“People already call me thetoken woman coach.”
“Very few people, and those people suck and they’re just trying to get under your skin because it makes them uncomfortable that you’re better at your job than they are at theirs.”
“But am I?Am I?Or do people just wantA League of Their OwnandField of Dreamsmashed up and come to life? Am I really as good as all of the other women coaches in professional sports, oramI the token lady coach?”
I start to assure her she’s good at her job, but she shakes her head and looks forward again. “Never mind. I need to rinse my hair and get dressed and get to work.”
I put a hand on her good shoulder. “You. Kick. Ass. You’re not a gimmick. And if you get promoted to head coach, it’ll be because you earned it, not because the Fireballs are trying to be the first team in the league to have a female head coach.”
“Will it?”
“Who cares? Once you’re there, you’ll keep taking the team all the way, every season. That’s what’ll count.”
“What if I don’t?” she whispers.
Fuck it.
Justfuck it.
I wrap my arms around her from behind, careful with her bad shoulder, and press a kiss to her good shoulder. “Can’t control injuries, Addie. Can’t control how a rookie or a trade will fit into the team. Can’t control the weather. Can’t control bad calls. Can’t control bad days. But you can control doing thebest damn job you know how to do. You’re incapable of doing anything else.”
Her breath shudders out of her.
She doesn’t pull away.
Doesn’t tense.
Doesn’t rub her ass against my hard-on that’s poking her, but she doesn’t shriek and yell at me for it either.
Nor does she yell at me for the fact that my forearms are pressing against her breasts.
Or for kissing her shoulder.
ThisAddie.
This is the Addie I miss. The Addie she doesn’t let anyone else see. The one with fears and dreams and a soft side. The one who needs to be hugged and who needs a safe space to get tipsy and laugh with friends.
Is this why she doesn’t do relationships?
Because she doesn’t know how to let her guard down enough to let someone in?
Or is it more than that?
What has made her so terrified of being vulnerable?
“I need to get to work,” she whispers.
“Right.” I drop my arms and step back toward the shower door. “I’ll get a towel ready.”
I don’t want to get a towel ready.
I want to stand in this shower and rub soap all over her body and kiss her and touch her and play with her sweet pussy until she’s screaming my name.
I want to towel her off and carry her to bed and stroke her soft skin and lick her from head to toe and make love to her while being so very, very careful with her bad arm.
I want to lie in bed with her all afternoon and listen to her tell stories about the Fireballs and tell her my own favorite stories about the Thrusters from the past few years.
And none of that is happening today.
