"Scared of what, sweetheart?"
The endearment slips out before I can stop it, but she doesn't flinch. If anything, she seems to soften further, like she's been waiting for someone to see past the mask.
"Of leaving everything behind. Of not being... enough." Her voice breaks slightly on the last word, and something savage and protective roars to life in my chest. "What if I can't...what if I fail?"
She trails off, but I hear what she doesn't say.Without someone to catch me if I fall.
"You can do anything, Taryn." My voice comes out rougher than intended, heavy with conviction. "You're stronger than any of the pro-trained athletes that stared me down on the field."
She lets out a bitter laugh. "Yeah, well, being the strong one isn't exactly all unicorns and Birthday Cake Oreos, you know?" Her attempt at humor falls flat, I don’t miss the dark circles her eyes, the way she tries to cover it with makeup. She’s too fucking young to be so exhausted. "I'm so tired of having to figure everything out by myself."
The confession hits me like a physical blow. This brilliant, beautiful girl who's been carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders since she was a child, admitting she's tired of being everyone's rock. That she wants someone else to be strong for her.
Someone like me.
The question hangs between us, heavy and dangerous. I should give her the appropriate coach response. Something about believing in her abilities, about how proud I am of her accomplishments. Should maintain the professional distance that keeps us both safe.
Instead, I stand. Move around my desk until I'm close enough to touch her.
"You don't have to be strong with me."
The words come out without permission, but they're true. Truer than anything I've said in months. Her breath catches, and for a moment we just stare at each other across the space that suddenly feels too small and too vast all at once.
"Coach..." Her voice is barely a whisper.
"I know." I lift my hand, hover it near her cheek without quite touching. "I know I shouldn't..."
"Please." The word breaks on a sob, and then she's stepping forward, closing the distance between us. Her forehead comes to rest against my chest, and her whole body seems to deflate with relief. Like she's been holding her breath for years and can finally exhale.
My arms come around her automatically, one hand settling at the small of her back, the other tangling in her hair as I lockmy jaw, praying to the ceiling for control. She fits against me perfectly, like she was made for this moment. For my protection.
"It's okay," I murmur against the top of her head, breathing in her sweetness. Her scent is already branded into my soul, but this time, I swear to Christ I get a hit of that ball-busting pussy she's carrying around like a loaded weapon. "You're okay, I got you."
She shudders against me, and I feel the exact moment she lets go. Stops being the responsible one, the caretaker, the girl who has all the answers. In my arms, she's just Taryn. Young and scared and needing someone to tell her everything will be alright.
"I don't want to leave," she whispers against my chest.
Then don't.The thought is immediate, fierce, and completely inappropriate. But holding her like this, feeling her melt into me like she's found her safe harbor, I can't bring myself to care about appropriate.
After what feels like hours but is probably only seconds, she pulls back slightly. Looks up at me with those hazel eyes that see too much, trust too easily.
"Thank you," she says softly. "For letting me vent. I'm sorry, but you're just... so solid. I sort of cracked."
"Hey." My voice comes out gruff. "None of that shit. You think I can't handle a little honesty?"
She nods, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. It's the first real smile I've seen from her in weeks, and it hits me like a sucker punch to the solar plexus.
"I should go to class." But she doesn't move away from me. Doesn't step out of the circle of my arms.
We stand there for another heartbeat, maybe two. Then reality crashes back in—the sound of students in the hallway, a teacher's voice calling down the corridor. She steps back reluctantly, like she's fighting gravity itself.
"See you later, Coach." Her voice is soft, almost shy.
She leaves without another word, but the damage is done. The air in my office still smells like citrus and possibility... and pussy. Shit, I'm harder than I've been in years.
I lock the door with shaking hands, twist the blinds shut. This is pathetic. Desperate. But I can't walk around school like this, can't coach practice with her scent still clinging to my clothes and my cock straining against my khakis.
My hand finds my length through the fabric, and I'm already so close it's embarrassing. Three rough strokes and I'm coming hard, jaw clenched to keep from groaning her name. The release is angry, brutal, and nowhere near enough.
