Page 24 of Coach Me

Grace hedged, “I think so, yeah. I couldn’t say if it was likely or not, but it is definitely a possibility.”

My legs, growing weak, realized for me that I’d been standing throughout the entire conversation. Now, I threw myself into an overstuffed bean bag, willing the folds of fabric to suck me into their depths, obscuring the outside world from my vision forever and ever.

“You okay, Catya?” came Grace’s voice from somewhere beyond the tiny realm of my squishy chair.

“Yeah,” I muttered. “I’m fine.”

“You seem upset.”

Shit. I couldn’t let her think that this discussion had been, in any way, a personal thing. So I summoned my team captain instincts, and let them serve as a smokescreen.

I explained, “I am upset — about losing Melanie, about losing Alan, about the whole thing. It just feels like a really unfortunate situation. I’m sorry that it had to happen to our team, and I’m even more sorry that I never addressed it with the other girls. Seems like something I should’ve, you know, brought up in the locker room, in case anybody wanted to air some feelings about it.”

Grace denied this, saying, “I know you take being captain seriously, but this just isn’t part of the job description. Don’t ask so much of yourself.”

Beat.

“And besides,” she went on, “I’m sad about Melanie, but I ain’t mad at Alan’s replacement.”

“Simon?” I asked. Duh, Catya, my brain responded.

“Duh, Catya,” Grace said aloud, once again reminding me of our borderline creepy mind meld. “He’s like, stupid hot.”

“Ha, yeah,” I tried to chuckle back, but my voice cracked in the middle.

Grace eyed me, a look of inquisition flashed across her face, but she must have decided against it. With a very specific, very careful tone, she returned, “Too bad he’s still our coach. And still, y’know, kinda old.”

Was she trying to give me a warning? Or protect me? Had she once again read my mind and responded directly to its innermost contents?

No, I was just being superstitious, or overanalyzing things. Simon and I had behaved totally aboveboard during practice. She couldn’t have seen anything untoward.

Right?

Nervous and unsure, I replied with a forced laugh, “Yeah, he’s old.”

“Okay, twenty-seven isn’t that old,” she allowed. “And like, God willing I look that hot at twenty-seven.”

“Amen.”

We smiled at one another.

“Do you need help up from that ridiculous bean bag?” she asked.

I tried to squirm out of it, and then realized the extent of my predicament.

“Yes, please,” I whimpered.

She strode over to my bean bag and stuck out a long, strong arm. My hand clasped hers and she forcefully tugged me out of the bag, straight to standing.

“Thanks for the lift,” I joked.

“Anytime. You ready for bed?”

“Yeah.”

I was more than ready for bed. I was ready for about three days’ worth of bed. Maybe this time, Simon wouldn’t haunt my dreams. The thought was welcome, but seemed unlikely. Everything I did now was tinged with him, and even sleep wasn’t safe.

But it never hurt to hope, right?

“Let’s go to bed,” I said.

Chapter 11

Simon

Mmm, something felt good.

Yes, that was it, right there, that was, oh, so nice.

My eyes opened, still thick with a layer of sleep, and I jumped up when I realized that, in my lucid state, I’d been grinding a raging morning wood against my mattress.

You know, when I entered my twenties, I’d sort of hoped waking up with a boner would wear off, but it never really did, which made mornings quite the task — I had to jack off before I could even go about my business or I’d have blue balls all day.

But even then, this morning’s, er, offering, was still unusually large and hard. I tried to recall my dreams in the way that recent risers do — the moment I grasped onto a thread of a narrative, the entire stitching fell apart between my fingers.

I expected to be met with this familiar sense of having lost something I’d had only moments ago.

I was wrong.

Immediately, it dawned on me that I’d been dreaming about Catya. Again.

Even now, I could see the way that Dream Catya had caressed me, how I’d held her in my arms, our bodies moving with a passion. Her nipple. Her ass. Her hip. Her mouth. The sweet nothings that lay below the band of her underwear. I was awake, but I could still taste her.

“Stop it,” I scolded myself aloud. “Not okay.”

I shook the taste of her off my tongue. It didn’t matter how turned on I was, the more I let myself think about Catya that way, the harder it would be to resist the feelings in her presence. And that was a battle I needed to keep fighting, for her sake as much as mine. She was still young, though she didn’t seem it, and I was still her coach, though I didn’t feel it. It was hard to make sense of the confines of our situation when she seemed so mature beyond her years — and, if I was being honest, so into me.

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