Page 8 of Coach Me

We stormed into the gym, our ponytails bobbing and bags banging against one another. We’re like Amazonian warriors, I thought, then amended it to, very sheltered warriors who would look cool in armor but probably couldn’t heft a sword to save our lives. I remembered that the mythical Amazonian women warriors had to cut off one of their breasts, the better to draw back their bow and arrow, and decided I would not in fact like to join that coterie.

I took the lead, guiding them to the weight room he’d apparently reserved for the next few hours. I paused suddenly, and the group behind me banged into my back.

“Ouch!” Tanya blurted.

“Why’d you stop like that?” Beth muttered.

“Sorry,” I responded. “I forgot to ask — has everybody changed?”

They all lifted up their shirts to reveal a legion of neon sports bras. I was impressed. Generally, we came in our street clothes and changed into athletic gear before practice began. In fact, getting them into and out of the locker room quickly was one of my major responsibilities, and the only one that every presented me with problems. They tended to be chatty in the room, you know?

Not today.

Nodding, I resumed my progress, until we stood in front of the weight room.

“Ready?” I asked.

“Ready,” one returned.

“Ready,” said another.

“Okay then,” I continued. “Ready.”

With some effort, I pushed open the heavy doors to the weight room.

Directly in front of me, lording over the confined space like a caged angel, was a man. Or to be more specific, our new coach. And he was tens across the board, no holds barred, David Beckham-level hot.

Oh shit.

Chapter 4

Simon

They were all staring at me. Did I have something on my face? My hand instinctively quivered to my jaw to wipe something off my scruff, but I tamed it — had to resist the urge to go on the defensive.

Standing before me were two dozen young women, all clearly ripped, even beneath their sweatshirts, each focusing a laser gaze on me, as if their eyes alone might cut a hole through my stomach.

And at the head of the pack, the apparent leader, was one girl. No, woman. She was a woman, no doubt about it.

Her skin was a deep tan, her dark brunette hair pulled tightly to the back of her head. What didn’t fit in a ponytail frizzed around the edges of her face. Her brows arched in neat formation, and her nose seemed to be the very extension of those same brows, like in that Picasso painting of a woman’s face, where all the lines flow into one another. While the other stares ripped through me, hers merely alighted, her burnt umber eyes flicking across the length of my body. Her peers were trying to decide who I was, she was trying to decide if I was good enough.

I knew a team captain when I saw one.

With some effort, I refocused my attention from her impossibly smooth, almost airbrushed skin, and onto the team as a whole.

“Hello, team,” I said.

“Hello,” they replied at once.

“I’m your new coach,” I clarified. “You can call me Simon.”

They waited, hesitating in silence. Were they just going to stare at me like that all day? The intermission was becoming unbearable. I wasn’t much for great big speeches, but it seemed like they were all patiently holding for one, so I gave in.

“I’m Simon,” I repeated. “I know I’m coming in mid-season, that Alan worked with ULA for fifteen years, that there are some big damn shoes to fill. But I fully intend to fill them. I may look young—”

There were some audible giggles, but I barreled on.

“I may look young but I’ve been playing the game for twenty-three years now, since I was only four. Soccer is my life.”

A few nods in the crowd. I was winning them over.

“My only intention is to make you all winners,” I added. “I haven’t had time to watch all your game footage, but through working at U of B, I’m familiar with your strategies, strengths and weaknesses. You are good. I’m going to make you great.”

I fell silent, then finished with, “Any questions?”

The woman at the front of the pack, the one with the level gaze, spoke up. Her voice, low and calm, echoed through the modest room.

“How are you going to make us stronger?” she asked.

“What’s your name?” I replied.

“Catya.”

Catya. A strong name, an unusual one, too. It fit.

“Well, Catya,” I returned, rolling the moniker over my tongue like coffee beans, “I’m glad you asked.”

She smiled, a tiny facial expression that I might’ve missed were I not looking so closely. Her lips, rosy pink against her dark skin, quirked up at the edges. She was going to give me a chance, and that was all I needed. I felt my world tilt on its axis, everything rolling gently to the side as my basic desires reoriented around her, around the hunger for her approval.

---