Page 3 of Yes, Coach (Bratton Hollow #1)

The reference to our moment in his office hangs between us, crackling like the air right before a lightening strike. I can practically see him remembering the way I felt in his arms, the way I melted against him like I'd been waiting my whole life for someone to hold me.

"Yesterday..." He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up in a way that makes me want to smooth it back down. "That was..."

"That was exactly what I needed," I finish for him. "Thank you. For letting me fall apart a little. For catching me."

For promising to be my rock.

He stares at me for a long moment, and I can practically see the war going on behind his eyes. Professional distance versus personal concern. Appropriate behavior versus the temptation to break all the rules.

"You don't have to thank me for that," he says finally. "Taking care of you..." He stops abruptly, like he's said too much.

But I heard it. Taking care of you. Like that's what he wants to do. Like that's what this is about.

"Is that what you want to do?" The question slips out before I can stop it, and my next words feel dangerous. "Take care of me?"

He goes very still. "Taryn."

"Because I have to tell you, Coach, I'm really tired of taking care of myself." I uncross and recross my legs, doing my best Sharon Stone, noting the way his eyes track the movement despite himself. "It might be nice to let someone else be in charge for a while."

The silence stretches between us, heavy with possibility, sweet and sticky like maple syrup, and the weight of things we probably shouldn't be saying. Finally, he leans back in his chair, putting distance between us.

"You should get to class," he says, but his voice sounds rough. Affected.

I don't move. "First period is study hall. I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be."

"Taryn."

"What?" I tilt my head, giving him my most innocent look. "I'm just a student working on her personal statement with her favorite teacher."

"I'm not your teacher. I'm your coach."

"Right. My coach." I lean forward again, close enough that he can probably smell my perfume. "The one who told me I could come to him whenever I didn't want to be strong. The one who promised to be my rock."

He closes his eyes, like he's checking this isn’t a dream. "That's not what I meant."

"Isn't it?" I reach across the desk, but instead of touching him, I trail one finger along the rim of his coffee mug, right where his lips were moments ago. "Because it felt like a promise to me."

When he opens his eyes, they're dark with something that makes my breath catch. The same look I've been fantasizing about for months—like he wants to devour me whole.

"You're eighteen years old," he says, but it sounds like he's trying to convince himself more than me.

"I am." I lift his mug, deliberately placing my lips exactly where his were, and take a slow sip. His coffee tastes like him somehow—dark and rich and a little bitter. I let my tongue trace the rim before setting it back down. "And you're thirty-seven. I looked you up."

"Jesus, Taryn." He grips his temples like he's fighting a headache. Or fighting himself.

"I know exactly what I'm doing, Coach." I let my thumb stroke across his knuckles, just once. "The question is... do you?"

The warning bell rings, signaling five minutes until first period officially starts. Neither of us moves to break the connection.

"We can't do this here," he says finally, voice low and rough. I can see the cords in his neck standing out, tense with restraint.

"Then where?" The question is out before I can stop it, bold and reckless and completely unlike the responsible girl everyone thinks I am.

His eyes go dark. "Taryn..."

"I'm serious." I lean closer, lowering my voice to match his. "I meant what I said yesterday. I'm tired of being strong all the time. I'm tired of being the adult. For once in my life, I want someone else to make the decisions."

"You don't know what you're asking for."

"Don't I?" I squeeze his hand gently. "I've been thinking about it all night, Coach. About what it would feel like to let go. To trust someone else to catch me when I fall."

He stares at me for a long second, and I can see the exact moment his resolve starts to crack. The moment the man wins out over the professional.

"After school," he says quietly. "My office. We'll... talk."

I smile, feeling victorious and terrified in equal measure. "Just talk?"

"That depends on whether you can follow directions."

The bell rings, officially starting first period, but neither of us moves to break the connection. His thumb brushes across my knuckles, and I swear I can feel that touch everywhere.

"I’m heading to the little girls’ room," I say. “Freshen up… And give you a moment to gather your thoughts.”

"Yeah." He doesn't look away from me. "Gather my thoughts."

I head for the door, then pause with my hand on the handle. "Coach?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For not treating me like a kid."

His jaw tightens. "You're not a kid, Taryn. That's the problem. But something tells me, you’d like to act like a kid sometimes. I think you weren’t allowed enough of that in your life."

The words are serious, and they hit me harder than I expect. For a second, I’m frozen, feeling like he just reached right inside me and plucked out a truth I hadn’t even known was there. Then I lick my lips, nod, and turn away, feeling his eyes on my ass in the regulation-breaking skirt.

I leave with the sense that something inside me is changing. Students chatter and move around me like a flood around a stone.

A flicker of something low and hopeful warms my heart. I have no idea what I've just started, but for the first time in years, I'm not thinking about consequences. I'm not planning three steps ahead or worrying about what could go wrong.

For once, I'm just letting myself want something.

And what I want is Coach Murphy Reynolds.

Game on.