I nodded, my gaze glued to his hand on mine. When he swiftly pulled back, probably realizing the inappropriateness of his action, I felt barren, empty, dejected. Between the chilly assault in California and my mother’s cold attitude, I was drawn to King’s warmth and kindness like it was a fireplace on a snowy day.
I tried using Jedi mind tricks to make him put his hand back, but he didn’t. He spent the next half hour asking me about how much I’d been playing, and discussing tennis strategy with me. Never once did he bring up the incident at my old school.
“You need to get registered for classes, and I’ll text you when I think would be a good time for you to watch a practice.”
“I don’t text. No cell phone.”
“Then I’ll call you,” he said, standing to leave.
Yes, please.
Jules
“Good job, ladies. Keep it up,” Coach King called to the girls I’d been watching hit bright yellow tennis balls against the pale blue sky.
His deep voice carried up the bleachers and rumbled down the meadow behind me. A hot/cold shiver fizzled over me, tickling my spine and other places—from his voice alone.
With every stroke of their racquets, I felt my wrist catch, mimicking the girls’ movements, mentally stroking a backhand or a forehand. With every lick of encouragement of his voice, my pulse beat quicker, wishing his words were directed toward me.
And not just on the court.
I hoped this wasn’t going to be a problem. Obviously, it was wishful thinking. I certainly didn’t need any more problems, but Coach King was proving to be one very big one.
His voice drifted into the air. “Hilary, watch the overswing on your backhand.”
Another chill swept over me; I was instantly jealous of another girl’s name rolling off his tongue. Coach King, all six feet of him with his messy, wavy blond hair (golden blond, sun-kissed blond, perfect blond), blue eyes like the Mediterranean, and forearms to die for. I knew because when he’d visited me several weeks back, I couldn’t stop staring at the veins and muscles running along them. He’d subconsciously flexed, and I had to make sure I wasn’t drooling.
Then there’d been the light smattering of golden-blond hairs on his skin. Each time they caught the sunlight streaming through the kitchen window, I couldn’t help but stare. He’d been sitting in my kitchen, explaining the merits of the school’s tennis program, what they had done since he took over the job as head coach, and what my role would be.
“The school’s delighted to be obtaining you,” the acceptance letter had said. Like a piece of property.
“Still overswinging, Hilary,” he called out, jolting me out of my memories.
Hilary could have been any one of the girls. At the time, I certainly had no clue, nor did I care who she was. She just wasn’t me.
The team was quite the homogeneous group—too thin, blond hair scraped back tight in a ponytail, skimpy white shorts painted on long tanned legs.
My thoughts wandered, going to a much darker place, worse than daydreaming about Coach King. Torrents of memories of what similar girls had done at my last school rippled through me, stealing my breath, leaving me in a panic.
I remained still, my arms wrapped around my knees, my jean shorts digging into the space where thigh met crotch as my red hair was whipped around my face by a passing breeze. I breathed in and out, counting backward from a hundred. Taking deep breaths and closing my eyes, I allowed positive energy to burn through me and eat away at the bad.
Giggles wafted from the benches below, near the fountain, and then drifted off as the other girls made their way out of the sports complex. Reality returned. It was present day, not back then when I was helpless.
Today I was in control.
Only after the others left—not that it mattered, I was invisible to them—did the coach nod in my direction and motion for me to come down.
That simple gesture felt like something more. Like I meant more to him than was appropriate for a coach and his student. His head tilted to the side for a beat too long, his gaze rested on me more thoughtfully than it had on the others, and he squinted at me in a way I liked very, very much.
“Think you can keep up with them?” He jerked his head back toward the gymnasium, a smirk twisting his mouth.
I zoned in on his lips and became a sailboat slicing through the sea, jumping into the blue ocean that was his eyes as I made my way down the stairs.
That’s your coach, Juliette. Let it be.
“I play singles, so I’m pretty sure I’ll hold my own with or without them,” I said from the bottom step, allowing my natural confidence to make an appearance.Hello, ego, my good friend.
“Yeah, I know. I meant, think you can hold your own with that crowd? In general?”
