Part 9 (1/2)
His voice bounces out from the tiled changing room walls: ”The good kind of trouble?”
”The jail-time kind of trouble!”
”Can't hear you.”
I'm standing at the doorway to the boy's changing room, hands on my hips, determined to get the last word in.
Coach is still on the other side of the gym, in the practice cage, picking up stuff.
Argh!
I step into the changing room, shouting: ”The jail-time kind of trouble!”
But when I round the corner of a corridor, I see him totally naked from behind, his tight, bare a.s.s facing me. His broad back tapers into a small but muscular waist. His thighs look thicker like this; it's obvious he's a wrestler.
He looks at me over his shoulder, the sharp line of his jaw's profile striking.
”No girls allowed. Can't you read?”
I'm rooted to the spot, can't move, can't believe that I just burst in here like this.
The smell of him reaches my nose again, and I feel a surge in my temperature, b.u.t.terflies in my stomach.
He just starts to turn around when Coach's voice booms through the doorway: ”Young lady, you get out here right now!”
I jolt, shaken by the aggression in the voice, and instantly spin on my heel just as Chance turns to face me.
I only barely get a glimpse at his lower half, but it fades quickly. All I can remember is the deep lines of his Adonis belt pointing downward toward his- ”Now!” Coach yells, and I hurry out of the changing room, cheeks burning, fiddling with my hair.
”Sorry, Coach Daniels,” I say.
”Jesus H Christ!” he cries, throwing his hands up. ”Teenagers these days!”
He clucks his tongue at me, gestures for me to follow him, and so I do, but not before looking over my shoulder back at the changing room door.
Chance is there, a towel wrapped around his waist, leaning on the door frame, watching me. He adjusts his towel right above his crotch, just like he did his belt at the bus stop.
I roll my eyes and look away, but not quick enough to miss his growing grin.
He makes me act out of character, and I wish I knew why.
”Now what is it you want, Ms. Shannon?”
”Um,” I stall, forgetting for a moment. ”A reference letter from you.”
”Why? From what I hear you already got into some top-ten college in England?”
I straighten up. ”Aren't I ent.i.tled to a reference?”
”You are.”
”And don't you have to highlight my good qualities?”
He sighs, evidently not liking being told what his obligations are. ”Yes.”
”Then I'll take every reference I can get.”
”Banking them, are you?”
”You never know,” I tell him. ”Better to be prepared.”
”There is such a thing as over-preparing.”
”In sports, maybe.”
”In life, young lady,” he says. ”Come up to my office, I'll print it out for you.”
”Um, Coach Daniels?” I say as he's just about to turn around.
He puts his hands on his hips, and faces me again. ”Yes?”
”Would you mind if I read it first?”
”Now, that you are not ent.i.tled to,” he informs me.
d.a.m.n! It was worth a shot, though, the chance that he might be open to suggestion on changes or phrasing.
He's about to turn again when I stop him. ”Coach.”
”Yes?” he asks me impatiently.
I grind my teeth together nervously. My mood's changed in an instant, and now my footing feels loose.
On school grounds, talking with teachers, I've always felt so confident, so comfortable. I've always known where I stood, always known the boundaries as a student, what I was and was not ent.i.tled to, what my responsibilities and duties were, not just to myself, but to my teachers.
But now I'm not comfortable because I'm not talking about my reference letters, or what kind of method of citation I should use, or whether I can organize a school charity event.
Now, I'm going to ask something I'm entirely not comfortable about, especially to a teacher.
I'm about to show him my hand.
I'm about to put myself at a disadvantage.
”What is it, Ms. Shannon?”