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Authors: Emilia Kincade
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small but muscular waist. His thighs look thicker like this; it’s obvious he’s a wrestler.
He looks at me over his shoulder, the sharp line of his jaw’s profile striking.
“No girls allowed. Can’t you read?”
I’m rooted to the spot, can’t move, can’t believe that I just burst in here like this.
The smell of him reaches my nose again, and I feel a surge in my temperature, butterflies in my stomach.
He just starts to turn around when Coach’s voice booms through the doorway: “Young lady, you get out here right now!”
I jolt, shaken by the aggression in the voice, and instantly spin on my heel just as Chance turns to face me.
I only barely get a glimpse at his lower half, but it fades quickly. All I can remember is the deep lines of his Adonis belt pointing downward toward his—
“Now!” Coach yells, and I hurry out of the changing room, cheeks burning, fiddling with my hair.
“Sorry, Coach Daniels,” I say.
“Jesus H Christ!” he cries, throwing his hands up. “Teenagers these days!”
He clucks his tongue at me, gestures for me to follow him, and so I do, but not before looking over my shoulder back at the changing room door.
Chance is there, a towel wrapped around his waist, leaning on the door frame, watching me. He adjusts his towel right above his crotch, just like he did his belt at the bus stop.
I roll my eyes and look away, but not quick enough to miss his growing grin.
He makes me act out of character, and I wish I knew why.
“Now what is it you want, Ms. Shannon?”
“Um,” I stall, forgetting for a moment. “A reference letter from you.”
“Why? From what I hear you already got into some top-ten college in England?”
I straighten up. “Aren’t I entitled to a reference?”
“You are.”
“And don’t you have to highlight my good qualities?”
He sighs, evidently not liking being told what his obligations are. “Yes.”
“Then I’ll take every reference I can get.”
“Banking them, are you?”
“You never know,” I tell him. “Better to be prepared.”
“There is such a thing as over-preparing.”
“In sports, maybe.”
“In life, young lady,” he says. “Come up to my office, I’ll print it out for you.”
“Um, Coach Daniels?” I say as he’s just about to turn around.
He puts his hands on his hips, and faces me again. “Yes?”
“Would you mind if I read it first?”
“Now, that you are not entitled to,” he informs me.
Damn! It was worth a shot, though, the chance that he might be open to suggestion on changes or phrasing.
He’s about to turn again when I stop him. “Coach.”
“Yes?” he asks me impatiently.
I grind my teeth together nervously. My mood’s changed in an instant, and now my footing feels loose.
On school grounds, talking with teachers, I’ve always felt so confident, so comfortable. I’ve always known where I stood, always known the boundaries as a student, what I was and was not entitled to, what my responsibilities and duties were, not just to myself, but to my teachers.
But now I’m not comfortable because I’m not talking about my reference letters, or what kind of method of citation I should use, or whether I can organize a school charity event.
Now, I’m going to ask something I’m entirely not comfortable about, especially to a teacher.
I’m about to show him my hand.
I’m about to put myself at a disadvantage.
“What is it, Ms. Shannon?”
My stomach churns, my fingers tremble, and I barely get the question out.
“Could I get the address to your new gym?”
Chapter Eleven
The gym is absolutely packed, and mostly by guys.
I see Chance’s coach walking around the cage, inspecting the metal chain-link fencing. The cage is set in the center of this large floor space that reminds me, for some reason, of a place where they might store mannequins.
Lining the room are weight machines, free weights, treadmills, stationary bikes, punching bags, and various other fitness related
He looks at me over his shoulder, the sharp line of his jaw’s profile striking.
“No girls allowed. Can’t you read?”
I’m rooted to the spot, can’t move, can’t believe that I just burst in here like this.
The smell of him reaches my nose again, and I feel a surge in my temperature, butterflies in my stomach.
He just starts to turn around when Coach’s voice booms through the doorway: “Young lady, you get out here right now!”
I jolt, shaken by the aggression in the voice, and instantly spin on my heel just as Chance turns to face me.
I only barely get a glimpse at his lower half, but it fades quickly. All I can remember is the deep lines of his Adonis belt pointing downward toward his—
“Now!” Coach yells, and I hurry out of the changing room, cheeks burning, fiddling with my hair.
“Sorry, Coach Daniels,” I say.
“Jesus H Christ!” he cries, throwing his hands up. “Teenagers these days!”
He clucks his tongue at me, gestures for me to follow him, and so I do, but not before looking over my shoulder back at the changing room door.
Chance is there, a towel wrapped around his waist, leaning on the door frame, watching me. He adjusts his towel right above his crotch, just like he did his belt at the bus stop.
I roll my eyes and look away, but not quick enough to miss his growing grin.
He makes me act out of character, and I wish I knew why.
“Now what is it you want, Ms. Shannon?”
“Um,” I stall, forgetting for a moment. “A reference letter from you.”
“Why? From what I hear you already got into some top-ten college in England?”
I straighten up. “Aren’t I entitled to a reference?”
“You are.”
“And don’t you have to highlight my good qualities?”
He sighs, evidently not liking being told what his obligations are. “Yes.”
“Then I’ll take every reference I can get.”
“Banking them, are you?”
“You never know,” I tell him. “Better to be prepared.”
“There is such a thing as over-preparing.”
“In sports, maybe.”
“In life, young lady,” he says. “Come up to my office, I’ll print it out for you.”
“Um, Coach Daniels?” I say as he’s just about to turn around.
He puts his hands on his hips, and faces me again. “Yes?”
“Would you mind if I read it first?”
“Now, that you are not entitled to,” he informs me.
Damn! It was worth a shot, though, the chance that he might be open to suggestion on changes or phrasing.
He’s about to turn again when I stop him. “Coach.”
“Yes?” he asks me impatiently.
I grind my teeth together nervously. My mood’s changed in an instant, and now my footing feels loose.
On school grounds, talking with teachers, I’ve always felt so confident, so comfortable. I’ve always known where I stood, always known the boundaries as a student, what I was and was not entitled to, what my responsibilities and duties were, not just to myself, but to my teachers.
But now I’m not comfortable because I’m not talking about my reference letters, or what kind of method of citation I should use, or whether I can organize a school charity event.
Now, I’m going to ask something I’m entirely not comfortable about, especially to a teacher.
I’m about to show him my hand.
I’m about to put myself at a disadvantage.
“What is it, Ms. Shannon?”
My stomach churns, my fingers tremble, and I barely get the question out.
“Could I get the address to your new gym?”
Chapter Eleven
The gym is absolutely packed, and mostly by guys.
I see Chance’s coach walking around the cage, inspecting the metal chain-link fencing. The cage is set in the center of this large floor space that reminds me, for some reason, of a place where they might store mannequins.
Lining the room are weight machines, free weights, treadmills, stationary bikes, punching bags, and various other fitness related
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