I try. Fail. I mean, I can do it. It just hurts like a mothertrucker.
Coach Locken releases a resigned sigh.
“It’ll help if we encourage some blood circulation. May I?” He lifts his hands—nice hands, I note—and keeps them in the air, looking at me questioningly.
He wants to touch me? Really?
“Just to get the blood flow back to the knee,” he explains.
Duh. Of course. I have to get my mind out of the gutter. This is so embarrassing.
I gulp, looking into those brown eyes.
He kind of looks like Matthew Broderick in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. Dorky-hot. The kind of hot you can trust because the world still has expectations of him to behave.
Honestly, I’m not even sure why I’m being weird about it. It’s not like he’s sexually harassing me. He is literally asking me if it’s okay. A rapist would just jump on me without permission. I’m reading way too much into this.
I nod, watching him through inquisitive eyes as he begins massaging my knee. It feels innocent. I’m at a stage where I’m curious about kissing and fondling and stuff, but penises are still a major turnoff. They’re just so … extra. Like, sit down. You don’t have to stand there like a stripper pole every time someone takes their bra off.
He pushes his thumbs toward my knee to help the circulation. The once sharp pain becomes mild now. I feel the muscles unknotting under his fingers.
“Better?” Locken asks.
I nod again. Swallow. Stare at his fingers. At his wedding ring. At the way his hands curl and massage the back of my knee now, the sensitive spot, and I giggle and squirm despite myself.
“Your muscles are really tight.” His frown deepens. That damn wedding ring feels like fire every time it touches my skin. Why does it have to be there? He could’ve waited until I graduated—what’s four years in comparison to a lifetime—and we could be together.
“You need to work on your stretches, Penrose. Your muscles are shortening. Probably genetic.”
“Probably from my mom’s side,” I agree. Count on Mom to pass down short muscles to me.
His fingers hike up to my thigh. Now it doesn’t feel all that innocent anymore. My body tingles. But there’s also something else. A ball of anxiety in my throat.
“Y-yeah,” I stammer, filling the silence, which has now become uncomfortable. “I should stretch more. I’ll add it to my nightly routine.”
“It’s important.”
My leg feels loose and pliant under his touch. I don’t even mind that he can see I haven’t shaved.
“God, this is so good.” I throw my head back and groan.
He chuckles. “You’re lucky you’re so talented, Penrose. Not everyone gets special treatment.”
But is it my talent that makes him do this for me?
His index finger flicks the edge of my track shorts once, close to my groin. I’m about to jerk back, but he pulls away completely, standing up. His smile is shy but calm. He looks me straight in the eye.
“All better?”
Flustered, I grab the ice pack next to me and dart up. “All better.”
“Let me know if you need help again. Anytime. Sometimes diamonds need a little rub to shine.”
The same day, I raid my dad’s bathroom, find a razor, and shave my legs all the way up to my groin area.
I would go to him to massage my knee—my thigh—for the next two months.
Telling myself it’s all for the scholarship.
I met Aisling, Sailor, and Persy at Boston Common the following day.
All three young mothers arrived with their strollers, babies, and two cents to weigh in on my situation.
They were a reminder that soon I was going to have to transport myself from a world of thongs and nightclubs to the wonders of bamboo breast pads, burp cloths, and swaddles.
My friends’ strollers matched their personalities.
Sailor pushed a city jogger. Sporty, efficient, and all black. “A customer favorite,” she boasted to me once when I was in a great mood and pretended to care.
Persephone had the double Bugaboo for both Astor and Quinn, off-white and trimmed, although she strapped Astor to a dog-like leash and let him roam the park like a drunken Chihuahua.
Then there was Aisling, who had the silver cross Balmoral stroller. It looked classy, expensive, prim and proper—just like the woman it belonged to. Ambrose looked right at home inside it.
We were all bundled up in our coats, striding through the tree-lined common, passing by the Freedom Trail and the soldiers’ and sailors’ monuments.