“What’s happening here, Penrose?” Mr. Locken parks his fists on his waist. His voice is tender, softer than the tone he uses with the boys. No one ever calls him out on it. Why would they? I’m the only girl on the team, so people just figure, you know, it’s about trying to make me feel welcome.
Only I know the truth.
The truth is that he’s been beaming at me more and more lately.
And that I’ve been beaming right back.
I know it’s wrong. I know he’s married. That his wife is pregnant. I’m not dumb. But I’m not planning to take this anywhere. I just want to enjoy his attention. That’s all. In a way （a truly screwed-up, roundabout way）， I even think I’m doing his wife a favor. As long as he keeps his eyes on me, he is in no danger of acting on his urges. At least he won’t cheat on her.
Anyway, it’s dumb. I don’t know her, and I don’t owe her anything. And also, maybe it’s just in my weird head. Maybe he is not looking at me after all.
“All good, Coach.” I smile through the pain, showing him I’m a trooper.
“Doesn’t look good to me. C’mere.”
I do. All the other boys surround me, toothpick legs and overgrown ears poking from their bodies. They all wince and point at my knee.
Here comes trouble, as Dad loves to say.
Coach Locken bends on one knee and frowns at my leg. I can feel his breath scraping my skin. It’s hot and moist. Excited tingles chase one another down my spine.
“I’ll get you an ice pack. Wait in my office.”
“No, really, I’m good,” my dumb mouth protests, even though my brain tells it to shut up and take advantage. I’ve never had one-on-one time with Coach Locken.
“Nothing will be good when you’re benched all season because of a runner’s knee and I lose my cross-country star and you lose your scholarship.” Locken already has his back to me as he herds the rest of the boys to the locker room.
I limp my way to his office, which is tucked at the end of the hallway. The door is open. I take a seat in front of his desk and let out a whimper, because hot damn, it does hurt. Looking for a distraction, I peer around me. There’s a crap load of books about running on his shelves, a few trophies, and framed pictures of him hugging famous athletes. On his blond wooden desk is his engagement picture with his wife. They’re in some kind of a hay field, kissing, and her hand is tilted to the camera to catch the diamond ring. She looks small and is a brunette and … I don’t know … good. She looks like a nice person, not like all the things I hoped she’d be. I’m slammed with terrible, disgusting guilt for constantly fantasizing about him kissing me.
This is stupid. I should get up and leave.
Quit cross-country while I’m at it. Volleyball sounds more like my jam.
I’m bracing the armrests, about to stand up when he walks into his office and closes the door. He is bigger than I remembered. Taller. He fills up the room. It reminds me of my dad, and I’m crazy about my dad. But Mr. Locken also still looks boyish enough that, unlike my dad, it’s not creepy to think about kissing him.
I lean back in my chair. Business as usual.
Coach Locken lifts an ice pack in the air then tosses it over to me. “Press.”
I do as I’m told. The cold feels nice against my knee. I groan. “I better get a scholarship. I don’t even like running.”
He laughs and to my surprise drags his chair and positions it in front of mine. My heart beats a thousand miles a minute.
“How’s it feeling now?” he asks. His timbre is low, gruff.
“Yeah. Fine.” I feel so dumb, so young, so juvenile. I wish I had something sophisticated to say. Something to blow him out of the water. To make sure he knows I’m more than just a kid.
“Let me have a look.” He pats his knee in invitation.
I swing my gaze to him, uncertain what he’s asking me for. Surely, he’s not suggesting …
“Put your foot in my lap. I wanna see what’s the damage.”
I do as I’m told, my chest swelling with pride. I’m pretty sure he’d never offer this to any of the other boys on my team.
His lap is taut with muscle. Hard as a rock. My leg is long and skinny and if you look closely, there’s a dusting of blond hair covering it. He leans forward, removing the ice pack I’m pressing against my knee. He frowns.
“Doesn’t look any better.”
“It feels okay,” I lie.
“Try rotating your leg.”