“I’ll be fine. I’m looking forward to it,” I lied. I wasn’t looking forward to dealing with them. Not today. Not tomorrow.
Though, now that I was in the presence of Coach King—up close and personal, outside, shouting, coaching, wearing shorts—I was more excited than before. His forearms fascinated me all over again. They rippled with strength when he moved, making me wonder what they would look like braced over me.
I pulled my hair back into a messy knot at my nape, allowing the breeze to hit my heated neck. “Thanks for asking me to come and watch.”
“I’ll let you know when we play in that charity event over the summer, and you can come and meet the team.”
“Call the house,” I reminded him as I walked away.
Yep, I was still living at home.
Which was a good thing considering how attracted I was to my new so-called mentor.
In July, I formally met the girls—and quickly forgot who was who—at some posh club hosting a doubles tournament for charity. King made them all do it for community-service hours. It looked good for the tennis program, for Hafton University, and for him. Mostly, I thought, for him.
Especially when he changed into a navy-blue blazer and skinny khakis for the cocktail reception. He was every bit the country-club boy—private schooled, well heeled—a former tennis protégé who blew out his knee and was now forced to coach. He probably had a long line of tennis bunnies waiting for him outside his apartment ... or wherever he lived.
I was grateful he didn’t ask me to play in the charity thing.
A, I didn’t do doubles. Ever.
B, watching him work the event gave me more time to stare at him as he wandered from court to court, schmoozing and smiling.
I was even more grateful none of the other girls asked for my number.
I needed time to deal with that one.
Jules
Ishoved my bike into the rack outside school, slipping the lock around the bars without bothering to lock it up. It was official ... I was the new chick on campus. Well, only for classes. At the end of the day, I went back home to my mom’s place.
Smoothing my jean shorts and straightening my mess of a bun, I walked confidently into the lecture hall. Psychology was first on the menu, followed by Statistics later in the day. Of course, several of my teammates were in Psych; it was one of those cupcake courses taught by a fan of the tennis program. In other words, an easy A that kept the team’s average GPA nice and inflated.
“Toast is nice,” my old coach used to say.Nice means nothing in a world of excellence, but fuck it. They want me to get nice As; who am I to argue?
When no one from the team asked me to sit with them, I looked toward an empty seat in the corner. Did I even expect them to? Why would they?
These girls looked like they could have been together since toddler gymnastics, or their collective first periods and long-gone virginities. While I was the fiery-red-haired newcomer, the transfer from another school. The unknown.
I grabbed my tablet and readied myself to take some notes, or at least look like I was busy paying attention while searching the Internet, when the professor entered the room. Crawford was her name, and she looked about as loose as a nun on Sunday. Tight bun, buttoned-up blouse, pencil skirt to the knees, patent-leather pumps, pantyhose. Well, at least I knew she wasn’t sleeping with the coach.
No, he gave off a freakier vibe, and I wasn’t going to lie, it was one that had kept me up late into the night. On many nights in my lilac bedroom, wishing I knew where he slept.
Lost in a web of visions of King over me, me under him, us in a sideways position with scissored legs, his hands rough and calloused and mine tied behind me, I didn’t hear one word of class until, “Class dismissed.”
“Hey, Juliette,” one of the blond crew said to me as I left the auditorium.
“Um, hey ...” I squinted, trying to rack my brain. Which one was she?
“Hilary,” she said helpfully.
The infamous Hilary.
There she was in all her glory. Five seven or so, tanned, blue-eyed, corn fed. I’d bet she was from the Midwest. We had a lot of those here at Hafton U in Ohio.
Christ, I’m from the Midwest.
Clearly, I hadn’t made much of an effort during the summer to remember anything about these girls, let alone their names.
