Page 2 of Yes, Coach (Bratton Hollow #1)

Taryn

Today it's definitely Florida. Which means I'm running on fumes.

I pad to Mom's room in my pajamas, pushing open the door that sticks because we can't afford to fix it.

She's sitting on the edge of her bed, shoulders hunched over as another coughing fit racks her body.

The oxygen concentrator hums in the corner, and there's that faint smell of cigarette smoke in the air, even though she swears she quit months ago.

"Here." I grab her water glass from the nightstand, and she takes it with shaking hands.

“Thanks, baby,” she says once she catches her breath. “How’s school?”

"About that. I've been thinking... Maybe I should defer for a year. Take some time to figure things out?"

She frowns. "We’ve talked about this. You got a full ride, and they're not going to hold it forever. I’ll be fine, I find some home care…"

"Home care with what money, Mom?"

She grimaces, but she doesn’t have an answer and we both know it. The impossible situation we're both trapped in.

“I don’t want you missing out on life because of me.”

“I love you. I’d do anything for you.”

“At least… don’t make a decision yet, okay, baby? Let me take another look at my finances and see what I can do. I’ll figure something out.”

We both know there’s nothing to figure out. Unless she suddenly finds a suitcase full of bills stuffed in the laundry chute.

“Okay,” I say, kissing her forehead and heading back to my room, passing the stack of medical bills on the kitchen counter that I'll deal with later. Always later.

I stare at my closet like it's about to reveal the meaning of life instead of just a bunch of Catholic school uniforms that supposedly all look the same.

Plot twist: they absolutely do not.

There's the skirt that's regulation length (boring) and the one that's... technically regulation if you squint and don't have a ruler handy.

The button-down that fits like I'm applying to be a nun and the one I definitely didn't shrink on purpose in the wash last month.

The knee-highs that actually stay up and the rebel ones none of the other girls wear, ankle socks, folded over with lace trim.

A loophole in the dress code that should apply just to the lower grades, but I’m using it to my advantage. At least, that’s what I hope.

Spoiler alert: I'm going with Team Rebellion today.

I'm not proud of this scheme. Okay, that's a lie—I'm totally proud of this scheme.

Yesterday in Coach Reynolds' office was like.

.. Have you ever had one of those moments where the universe suddenly makes sense?

Where all the weird tension and stolen glances finally click into place, and you realize you weren't imagining the whole thing?

Yeah. That.

The way he held me like I wasn't just another giggling girl with a crush. The way his voice went all growly when he called me sweetheart (and yes, I replayed that about fifty times in my head). The way he promised I could come to him when I didn't want to adult anymore.

I've been obsessing over that promise all night. About how his arms felt around me—solid and warm and completely inappropriate for about seventeen different reasons that I'm actively choosing to ignore right now.

The shorter skirt rides up when I sit down, which is totally not why I chose it.

And the fact that Coach Reynolds will have a perfect view from behind his desk during first-period study hall?

Pure coincidence. Just like how this shirt makes my boobs look less "responsible teenage caregiver" and more "actual woman who exists. "

I catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror and almost lose my nerve. This is certifiably insane. He's my coach. A whole-ass adult man who probably sees me as just another kid with problems he has to solve.

Except... yesterday felt different. The way he looked at me when I admitted I was scared—like he wanted to wrap me up and protect me from everything.

The way his entire body went tense when I stepped into his space—all six-foot-whatever of him, shoulders broad enough to block out the world, that pro-footballer frame still solid under his school-issued polo.

The way his voice dropped an octave when he told me I didn't have to be strong with him.

I got you.

I literally shiver remembering how he said it, all gruff and certain while he tapped his chest and stared into my eyes, and I drank in the solid jaw, the dark hair, the silver starting to creep in at his temples.

Heat pools between my thighs as I think of it, and for a second I feel like I'm eight years old again, wanting nothing more than for someone bigger and stronger to promise everything will be okay.

My phone buzzes with a text from my best friend Chloe.

Chloe : Girl, you better not be doing anything stupid with Coach Hottie.

Me : Mind your business.

She’s absolutely right, and I hate that she knows me so well.

Chloe : I'm serious, T. That man could ruin your whole life. And get your scholarship retracted.

Or make it, I think, but I don't text that back because even I'm not that stupid. Instead, I grab my backpack and head for the door.

The walk to school gives me time to chicken out about seventeen times.

The air's already warm, sun filtering through the trees with that early-summer sharpness, and the scent of cut grass clings to everything.

By the time I'm standing outside Coach Reynolds' office at 7:45 AM, I've talked myself back into this terrible, wonderful idea.

He's sitting behind his desk, coffee mug in hand, reading something on his laptop.

For a second, I just watch him through the glass door.

I love the gray threading through the dark hair at his temples.

That scar through his eyebrow that makes him look dangerous even when he's just reviewing game film.

The way his shoulders fill out his polo shirt like he's still the NFL linebacker he used to be instead of a high school coach stuck in small-town Massachusetts.

He's beautiful in that rugged, completely masculine way that makes my stomach flip and my brain turn to mush. Which is probably why this plan seemed like a good idea at six in the morning.

I knock softly on the chipped blue metal door frame.

"Come in."

His voice does things to me that should probably require therapy. Deep and rough, with just a hint of authority that makes my daddy issues purr like a contented cat.

"Morning, Coach." I step inside and close the door behind me, noting the way his eyes track the movement. Good. "Hope you slept well."

The reference to my note makes him go very still, coffee mug halfway to his lips. His gray eyes lock onto mine, and I see the exact moment he notices the skirt. The shirt. The way I'm standing just a little too close to be completely appropriate.

"Taryn." My name comes out like a warning. Or maybe a surrender. "You're early."

"I wanted to work on my personal statement." Complete lie. I finished that thing three weeks ago. "For the official paperwork for State. I was hoping you could take a look at it."

I move toward his desk, making sure to put a little extra sway in my hips. Not obvious. Just... noticeable. The skirt rides up slightly when I lean forward to place my folder on his desk, and I don't immediately adjust it.

His knuckles go white around his coffee mug.

"Of course." His voice strains through clenched teeth. "Always happy to help."

Always happy to help. Right. Except the way he's looking at me doesn't feel helpful. It feels hungry. Like he's thinking about doing things that would definitely get him fired and possibly arrested, and that should scare me, but instead it makes heat pool low in my belly.

"Thanks, Coach. You're the best." I settle into the chair across from his desk, crossing my legs and letting the skirt ride up just a little more. "I really don't know what I'd do without you."

He clears his throat and opens my folder, the lines around his eyes deepening, but I catch the way they dart to my legs before he forces them back to the paper. "Let's take a look."

For the next ten minutes, we go through my personal statement line by line.

It's actually pretty good—all about overcoming adversity and using challenges as motivation, the kind of inspiring bullshit that scholarship committees eat up.

But the whole time, I'm watching him more than I'm listening to his suggestions.

The way his hands move as he points out sections that could be stronger. The way his voice gets softer when he talks about my achievements, like he's proud of me. The way he keeps stealing glances at my legs, then forcing himself to look away like he's disgusted with himself for noticing.

It's intoxicating, this power I feel when I’m around him, but in turn, the power I feel from him as well.

When I do a slow, uncross re-cross of my legs, he freezes, then closes his eyes like he’s begging forgiveness from the Lord.

"This part here," he says, pointing to a paragraph about my work ethic after he opens his eyes again, "could use more specific examples. Maybe talk about balancing your jobs with school, how that's taught you time management."

"You mean like how I work thirty hours a week and still manage to keep a 4.0 GPA?" I lean forward, ostensibly to look at the paper, but really to give him a better view down my shirt. "How I've been taking care of my mom since I was fifteen and somehow still find time for homework?"

His jaw tightens. "Exactly like that."

"Or how I come to school every day with three hours of sleep and still manage to pay attention in class?" I let my voice drop slightly, become softer. More vulnerable. "How I pretend everything's fine when really I'm drowning most of the time?"

That gets his attention. His eyes snap to mine, and I see concern there along with the heat. "Taryn..."

"I'm okay," I say quickly, before he can launch into protective coach mode. "I'm better than okay, actually. Especially after yesterday."