Page 23 of Crybaby

Carson advances for me, but I duck low and punch him in the ribs. Just as I’m about to deliver an uppercut, hands wrap around my middle and drag me away.

“That’s enough!” It’s Coach Anderson. “Both of you in my office. Now!”

I’m surprised he didn’t step in earlier.

Coach Anderson drags me away while I smirk a bloody grin, flipping the bird to Carson, who is slumped against the lockers, attempting to catch his breath. Fucker can throw a punch, but I would cut out my tongue and eat it before I ever admitted that to him.

“Have fun in there,” Carson says, spitting out a mouthful of blood. I wonder what that’s supposed to mean.

Coach throws me into his office, slamming the door shut behind us. Looks like he’s seeing us one at a time.

During the fight, my towel had fallen off, so I’m standing in Coach’s office butt naked, and it’s because of the fact that I stand taller.

“I should give you detention for the stunt you pulled!” he says, rounding his desk and taking a seat in his worn-out leather chair. “You could have broken Carson’s arm.”

“That was the plan,” I counter smugly.

Coach Anderson’s chair squeaks as he rocks backward and forward…backward and forward, his eyes scanning up and down my naked body. If this is some form of intimidation, he better try harder as he’s not the first dude to look at me this way.

I’m tall, muscled yet lean, and the “I don’t give a fuck attitude” seems to only entice them more.

Maybe they see me as a challenge, but in Coach’s case, I think he sees me as someone who he thinks he can exploit. He’s about to be sorely mistaken.

“I won’t tell Principal Yates, but I expect something in return,” he says, making what he wants very clear when he peers at my junk.

“Oh, is that right?” I question, eyeing him firmly. “And what exactly do you want? I doubt you want me to join your little barbaric football club, so tell me, Coach Anderson… What. Do. You. Want?”

The pause between each word seems to lure him further.

“I think you know what I want, Mr. Blackwood.” He shifts in his seat.

“No, I really don’t.” If this fucker wants something from me, he can stop speaking in innuendos and say it because when he does, I’m going to feed him his tongue.

“Has anyone ever told you your eyes are an unusual shade?”

“A lot of people, actually,” I reply, folding my arms, unimpressed. “But I’m sure you didn’t drag me in here to talk about my eyes.”

Coach Anderson grins, but it’s that of a predator.

He opens his drawer and places a stack of papers on his desk. He looks at me and then at them like I’m supposed to know what the fuck that means.

“That’s the cheat sheet to the SATs,” he explains like he’s some god and I’m some inept peasant. “And it can be yours. A favor for a favor.”

“And what favor would that be?”

I’m daring him to stop being a pussy and say it.

Instead, he leans back in his seat so I can see the bulge in the front of his short shorts.

If he’s expecting some sort of a response, he’ll be waiting a long time. “Why would I need that? I have a 5.0 GPA.”

Coach Anderson’s cocky smirk soon fades when I place my hands on the edge of his desk and lean forward. “So it appearsIwon’t tell Principal Yates that you’re propositioning one of your students to blow you.”

The moment I have the balls to express what he didn’t, the mood shifts because the coach realizes I’m not one of his brain-dead footballers who will jump to his every command.

He quickly stands, brushing the paperwork into his desk drawer, and slams it shut. “I was suggesting no such thing,” he declares, faking horror. “I was talking about you washing and waxing my truck.”

He lunges for his truck keys off the desk. A white rabbit foot is on his keychain, but his luck has run out.

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