by B. B. Hamel
“It’s okay,” he says. “You sure you’re okay? I can walk you there, if you want.”
“No, it’s totally fine. I’ll go there then straight home. Really, I’m okay.” I turn to jog away, but he catches my hand.
“Tomorrow night,” he says.
“I’ll see you then.”
He nods and lets me go. I hurry off, heart hammering, head dizzy, unsure of the implications of what I just did, but very sure that it felt good. I’m not normally the kind of girl to give in to what I want, to kiss the man I want, to let him take me and defend me like that. I’ve been on my own for a while, or at least fighting my own battles for as long as I could remember.
But David’s different. He wants to protect me. He wants to help me. And I like that about him. I liked watching him get worked up over Erik pushing me, grabbing my wrist, hurting me. I liked watching him punch that cocky asshole in the face.
I don’t know what that says about me, but I liked it all the same.
And I want more. Even if it’s a mistake, even if it’ll get us both in trouble, I want more.
5
David
Practice goes smooth the next day, but in my pocket, I can feel the folded-up paper pressing against my leg. I stalk down the field, the grass giving underneath my sneakers, and watch as Erik goes through his drills. I’m tempted to make him run, make him do laps around the team, make him run again until he pukes, but he’s only proven that won’t work.
The guys finish up and jog into the locker room. I head down the long tunnel, my shoes making a soft echo on the concrete floor. I pass gold carts lined up along the walls, cones and balls stacked on stables, and water coolers piled in a corner until I step in through the red locker room door.
I head through the group, nodding at some, stopping to talk with others. The lockers are old, haven’t been updated since the fifties, but they’re kept in good shape. They’re painted the school’s colors, white and blue, and they’re large enough for each guy to keep his whole kit in there, from extra clothes to his pads. I spend some time with a linebacker that needs to work on keeping his eyes on the QB before heading into my small office crammed in the back corner near the showers.
I sit at my desk and wait. It smells humid, like an indoor swimming pool, mostly because my office shares a wall with the showers and the cinderblock isn’t exactly great at insulating. It’s sweltering in the summer and freezing in the winter, but I never complain. Most guys my age would kill to have an office at all. I kick my feet up on my desk and survey the neat space: a small TV for watching game tape on top of a filing cabinet, low horizonal bookshelves crammed with playbooks and notes, and a row of VHS tapes lined up on top, one tape per game I’ve coached, the wins marked with a W, the losses marked with an L.
After a half hour, the talk slowly starts to die out as the guys leave. I get up and wander back into the main locker room. It’s nearly empty except for some low voices toward the back. I find Erik sitting there, surrounded by his little cronies, just like I knew he would be. I nod at them. “Get lost,” I say. “Except you, Erik.”
They shoot him a look but he seems unconcerned. The cocky asshole shakes all their hands before sitting back and looking up at me. I wait for the guys to head out before facing my asshole, renegade QB. He’s wearing gym shorts and a white t-shirt, and has a rolled towel draped around his shoulders. His locker hangs open, and I can see the mess he made of it, his clothes jammed all over, the playbook haphazardly shoved in a corner.
“I know what you did,” I say.
“What do you think I did?” he asks.
I take the paper from my pocket, unfold it slowly, and hold it out to him. He looks at it and doesn’t react. “I saw these,” he says. “All over campus. Looks like that girl’s making enemies.”
I lean toward him, barely able to keep my rage in check. I slam my fist against a locker and he flinches. The shiner around his eye still looks tender, and I bet it aches at night when he tries to sleep. I hope he lies in bed thinking about what it felt like to take a punch for being a real fucked-up asshole.
“I talked to the librarian last night,” I say, keeping my voice even.
“Did you?” He smirks. “Sounds fun. You check out anything good?”
“They told me you used your student ID to print out 500 pages of something,” I say. “Did you know they keep track of that?”
His smile falters. “I had a project,” he says.
“You’ve never written or done 500 pages worth of work in your entire life,” I say. “I know what you did. I know you made that juvenile, pathetic piece of shit and had it printed out. The librarian wouldn’t tell me exactly what you printed out, said it was confidential, but assured me you printed it all in one sitting yesterday morning.”
He doesn’t move. He stares at me, his face getting hard. “I don’t know what you’re suggesting, Coach.”
“I’m suggesting you fucked up,” I say. “I’m suggesting you’d better be careful, Erik. Coach let you off easy because there’s no proof that you did anything wrong, but this time, he won’t be able to hide from it.”
“You’re going to him again?” He sounds disgusted, almost like he thinks I’m pathetic.
I stand up straight. “No, I’m not,” I say. “But I’m warning you now. Stay away from Chloe. Keep your fucking head down. Or else I’ll take this and I’ll talk to Hardy about what you’ve been up to with your printing privileges.”
He gives me a hard look before turning away. He slams his locker shut and grabs his backpack. “You don’t know shit,” he says. “I don’t know why you get off on harassing me, but—”
I shove him against the locker. For a second, I see fear cross over his expression as I lean toward him. “Stop,” I say. “Think about the next words that are about to leave your mouth.”
“Touch me again,” he says, “and I’ll make sure your life is a living hell here. You and that stupid girl.”
I stare at him, nostrils flared, breathing hard. But I move back and let him go. He tugs on the towel around his shoulders then turns and walks away. I watch him go, heart beating hard in my chest, but I sit down on a bench and gather myself.
I don’t know why I’m letting him provoke me. I said what I needed to say and warned him to back off. I won’t feel bad if I have to take this back to Hardy, or if I have to take it into my owns hands. Either way, that little twerp is going to deserve it.
But there was something in his expression that drives me insane with anger. It’s the way he doesn’t seem to care that he’s being a bastard, that he’s harassing an innocent girl for doing nothing but rejecting him. He can’t see how entitled, how much of a little piece of shit he is.
And I can’t let him get away with it.
For now, that’s going to be enough. I warned him, and I’ll leave it there.
But I can’t shake the suspicion that it won’t be enough.
I put my finishing touches on a chicken dish I learned from my mother. Just a little green garnish, then onto the plate just as the bell to my apartment rings. I wipe my hands on a towel, head to the door, and press the intercom. “David’s place,” I say.
“David’s place?” Chloe’s voice sounds tinny through the cheap intercom. “Do you really answer like that?”
“Just like to be clear,” I say, smiling.
“Well, I’m here,” she says. “And starving.”
“Come on up. Top of the stairs, on the right.” I hit the buzzer for a few seconds, long enough for her to get inside, then head over to the kitchen. I open a bottle of wine in the time it takes her to find my place, then open the door after she knocks. “Welcome,” I say.
She smiles at me, a shy little look in her eyes. Her dark hair’s down and her bright eyes shine at me. She’s wearing a low-cut dark top tucked into high-waisted jeans that make her ass look fantastic, I can’t help but notice, as she walks into my living room.
“Nice place,” she says.
I shru
g a little and shut the door. The living room is small but cozy, with a large couch, a simple coffee table, and a flatscreen TV. Some sports memorabilia line the shelves, and a few paintings hang on the walls. “Mostly thrift store stuff,” I say as she wanders over to my bookcase and frowns, leaning close.
“Is this a signed Michael Jordan baseball?” she asks.
“Sure is,” I say with a laugh. “That one’s actually worth something.”
“No kidding. I bet it is.” She looks back at me and smiles. “I didn’t know you were into collecting.”
“Just a few sports stuff,” I say with a shrug.
She wanders over and puts her bag down on the couch. “Smells good,” she says, nodding at the kitchen.
I lead her over to the table. It’s a small table, pushed back in the corner. It’s usually covered in game material and playbooks, but tonight I straightened up and put out silverware. I grab her plate and carry it over before pulling out her chair.
“Your dinner,” I say.
She grins and sits. “This is nice,” she says. “Seriously. This is how a football coach lives, huh?”
“This is how a single, young assistant coach lives,” I correct. “The head coach lives a little bit better.”
“I’m sure.”
I carry over my plate and the bottle of wine. I pour her a glass then fill up my own before sitting. She eyes the food then eyes me before tilting her head to the side.
“What?” I ask.
“Most college guys just want to go out for pizza and beer,” she says.
“Is that what you’re into?” I ask. “That would’ve been easier.”
“No, it’s not.” She sips her wine. “Not at all. Good wine.”
“Thanks, glad you like it.” I take a sip and shrug. “I’m not normally a wine guy, but every once in a while I can get down with it.”
She laughs. “Get down with it?”
“That’s not what the kids say these days?”
“Oh, god. You’re ancient.”
“I’m barely ten years older than you.”
“So what? That’s a lifetime.”
“Maybe for a kid born in the twelfth century,” I say, grinning. “But go ahead and eat.”
She nods and picks up her fork. I try not to stare at her while she eats, but I can’t help myself. She’s a beautiful girl, stunning really, and her lips look incredible. She seems to like my cooking, so I relax a little and start eating myself.
“Where’d you learn to do this?” she asks.
“My mom,” I say. “My dad taught me how to tackle, and my mom taught me how to cook.”
“That’s actually sort of sweet.” She laughs. “The only thing my mom ever taught me was math.”
“Really?”
“She was a high school math teacher at this super important private school.” She shrugs a little. “She’s kind of tough. But a good math teacher.”
“You guys get along?”
“I guess, good enough anyway. Better as I get older.”
I smile a little. “It’s always like that,” I say. “When you’re young, they can’t help but see you as a kid. Once you move out though, they’ll start seeing you as a person. And you’ll start seeing them as one, too.”
She hesitates. “I don’t think I want to see my parents as actual humans.”
“Tough,” I say, grinning. “You can’t really help it. Just how things go.”
She sighs. “Fair enough. Could be worse.”
“What about your dad?”
“He’s an engineer.”
“Ah,” I say softly. “I bet they’re really happy with their daughter, the English major.”
She gives me a look and laughs. “That about sums it up.”
“If it helps at all, my mom didn’t want me playing sports. She tried teaching me to cook when I was young to keep me from playing sports.” I hesitate for a moment. “But she passed a while back. I’m not sure what she’d think of my job now.”
“Oh,” she says quietly. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. It doesn’t really matter. It’s just, my dad worked a lot back then,” I say. “Always busy with his company. On the weekends, he’d come home, put on the game, and stare at it for hours. My mom would always complain, but he’d never change, said he needed to unwind. I think she started to associate sports with that feeling of being alone or abandoned.” I shrug a little bit. “Hard to say, exactly.”
“What did you father do?” she asks.
“He owned an internet company called Bushing Telecom. But the company just merged with this other company named Cork, so now it’s BC Telecom. I think he’s getting ready to retire.”
“Oh, wow.” She frowns and pokes at her food. “My parents were pretty boring in comparison.”
“Any siblings?” I ask.
“Older brother,” she says. “You?”
“Younger sister. Got married before me, to the CEO of that Cork company, actually. My dad was pretty happy about it.”
“It must’ve been hard for him, raising two kids on his own.”
“He managed. Lavished a lot of attention on my younger sister because, well, she was younger and needed it. I mostly took care of myself growing up, and it suited me. Helped me become the man I am today.”
“Sounds like it was hard though.”
“It was,” I agree. “But it’s all in the past now.”
“I can’t say I went through anything like that,” she says. “My parents were both around, both loving. They pushed me hard in academics, but I can’t blame them.”
“It’s not such a bad thing to have two loving parents, you know,” I say, smirking a little.
She grins. “Okay, yeah, fair enough.”
“Tell me more about growing up. Did you play any sports?”
“Of course that’s what you want to know. You’re just a jock, right?”
“Not just a jock,” I say. “I read science fiction novels and love Star Wars.”
“Everyone loves Star Wars,” she says, rolling her eyes. “They’re not even that good.”
I gasp. “Take it back.”
“I’m just saying. Luke’s supposed to be all powerful and stuff, but he looks like such a goober the whole time. Like, what’s with that stupid black outfit in the third movie?”
“He’s a Jedi and he totally pulls it off.” I wave at her dismissively. “You just don’t get his fashion sense.”
She laughs and shakes a fork at me. “I think you’re too taken in with its hype.”
I grin and we fall into a conversation about favorite movies, TV shows, that sort of thing. She tells me a little about playing softball as a kid, but mostly we stick to hobbies and things we do for fun. We have a lot in common, it turns out, and the conversation flows naturally. She likes to jokes around like I do, and we seem to have a similar sense of conversation. After a few minutes, I forget that she’s a student at the school and ten years younger than me.
She becomes just another beautiful girl in my apartment.
Dinner winds down. I offer her more wine, but she declines. I get out some chocolate cake I got for dessert, which she also turns down. “Well, you won’t mind if I just go ahead and help myself here,” I say, cutting a slice.
She grins at me. “You don’t need to watch your girlish figure like I do.”
“Please, you don’t get a bod like this without counting a few calories.”
I gesture down at myself.
She laughs as I sit back down. I glance at the clock and am totally shocked to see that two hours have passed. I thought she just arrived, but time melted away and I didn’t even realize it.
“Look, we should talk about Erik,” I say, shoving a fork into the cake and breaking off a piece. “Not that I want to.”
“I’m pretty sick of it too.”
“I know. But I confronted him about those papers today.”
She blinks at me. “You did what?”
“I didn’t want to go t
o Coach about it,” I say. “I have a feeling Hardy’s not going to do anything more than make the kid run no matter what I tell him.”
“Oh, god,” she groans.
“I didn’t make it worse, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“But that’s what he wants,” she says. “He wants you to confront him.”
I frown at her. “How do you know?”
“I’ve met guys like him before,” she says, shaking her head. “He thrives on confrontation. Can’t handle it in the moment, but he’ll think about it constantly, always wondering how he can get one over on you, always comparing himself like he’s so amazing and so much better than everyone else. Confronting him just makes it worse.”
“So I’m supposed to, what, just ignore the fact that he’s harassing you?”
“I don’t know,” she says, sounding frustrated.
“Look, he won’t do it again, okay?”
“I think you’re wrong.”
She crosses her arms over her chest and I can feel the good vibes of the night deflating. I kick myself for doing anything without talking to her first. I was just too angry and I didn’t think about it, but from now on, I need to include her in whatever decisions I make, even if that decision is to beat that asshole down.
“I’m not going to let this go any further,” I say, keeping my voice low. “We’ll take care of him ourselves, okay?”
“Yeah,” she says with a sigh.
“And next time, I’ll talk to you first.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
“Right.” I lean back in my chair, cake uneaten on my plate. I look at her and let out a breath. “Guess I fucked this one up.”
She smiles a little bit. “No, you didn’t. This was really nice, actually. Kind of refreshing to be with an actual man, you know?”
“Instead of a bunch of dorm morons.”
“Pretty much.” She laughs. “Dorm morons. I like that.”
“Every college kid is a dorm moron until they get older. Just the nature of things.”
She leans toward me, pulling on a strand of her hair. I stare at her lips, parted ever so slightly, and her breasts pressed together between her elbows. I feel my cock stir with delight as my eyes roam her body, and I lean closer to her, my heart beating fast. “Walk me home?” she asks.