Coach Me

by Lulu Pratt

  “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.

  God, what the hell was going on?

  Snap out of it, I instructed myself.

  “Today we’re going to be doing strength tests,” I continued, finally remembering my voice. “I need to see where you’re at before we get out on the field. Personally, I also like strength tests as a good goal-setting tool. It might be hard to define past improvement, but it’s simple to chart out if you’re lifting heavier weights or doing more pull ups.”

  The words ‘pull ups’ rippled through the group, and a few made unhappy faces. I didn’t blame them, pull ups sucked, to put it bluntly. But Catya was nodding in agreement and that was enough for me.

  I elaborated. “We’re going to start with wall sits, then mile times, some of the aforementioned pull ups, basic weight work, flexibility tests and a few other things. I’ll set up rotating stations.”

  One girl with a reddish bob and prominent freckles, interrupted, “Seriously? Can’t we do some like, getting-to-know-you games or something?”

  “Yeah,” another seconded. “Easy stuff.” Groans of agreement sprung up from the group.

  Catya let out a low ‘shh,’ and the complaints immediately died down. Whatever else these girls thought of her, they respected Catya as a leader.

  “Coach Simon wants to make us a stronger team,” Catya said. “Let’s let him try.”

  I eyed her, grateful for the support while still cognizant of the skepticism in her voice. ‘Let’s let him try,’ she had said, as if she were waiting to be impressed. Fair enough. Growing up the way I did, I too found it hard to trust wholeheartedly. Ok, sure, maybe I was hoping she’d just blindly support me, but I respected her more for doing otherwise.

  “Thank you, Catya,” I said in a voice pitched one key too low, enough that her eyebrows raised at the intimacy of the tone. Shit. I’d have to watch that. “Now then, let’s begin.”

  The girls didn’t move. I guess I should’ve expected that. They needed a little more convincing. Catya pulled her face into a mask of support — in stark contrast to the questioning, unsure visage she wore before — and moved next to me. The hairs on my arm rose. We were nearly touching. She smelled like citrus and wood.

  “Okay,” she said, a little humor in her tone. “You heard the man. No more griping.”

  She turned to face me, and I immediately lost the air that had moments ago filled my lungs. Up close, I saw that her lashes were so long they nearly touched her brow bone, that her face was the shape of a heart, that her ears were adorned with a variety of gold jewelry which was definitely against league rules, but who cares, they looked good on her. Details of her sprung out at me as if her face were a pop-up book.

  She tilted her chin down meaningfully, as if to say, ‘your move.’ I gulped.

  “Right then,” I said, and began to list off circuit station instructions. We passed around heart rate monitors that they’d strap onto their chests to give me read-ups on speed, heart rate, energy exertion, etc. I thought back fleetingly to my childhood soccer days. We barely even had inflated balls, let alone special equipment for every measure of human ability under the sun. Man, had I upgraded.

  The girls, having got over their initial grumbling, nodded, following my every word. I’d had my fleeting doubts, but I now saw that they were professionals — beneath the petty moaning, they were serious about the sport. Good. I liked that.

  “One more thing,” I added, hoping the embarrassment didn’t show in my cheeks. “I’m not good with names and faces, so if you don’t mind, I’m going to use my Polaroid to take pictures of you and write your names on the photos.”

  Normally, a school would g
ive me a “face book,” not to be confused with Facebook, that included the roster names along with pictures of the athletes, but ULA, with such short notice, had failed to do that. So I was on my own.

  “Ooh, photoshoot!” one joked.

  “But there’s horrible lighting in here,” another moaned.

  “Don’t worry,” I laughed back, “these photos aren’t going anywhere. I’ll just shoot them in the middle of your sets, nothing serious.”

  A girl screamed, “While we’re sweaty and gross? Ew, no!”

  “I need photos of you how you’re usually going to look during my practice, not how you look on Instagram,” I replied with a grin. “Sorry about that.”

  There was some more pushback, but they all eventually ceded the point. Between pushups and pictures, pictures were still the easier task to swallow.

  “Okay,” I said, rounding to the finish. “That’s all I’ve got to say. You can go get changed.”

  “Oh, we’re already changed,” Catya said, still close by my side.

  Without warning, she threw off her bulky sweatshirt, revealing a striped sports bra. In my peripheral vision, I could see that the other girls were following suit — taking off clothes, packing them into duffels — but my attention was on Catya. Her collarbones stuck through the thin layer of her skin as if eager to escape confinement, her breasts small, rounded, perky.

  Knock it off, I scowled inwardly. You can’t think about her breasts. As far as you’re concerned, she doesn’t have breasts.

  Listen. I couldn’t get involved with a player, sure, but I couldn’t even have stray romantic thoughts about a player. It was wrong. It was, according to my contract, against the rules. It was gross — I was at least six or seven years older than them, probably more. I simply couldn’t be having these feelings.

  And yet.

  The girls threw their bags to all corners of the room while I mentally slapped myself for thinking about Catya in that way, in a decidedly, er, sexual way. This job might be tougher than I’d thought.

  Circuit work began without issue. I suppose I could describe it at greater length, but frankly, it’s not thrilling stuff. You know when you’re forced to listen to muscle guys talk about their protein routine? It’s like that. I can’t imagine anyone cares, unless they’re the body in question.

  I supervised, expecting to have to enforce the training protocol. Their earlier resistance suggested they’d need a little more cajoling. I was wrong. The minute they’d gotten over the hump, they were strong athletes. Granted, I suspected I wasn’t seeing their best, but I’d settle for a good effort.

  Meanwhile, I walked around with my camera, snapping photos and learning names. They struck goofy poses, and I repeated their names several times, attempting to burn them into my brain with mixed results.

  Finally, I got around to Catya’s side of the room. She was doing the mile on the treadmill, and I stood to the side, watching in wonderment. She was fast. I was a quick motherfucker, but she could take me in a race. Against my will, I noted that she, like the other girls, was wearing booty shorts. They were standard fare for women’s volleyball, and occasionally leaked over into other collegiate women’s sports. The trend used to baffle me — were these things even practical? — but now I was grateful.

  Catya’s lithe body sprinted, and I watched her ass, mesmerized. She was neither short nor tall, and built differently than the other girls. While they tended to be straight up and down, like the average soccer player, Catya had curves, small ones, but definite curves. A firm butt, wider hips, smaller waist. Her smooth ponytail moved rhythmically, slapping against her back. What I was doing was wrong… right? Watching her like this?

  I shuddered and tried to retreat from my own mind, with mixed success. At last, she slowed down on the treadmill, her mile finished. She panted, grabbed a nearby towel, and swiped it across her forehead.

  Catya turned and saw me.

  “Hey,” she said between breaths.

  “You’re fast,” I replied. “Very fast. I’m impressed.”

  She smiled. “Yeah, I am. Thanks.”

  Confident. How cheeky.

  “Can I take your picture?” I asked.

  She stepped off the treadmill, coming down to my height. Well, relatively — I still towered over her.

  “How would you like me?” she returned, her voice quiet beneath the rumble of the nearby machines.

  The question set me back on my heels. She couldn’t talk like this. Rather, I couldn’t listen to her talk like this.

  “Up against the wall,” I said. The innuendo escaped neither of us. A haze of pink showed on her cheeks, and I relished that sudden outburst of blood. It mirrored the blood I felt rushing to other areas of my own body.

  I could have her up against the wall in so very many ways.

  She walked to the wall then spun around to face me. I held up my camera and Catya looked into its lens, gaze sure and steady. It reminded me vaguely of a class trip to Ireland. We’d wandered through the grassy knolls of a hillside in the gray fog. Upon reflection, I wasn’t not sure what the point of the journey was, maybe just to get us city kids outside in the fresh air. But the grass and the gray and the movement within the stillness — she reminded me of it. Or rather, it reminded me of her. All frenetic energy contained within a placid form.

  I was just about to snap the picture when she appeared to change her mind. Catya reached behind her, and deftly pulled the scrunchie out of her hair. Clouds of curly, brunette hair tumbled around her shoulders, curls so well sculpted they seemed to have been each individually coiled by a master artist.

  “Okay,” she murmured. “I’m ready.”

  I took the picture.

  Chapter 5

  Catya

  I hovered next to Simon, waiting for the Polaroid to develop. The other girls raced nearby, doing sets, sweating, occasionally talking. Music played from nearby speakers, some ‘90s rap. Simon’s choice? If so, a strong one.

  Simon’s wide shoulders hunched over the tiny print out, his crisp blue eyes staring into its depths. Incidentally, I was unsure if I’d ever been so close to such a gorgeous man. Not handsome. I mean, yes, handsome, but more than that.

  He was all rough edges. Dark blond hair that bounded over his head in waves and ebbs, dropping down into those damned eyes. His bones were hard and high, his cheeks slightly sunken. Up close, I could see that tattoos curled out from beneath the edges of his long sleeve T-shirt. Their shapes were indecipherable. His fingers, which held the photograph, were made for love, not war. I could feel a pounding pulse at the base of my neck.

  I forcibly pulled my thoughts back from his strong but slender arms, that narrowing torso and broad chest.

  “How’s it look?” I asked, referring to the picture with a casualness I didn’t feel. Why weren’t my nerves vibrating through my voice? Maybe I was tougher than I’d thought.

  “Wonderful,” he murmured, then coughed. “I meant, good, it looks good.”

  I bent over his arm to examine his photo. My cheek brushed the top of his bicep and I recoiled. I’d like to say it was subtle, but that seems unlikely. The photo was, in fact, wonderful. Even I could admit it.

  My mouth was pursed like a flower, parting to let in bees, and hair swallowed my cheeks whole. If my eyes alone could have fucked the camera, they would have. The photo was perfect, but I wasn’t sure it was me. The woman in the picture looked older, wiser, more sexually self-possessed. Her face told a story, like there was history and power behind its hard exterior. I loved it. I loved her.

  “Thanks,” I said, finding my voice. I needed to say something, before more uncouth thoughts flew out of my mouth. “Do you take a lot of photos?”

  Stupid question. Ugh, Catya. Be cool.

  “Yeah,” Simon replied, appearing to take my silly question quite seriously. “I like shooting film. It brings things… I guess into more focus? I don’t know. It helps me see the world more clearly.”

  “Can I see them?” I bl
urted. “The other photos?”

  If he’d managed to capture me, young, inexperienced me in such a flattering light, I wondered what he could do with a more adept model or an ancient landscape.

  “Sure,” he smiled back. “I’d love to show you.”

  We were too close. I pulled away, breaking the tension.

  “Okay, I gotta get back to these sets,” I said, a forced smile plastering my face in a mask of easy happiness that didn’t match my insides.

  He nodded and we parted ways. I broke the circuit pattern and crossed to the opposite side of the room, anxious to put serious distance between us. Being in his orbit had thrown me out of my own.

  I beelined for the squat circuit where Grace was putting in a decent effort.

  “What’s up?” I inquired, my voice showing no real interest in the answer. “How are the stations going?”

  “Good,” she said with a grin.

  I sighed. “Why are you making that face?”

  “Oh, you know. Because I didn’t realize eyefucking Simon was one of the stations.”

  My voice hitched in its utterance and I squeaked, “What?!”

  She rolled her neck, stretching. “You and Simon. In the corner. Taking pictures. It was almost pornographic.”

  “It was not!”

  “Girl, I saw you take out your ponytail and straight up smolder. Don’t even play with me.”

  Well, shit. She wasn’t wrong.

  And then Grace added with careful lightness, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  My brow furrowed, confused. “Huh?”

  “With Simon,” she continued, her eyes darkening. “Be smart.”

  I swallowed through a tight throat. “Right.”

  She averted her gaze, returning it to a nearby weight station. “Okay, then.”

  Leaving her side wordlessly, I went to another section of the room, Grace’s warning ringing in my ears. She was right, of course. Simon was so off limits it almost seems laughable to discuss the matter. It wasn’t like he was just out of my league, he was my fucking coach. An absolute, complete no-go.