crying?"

"Please. I don’t cry," she sniffs, wiping at her eye. "There was just... dust. Or allergies. Or someone cutting onions directly into my face."

"Uh-huh. You’re telling me you’re not going to miss this place?"

She pulls back, giving me a look. "Miss the school? No fucking way. The town… Maybe. Some of it."

There’s a tone in her voice. Something she’s not telling me. "Spill."

"Nope," she says with a wink. "You’ve got your secrets and I’ve got mine. And don’t tell me you haven’t because I had to cover for you a few weeks ago when your mom called thinking you were at mine, and I had a text right there on my phone screenfrom youtelling me you were with her."

"Oh."

"Damn right,oh. What, you think you’re James Bond with all your misdirection or something?"

I squeeze her hand. "Okay, we both have our secrets. For now. And this town isn’t going anywhere, right? It’s not like either of us are moving a million miles away."

After she disappears into the crowd to find her mom, I make my way toward where Murphy is standing with other faculty members, my heart pounding with anticipation.

"Congratulations," he tells me when I reach him, his voice carefully professional despite the heat in his eyes. "You should be very proud."

"Thank you, Coach Reynolds." I can barely contain my excitement. "I couldn't have done it without your guidance."

But we both know it's been more than guidance. For months now, he's been handling the parts of my life that felt too big, too complicated. Making decisions so I didn't have to carry everything alone. Being the adult so I could finally just be his girl.

"You did this all on your own," he says, but his eyes tell a different story. We both know how many late nights he spent helping me with applications, how many times he talked me through panic attacks about deadlines and decisions.

Mom appears at my side, beaming with pride and slightly out of breath from the walk across the parking lot. Her oxygen tank is smaller today, one of her better days, and I'm grateful she got to see this.

---