Page 5 of Yes, Coach

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 feelfromhim 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."

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.Mycoach." I lean forward again, close enough that he can probably smell my perfume. "The one who told me I couldcome 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."

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