Coach Me

by Lulu Pratt

  I left myself enough time upon rising to go and fetch two coffees. We’d both need them after last night. And besides, I didn’t want this entire experience to be so miserable for her, even though her head would undoubtedly be pounding. I was hoping that… that she’d enjoy spending the morning with me. Coffee makes everything more enjoyable.

  With two cups in hand, acquired from a quaint campus coffee shop, I made my way to the forest. The training hadn’t even begun, and my heart was already pounding. Would this forest be as magic the second time around?

  I picked through the fallen brambles, around a couple of old oaks, and before long, I was in the spot. Our spot. She hadn’t arrived yet, which was fair. It was only ten minutes to eight. Still ten minutes left before I would start wondering if she was a no-show.

  Sipping on my coffee, I took a seat on a nearby boulder. I realized that her drink might go cold, so I nestled it close to my chest, willing it to stay piping hot. It was, in fact, quite chilly outside, and I worried that she’d be cold without a warm drink.

  I didn’t have to consider this for long — she showed up only moments later.

  “You’re early,” I commented.

  Catya replied, “So are you.”

  She was adorably disheveled. She was wearing what I guessed might be her PJs, with sneakers thrown on to give it a vaguely athletic look. Her hair was in a messy top knot, and she wore no makeup. Somehow, all this served only to make her hotter. Was that the definition of love, thinking someone looks better, the less work they do? Or was that only in One Direction songs?

  “I brought you coffee,” I said, and proffered the cup.

  Catya remarked, “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “Hey, I made you get up this early to train. Figured it was the least I could do for your hangover.”

  She shrugged, and replied, “I’m young, I don’t have a hangover.”

  I stared, jealous to my bone. “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope,” she said, shaking her head.

  Not that I needed that reminder of her being young. I couldn’t even remember an age where I hadn’t felt hangovers the next day. It was painful, but this was exactly the kind of brutal kick I needed to recall that she was only twenty-one. You can’t fuck a twenty-one-year old, I instructed myself.

  “Well, bully for you,” I replied.

  She sipped her drink, then asked, “So what are we starting with?”

  “No rush, finish your drink first.”

  Catya smiled, grateful, and took a seat on the boulder I’d just been sitting on. She saw me standing, then scooted over a bit to her right, and patted the area next to her.

  “I’m fine,” I returned, not wanting to get too close, as though even proximity would unleash my inner animal.

  “All right,” she said with a roll of her eyes, and I regretted not taking the seat.

  I leaned up against a nearby tree in lieu of the seat. It was a weak second.

  For the next few minutes, we made pleasant chit chat about the upcoming season, the team’s prospects, some of our favorite major league players. The usual stuff. I think we both sensed that it was filler, but that was okay. Being around her, in uncharged contexts, was nice, too.

  At some point, I shifted the conversation, curious to know more about her background. We kept getting so close to one another, but it occurred to me that I knew little to nothing about her. Maybe that was because the undercurrent between us was so strong that I’d forget to check the surface.

  “So how’d you end up at ULA?” I queried.

  “Scholarship.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  She nodded. “Yeah. ULA offered me the biggest scholarship, so I took it. I could’ve gone to a school with a better soccer ranking, but… you know how it is.”

  “I do,” I replied, more of my history contained in those two little words than you could imagine.

  Something must have propelled her to say more, because she opened her mouth and offered additional details.

  “My family,” she began, “we’re not rich. Well, actually, we’re dirt poor. Like, Appalachian backwoods poor.”

  “What’s Appalachia?” I asked, feeling stupid.

  She smiled. “Oh, right — British. It’s like the American cluster of white trash. Which made it pretty hard growing up half-black.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, knowing it wasn’t enough. “I can’t imagine what that must have been like.”

  “It’s okay. I got stronger because of the racist bullshit. I think it made me a tougher competitor.” She paused, then asked, “Where’d you grow up?”

  I replied truthfully, “In a place that doesn’t sound much different from that, save that it’s the big city version.”

  “Really?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  She sounded surprised. “I never would’ve thought.”

  “Was it the accent?”

  Catya blushed, and replied, “Maybe a little.”

  “That’s okay,” I laughed. “The accent is deceptive. But it’s hard being poor in London. Everyone makes you feel like it’s some kind of permanent condition, an ailment. And then there’s the aristocracy, who we all laud like they’re God’s gift to Mother England. You just get this constant sense that there’s no way to get ahead, like you were born into this and that’s right about where you’re gonna die. I think we’re different from America, in that way. No such thing as the ‘British dream.’”

  Catya listened intently, then shook her head.

  “Sure, you can get ahead in America — you don’t have to be old money — but you pay a price. Generally, it means getting into sports, or music, something splashy. There’s no quite way to make it big, at least not for someone like me. Add to it that people in D.C. forget that places like the one I’m from even exist and… well, it’s not a recipe for success.”

  “Is that why you got into sports?” I asked, picking up on her mention.

  “I mean, I love the game, but it’s crossed my mind before, yeah.” She paused, and added, “Not that women’s sports get much attention, but if you’re the best of the best in your field, a Serena Williams or Simone Douglas, then it’s plausible.”

  “You could be that.”

  She smiled, and said, “I know. And if it doesn’t work out then, hey, at least I’m pre-med. In any case, the game taught me diligence. Why’d you pick up soccer?”

  I leaned further back against the tree, sipped my coffee and considered the question.

  “Well,” I began, “for one, it’s kind of our national pastime. Every lad gives it a shot. But I guess I stuck with it because it was the only thing that passed the time in council housing. We had no cable, no computer, nothing. There was always a decently inflated football, though. Rather, a soccer ball.”

  “I knew what you meant.”

  “So… I guess it was my way out, too. Out of passivity, out of being closed off from the world.”

  Catya leaned closer, scooting further to the edge of her boulder. She was listening, openly and frankly, and I felt heard. That hadn’t happened in a while. Her hair frizzed around her shoulders, making a halo.

  “Why’d you leave?” she questioned.

  “England?”

  “Yeah.”

  I sighed. “More opportunities for somebody at my level to climb the ladder, for someone who wanted to coach.”

  “You didn’t want to be a player?”

  “No,” I replied. “Players get injured, get bad reps, get benched. It’s not steady income. Coaching, on the other hand, is a pretty steady gig if you can get it.”

  She waited for more, and I hesitated, then elaborated with, “I’m buying my mum a house, one down by the sea in this town called Brighton.”

  “Wow, really?” she replied, eyebrows raised.

  “Yup. Or at least, I’m going to. If I can get a good income with a couple-year contract… I’ve already opened a savings account. It’s the one thing I can do for her, after all she’s done for me.�
��

  “Simon—”

  “Yes?”

  Catya murmured, “That’s incredible.”

  I blushed, and waved away her compliment. “It’s nothing, really.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” she responded, her tone incredulous.

  Unable to stand a compliment about something I felt I was honor-bound to do, I quickly deflected.

  “So if soccer doesn’t pan out — and I’m not saying it won’t — but if it doesn’t, what would you do in medicine?”

  Catya replied with the swiftness of somebody used to the question. “Oncology.”

  My mouth dropped open a little bit. Once I’d managed to pick it up off the forest floor, I said, “And you think I’m incredible? You’re literally talking about curing cancer!”

  She looked askance, and it was my turn to embarrass her with praise.

  “You’re a saint,” I asserted.

  Catya grinned, then her smile fell away. “Actually,” she said, “it’s a bit more selfish than that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She explained, “My mom had breast cancer when I was a kid. Thank God, she’s long since in remission. But I had to grow up with her getting chemo, and a double mastectomy, and if I could save a single child on earth, not to mention a single cancer patient, from experiencing the horror of that fucking illness — then I’ll have spent my time well.”

  I stared into her eyes, devoid of any words. What was there to say? All thoughts of her age disappeared from my mind. She’d lived more than most middle-aged people, and she’d certainly acquired more wisdom than them. Her integrity, her gravity, it began to make sense. And who would’ve known that when I scratched beneath her surface, I’d find so much of myself?

  Generally, I never opened up, never did what the therapists called “sharing.” Too dangerous. But with Catya, it had been as easy as breathing, and listening in return had been even easier. Being in her presence was like getting handed a key to parts of my own soul I’d never known to exist.

  And then I reflected on the reality of our situation. Becoming emotionally involved was even more precarious than becoming physically involved. Once feelings were in the mix, there was no sweeping it under the rug, or lying to your superiors or your team. You wore love on your sleeve like a badge of honor.

  At that thought, I recoiled from my conversation with her. I had to fight my heart, in the name of her happiness and mine. This was too close for — well, not comfort, but for safety.

  “How about we go for a run?” I said abruptly.

  Catya’s face was a mask of confusion. Did she think she’d done something wrong? I hoped not. No, the wrongdoing was all mine, the misstep of opening up too much, and not considering the consequences.

  What she said was, “Okay, sure.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  She stood up, and I relaced my shoes.

  Catya turned to me and asked, “Race you to the finish line?”

  I grinned. “Deal.”

  Chapter 16

  Catya

  I’d consider myself to be fast. Actually, most people, save for maybe Usain Bolt, would consider me fast. I can hustle with the best of them.

  This is worth mentioning only so that you know how high a compliment I’m giving when I say — Simon was really fast.

  We nearly sprinted through the forest — which, mind you, wasn’t easy to do, given all the rocks and branches. The only way I was able to keep pace was through sheer competitive spirit. I refused to let him trounce me. As we were tearing through the woods, Simon turned once to give me a side-eye, a small, mocking expression that suggested he knew how hard I was working. Harumph.

  Eventually, after about a solid two-mile dash, we were deep in the woods, in an area I didn’t think I’d seen before. The grass grew thickly, trod by few — if any — feet, and the trees had this powerful scent, an unpolluted aroma that was new to me. It was beyond secluded, it could have been the land equivalent of Gilligan’s island.

  But I didn’t pause long to take in the majesty of the place. Instead, I flopped to the ground, panting and sweating. Simon remained standing.

  I gulped out, “You’re not tired?”

  He grinned. “Apparently not as tired as you.”

  Damn him. We’d just run two miles at a clip impossible for most humans, and he wasn’t even sitting down. If I didn’t feel inferior before, I certainly did now.

  After I’d regained my breath, I sat up and eyeballed him.

  “We’re just doing the same thing we do in practice,” I complained. “Running, running, more running.”

  He nodded. “Running is a big part of soccer.”

  “Yeah, I’m aware,” I replied, sarcasm thick in my tone. “But it’s monotonous. Can we try something, I dunno, cooler?”

  Simon thought for a moment, then replied, “Like this?”

  With no warning, he leapt into a front handspring, landing neatly on his feet, his knees tucked into a lethal crouching position.

  My mouth plopped open like a fish.

  “Uh, whoa?!” I exclaimed.

  He laughed. “Whoa indeed.”

  “How’d you do that?” I demanded.

  “The same way you do anything — with practice.”

  I dug further, asking, “It’s for throw-ins, right? Like you hold the ball overhead, then flip and throw it with the extra momentum?”

  “Based on the question, it seems like you already know the answer,” he replied with a chuckle.

  By now, I was fully on my feet, excitement having dispersed the remainder of my exhaustion. This trick was kind of legendary. Like, it was so cool that sometimes people just used it to intimidate their opponents. I had to learn.

  “I’ve always wanted to do one,” I explained, “but I’m not sure I’m, like, gymnastically inclined enough.”

  “You don’t have to be a gymnast. It’s more about confidence than anything else.”

  My face must have turned skeptical, because he pointed a finger at the corners of my mouth and said, “See, that right there, that’s not confidence. You’ve got to be absolutely positive that you’ll land the flip before you even try it.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Neither does kicking a tiny ball around a huge field for imaginary points, but we both still love soccer.”

  I laughed, “Okay you’ve got me there.” I stood up and walked to the center of the clearing, near where Simon was still casually lounging. “Where do I begin?”

  “Well,” he replied, “I begin by taking off this shirt, because it’s too sweaty.”

  My breath caught in my throat as he did, sure enough, strip off his shirt to reveal that gorgeous tatted chest. If I didn’t start talking, and soon, my eyes would trace that chest for ever and ever.

  “Simon?”

  “Yes?”

  “What do your tattoos mean?” I asked, unsure if the question made me sound young and stupid.

  Instead, his face lit up, as though this was a subject he cared about.

  “I don’t usually tell people,” he began, “but for you, I’ll make an exception. Each tattoo is a representation of something I hold dear to me.”

  He crooked his hand, gesturing for me to come closer. I was only too happy to oblige.

  “This,” he said, pointing at a series of larger black and white waves, “is inspired by The Great Wave off Kanagawa. It’s for my mum, because she loves the ocean.”

  He ran his finger to another, and I leaned in to see almost draft paper outlines of a handful of buildings.

  Simon continued, “This is for the place I grew up. It’s called the Towers. All my mates have the same one.”

  My earlier thought about his tattoos finally made sense, my idea that, though they weren’t all by the same artist, or even in the same style, they were interconnected because each was a part of his story. Simon had mapped his life onto his body, the almost literal equivalent of wearing his heart on his sleeve.

&n
bsp; “They’re beautiful,” I murmured.

  He pulled his focus from the tattoos and, seeming to remember that we were there to train, put that attention on me.

  “Thanks,” he said briskly. “Now, back to this front flip…”

  I moved away from his chest — reluctantly, I might add — and concentrated once more on nailing this move.

  “So,” he continued, “We begin with—”

  “With taking off our shirts, I know.” With a laugh, I slipped off my own shirt, revealing a push-up heather gray sports bra — okay, I’d put a little thought into what I wore this morning. Could he see my heart pounding in my chest?

  “You don’t have to take off your shirt, I was just sweaty.”

  I shrugged. “Me too.”

  What? I was sweaty.

  Okay, and a little horny.

  Simon gave me a sly look, like he suspected the truth, but gamely said nothing. That was generous of him.

  I deposited my shirt on the ground, right alongside his, and said, “Okay, I’m ready to go.”

  The edges of his lips resisted a full smile as he replied, “I can see that. All right. Like I was saying, we’ll begin by having you watch me do the flip. I’ll try to slow it down for you, break it into steps. Yeah?”

  “Sure,” I agreed.

  “Let’s start by working on a handstand. Can you do one of those?”

  I considered this for a moment, then shook my head ‘no.’

  “That’s all right,” he returned. “It’s just because no one’s showed you. You’ve certainly got the body — I mean, the muscles — for it.”

  My face reddened with pleasure, a bright crimson that surely stood out against the deep browns of the forest. So he’d been noticing my body, had he? Hmm, good to know.

  Simon set himself up for a handstand, brushing aside some leaves and examining the terrain. He exhaled, bent over, placed his hands on the ground and deadlifted his legs up into the air.

  I could see, with absolute clarity, his every muscle working — in his back, his arms, his abs. He was both moving and perfectly still. More annoyingly, he seemed to be exerting zero effort.

  “Come here,” he instructed, and I moved only an inch closer, afraid to upset his delicate balance.