Possessive Coach

by B. B. Hamel

  “Yes. Give it back.”

  She throws it over and I tuck it behind my head. “It’s supposed to be a secret though. I mean, obviously.”

  “I know that. Wow.” She leans back in the chair. “So do you, like… like him?”

  “Yeah,” I say, staring up at the ceiling with a little smile on my face. Whoever owned this place before us put textured paint up there, and I can imagine it crumbling and falling down all over me. “I actually kind of do. Except Erik is making it really complicated.”

  “That dickhead,” she says. “I don’t get him. He could have any girl, but he decides to harass you?”

  “I know,” I say, “but I think that’s exactly it. He can’t have me, and I stood up to him, so…”

  “What a fucking piece of shit.” Sara makes a disgusted face. “At least you have Hottie McCoachface to console you.”

  “Gross. Don’t ever call him that again.”

  “Just saying, it could be worse. You could be studying.”

  I sigh and close my eyes. “If only.”

  Sara laughs and hops up to head back for a shower. I listen to the water running, my eyes closed, going over every moment of my time sleeping over at David’s. Waking up in his bed was strange, and seeing him cook me breakfast was stranger, but he still managed to make it a lot less awkward than I had thought. He’s funny and charming and he genuinely seems to care about me.

  And there’s the way he keeps saying that I’m his. For some reason, every time he says those words, I believe it. Deep down in my bones, I believe it… and that almost scares me.

  I wake up at my usual time the next morning, feeling refreshed and happy. I don’t know why, but for the first time in a few days, the prospect of getting out of bed doesn’t seem daunting.

  I shower off, grab something to eat, throw on some clothes, and head to campus. I have a tutoring gig in a half hour, so I have to hurry. I cross at the main intersection, my backpack bounding against my back as I head onto the main walkway through campus. Kids move in groups past each other, the sun already beginning to shine through the shade trees. I skirt around the weird cherub fountain, the water bubbling steadily, and cut down a side path along the English building.

  I spot the athletics department up ahead and push through the glass doors. I’m running a little behind, so instead of moving through the airy lobby to the elevators, I cut right and take the stairs. I have to hustle up three flights, but I push my way out into a carpeted hallway, the walls painted a textured brown. Everything seems so hushed as the carpet sucks up all energy and sound vibration. I hustle, my flats silent as I hurry, and finally reach the double doors that lead to the tutoring room. I push them open and step inside, my eyes scanning the space.

  There are three groups already in session. All eyes come to me, and they stare at me. One of the other tutors, a girl named Melody, halfway stands up. She’s very thin, with dark eyeliner, a blue peasant top, and jeans. Her thick curly brown hair falls in a frizz to her shoulders, and she opens her mouth, but just some kind of groan comes out.

  I frown at her. “Hey, Mel,” I say. “Uh, what’s up?”

  “Shit,” she says. “Chloe. We were going to take it down. But nobody was tall enough, and I didn’t realize—”

  I follow her gaze.

  Plastered on the far wall, just above the bookshelf, is a banner that reads, in all caps, “CHLOE IS A SLUT” in black lettering on a white paper background. It looks like it was printed on multiple pages, and each page was taped together, then the whole thing hung up high.

  I stare at the banner and I feel my cheeks beginning to flush in embarrassment. I don’t know the other two tutors, and I don’t recognize any of the athletes sitting with them. I take a step back and stumble into one of the empty round tables. One of the chairs skitters back, making a screeching noise on the polished linoleum floor.

  “Who did that?” I ask.

  “I don’t know,” one of the other tutors says, a boy with light brown skin and a shaved head. He’s wearing a black tank top and has colorful tattoos on both arms. “It was here when I got here earlier.”

  “We wanted to get it, but nobody was tall enough,” Melody repeated. “And I didn’t think you were coming in today. I would’ve climbed up if I knew.” She steps toward me. “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

  “Help me,” I say, walking toward it.

  “Wait, hold on,” she says.

  I march over to the bookshelves and start ripping books off it. I throw them on the floor until the whole thing’s empty. I hear chairs moving back behind me, then the tutor with the colorful tattoos appears next to me. He has light brown eyes and a sharp chin with just a hint of stubble growing in. “Careful,” he says.

  I ignore him and climb up the bookshelf. It rocks a little, unsteady without the weight of the books to keep it in place, but my heart’s beating so hard I just don’t care. I reach the top of it, the wooden shelf under my feet flexing a bit, but I’m high enough to reach up and grab the end of the banner. I yank at it, and the thing comes free, fluttering down. I hop off the shelf and stagger a bit, off balance. The other tutor reaches to steady me but I wave him off.

  “I’m fine,” I snap as my eyes meet his. “You could’ve done that.”

  He looks away and doesn’t say anything as I head over to the banner. I yank it again and the other end comes free. As everyone stares at me, I fold it up until it’s small enough to tuck under my arm. I face the group as my student comes in through the door, a kid named Charles that players on the golf team. He’s a little chubby and pale, and I know he’s having a hard time fitting in. He’s wearing cargo shorts and a light blue polo, and looks around at everyone, confusion flitting across his young, chubby face. “Uh, what happened here?” he asks.

  “Nothing,” I snap as I head to the door. “Tutoring’s canceled.”

  “Hold on, I, uh, actually need help today,” he says, a little panic in his eyes.

  “I’ll help you,” Melody speaks up. “We were just finishing up.”

  “But—”

  I move past Charles and head out the door. Nobody says anything as I storm down the hallway, anger raging through me.

  I don’t think about what I’m doing. I should maybe slow down and consider my next move, but I find the stairs again and take them two at a time. My steps echo in the concrete space, the metal railing cold under my touch. I reach the ground floor, head back through the lobby, past the elevators, down the hall with the weird poster about magic, and turn right to head toward the football wing of the building.

  I slow down as I reach the locker room. It’s quiet and empty, the benches reflecting the light that filters in through the high windows. I continue on down the hall, past a couple of dark training rooms with low massage tables and white painted metal cabinets. I come to a row of offices, one a bit larger than the others, with a long window that overlooks the locker room through the open double doors to my left. I continue on, past two more offices, and stop at the end. Straight ahead is a door that leads into the showers, and to the right is the last office with the words ‘Assistant Coach’ printed in black on a sticker plastered to the front.

  It’s closed, so I knock twice. I hear someone call out from inside, so I push the door open and find David. His office is cramped, covered in books, tapes, and paperwork. The bookshelves are crammed, and the filing cabinets are almost overflowing. He has his feet up on his metal tanker desk and is drinking from a Coke bottle. A small TV on my right is playing some old CU game.

  “Chloe,” he says, leaning forward. He shuts the game off and puts the Coke down on top of his desk. The desk is almost empty except for a book with a bunch of squiggles and lines inside of it, probably the playbook, and a black laptop. “What are you doing here?”

  I take the banner from under my arm and unfurl it. I lay it across his desk and he stares at it for a long moment.

  “Where did you get this?” he asks softly.

  “It was hung insi
de the tutoring room,” I say. “Can you imagine walking into a room and seeing that? Nobody took it down, David. They just fucking left it there.”

  Rage fills me again. I have to clench my jaw to keep from crying. He stares at the banner on his desk then slowly stands up. He comes around toward me and I take a step back.

  “He did this,” I say. “You know it.”

  “I know,” he agrees. He steps closer and I let him pull me against his muscular chest. He smells like sugar and tea, a strange mixture, but I finally let out a little sob. I feel so stupid and pathetic, but the violation and anger is even worse. He holds me tight until I manage to calm down enough to pull away and look at him.

  “What the hell am I going to do?”

  “I’m taking that to Coach,” he says, looking back at the banner. “He can’t ignore it.”

  “What will that do?” I press. “He won’t stop. Erik’s just going to keep pushing until he gets what he wants.”

  David moves away from me, his body tense. “He wants me to react,” he says. “That’s the whole game here. He wants me to react, to do something stupid, so he can use that against me. This is all about retaliating for that night.”

  “We can’t just let him keep doing this,” I say, feeling desperate and stupid. “It’s embarrassing. It’s terrifying.”

  “I won’t,” he says, picking up the banner and staring at it. “Hardy can’t ignore this.”

  “And what happens when he does?”

  He hesitates. “Then I’ll do something about it.”

  I stand there, staring at him, and he turns back. He’s wearing a black polo shirt, and his muscular arms look incredible as he tenses and steps back toward me. He pulls me close and laces his fingers through my hair, pulling my chin back. He kisses me softly, just lips, then moves back to whisper in my ear. “You’re mine, Chloe,” he growls. “I won’t let this fucker keep messing with you. I promise, I’m going to hurt him. I’m going to make him stop.”

  “I believe you,” I say.

  He kisses me again, slower, deeper, but breaks off after a moment. “You should go,” he says.

  I nod once, feeling dizzy with need for him. “Yeah. I should.” I turn and head to his door. “You have a terrible office, by the way.”

  He laughs once. “Yeah. Right next to the showers. I swear, Coach did that just to mess with the new guy.”

  “Probably did.”

  “But I don’t mind. Lots of guys my age would kill for any office.” He picks up the banner again and shakes his head. “Fucking Erik. Piece of shit.”

  I linger there in his door, feeling fear and anger, but I force myself to leave him. I walk back down the hall, skirting around the locker room. I can picture what it must be like during practice, or even during a game, full of guys laughing and talking. I bet Erik’s going to tell them all about how he put that banner up and got me, really fucking got me.

  Shame floods my body and I hurry away, feeling flushed and foolish. I leave the athletics building entirely, stepping out into the sunny afternoon light, and take the long way home, past the expensive bungalows and their manicured lawns, past the bustling chain restaurants packed with college kids, down along the beach and its rolling waves, before heading back up into my small, cramped apartment, before burying my nose in a book and trying to pretend like the world is still okay.

  9

  David

  I try to pay attention to the game tape in front of me, but my eyes keep getting pulled over to the folded-up banner on the corner of my desk. I reach for it, stop myself, and end up turning off the TV.

  I call the library and ask the nice-sounding woman librarian the same questions about Erik’s account as the last time, and she confirms that he did print off a few pages earlier in the day. I thank her, hang up, and clench my jaw.

  The little bastard is getting too bold. These two stunts are way over the line, and the administration can’t overlook it even if they want to. It’s vicious and petty, and Erik’s acting like a toddler that just had his favorite piece of candy taken away. He’s throwing a temper tantrum, and I want to treat him like the little child he is.

  But my hands are tied, at least right now. I have to try to go through the normal channels first before I start making alternative plans. Erik wants me to make a stupid move, to expose myself. If I give him any little bit of ammunition, he’ll use it against me, and once I’m gone, it’ll be fair game to harass Chloe as much as he wants.

  I need to keep this job for myself as much as for her.

  I kill an hour in thought and as soon as I hear people filtering into the locker room, I grab the banner and get up. I don’t wait for the end of practice this time, I march right to Hardy’s office, knock on the door, and step inside.

  He glances up at me, a frown on his face, and holds up one finger. He’s on the phone, listening intently. “Well, yes, I understand. I’ll make it happen. Listen, my assistant coach just came in here, I’ve got to go. Right, okay. Bye now.” He hangs up and sighs. “My wife,” he says by way of explanation.

  I nod a little and linger in front of his desk before taking a seat. He leans back and tilts his head. “Here to talk drills?” he asks. “I was thinking about taking it easy on the guys today.”

  “That’s fine,” I say. “But I’m not here about that.”

  “What’s up? You look stressed.”

  I lean forward and put the banner down in front of him.

  “What’s this?” he asks.

  “Open it and read.”

  He sighs, unfolds it, and stares down at the words. “Where did you get this?” he asks.

  “Tutoring room,” I say. “Someone hung it up there.”

  “This the same girl you mentioned?” he asks, his voice quiet.

  “Same girl. She didn’t want me to use her name before. She’s embarrassed, Hardy. Can’t really blame her, but this is going way too far.”

  “You think it’s Erik, then?” He frowns at me. “Could be the girl has more than one guy that she’s pissed off.”

  I stare at him, my jaw dropping. “What?”

  “I’m just saying, a girl like that.”

  “Girl like what?” I growl. “You don’t know her. And no, this is Erik. I called the library, confirmed he printed some stuff out this morning. They won’t confirm what exactly he printed, but come on. You know that idiot’s not using the library to actually print out homework.”

  Hardy folds the paper up and stares at it for a long, tense moment. I feel outrage at the way he just tried to accuse Chloe of bringing this on herself, but I hold myself back.

  Finally, Hardy shakes his head and looks at me. “You realize what you’re doing here?” he asks. “You really understand what you’re trying to do?”

  “I see a young man harassing a young woman,” I say through clenched teeth. “I don’t see anything else. We’re in a position to do something about it. I think you might be the only person at this school that he’ll actually listen to.”

  Hardy swivels his chair away from me and looks out the window, lacing his fingers under his chin. “Erik Pacific is currently one of the most heavily scouted players in the country,” he says. “Everyone knows he’s playing for an inferior team. Everyone knows he’d do better in a bigger program. Maybe he’d start for USC, or maybe he wouldn’t. But playing for USC would be better than staying here, or at least that’s what people are saying.”

  “I know all that.” I try not to stand up and pound my fists on the desk.

  “Then why are you here?” he asks, not looking at me. “If we push Erik, the boy might leave. And we need him, David. You know that as well as I do.”

  “So the fuck what?” I growl. “There will be other stars. We don’t need him to have a winning season.”

  “We need him to win a bowl game.” Coach still doesn’t look at me, just keeps staring out the window. “Let this go, David.”

  “He printed out other pages, just as insulting at that banner. Threw them a
ll around campus. I wasn’t going to do anything about that, but then he pulled this little stunt. How can you possibly let this go? He’s harassing this poor girl.”

  “Let it go,” he says, still not looking at me.

  I sit there, leaning back in my chair, in a stunned silence.

  I knew Hardy cared more about the team than anything else. But the goddamned man has daughters, for fuck’s fake. He should care about the well-being of Chloe, even if she’s not bringing in millions of dollars in ticket revenue to this school.

  But that’s the truth of it in the end. Chloe is nothing, she’s just some nobody girl, and Erik Pacific is a star. He’s the money here, he’s the golden goose. Hardy will let that motherfucker do anything he wants, so long as he keeps winning games and getting good press. It doesn’t matter if he’s a piece of shit, if he’s hurting people.

  He just needs to keep winning.

  I stand up. “Keep the banner,” I say. “Maybe look at it sometimes and think about how much your integrity is worth.”

  Hardy looks at me, his eyes narrowed, but I don’t wait for his reply. I leave his office and shut the door behind me. I linger in the hall for a long moment, my body vibrating with rage. I have to force myself to move, because if I run into Erik right now, I know I’ll do something stupid.

  Hardy isn’t going to do shit. I know it now. I should’ve known it before, should’ve realized it sooner. But now I’m seeing what the man really is, and it’s just as disgusting as I feared.

  This is going to be up to me. Erik’s going to run all over this campus doing whatever he wants, unless I do something to bring him down a peg. I don’t know what or how, not yet at least. But I’m going to figure it out.

  I won’t let him hurt my Chloe again.

  I lean my elbows on the damp bar top. The sound of country music swirls in the background from some cheap speakers hidden up in the ceiling. The place smells like tobacco and sweat, although it’s not legal to smoke inside anymore. The bottles behind the bar are all old and half-empty, and the bartender himself looks like he’s seen better days. The place is quiet and rundown, with tables scattered around the middle of the space, booths with ripped seats and chipped tables ringing the outside, and pictures of past CU football players hanging on the walls. The linoleum floor is sticky from decades of spilled drinks.