I clean up with tissues from my desk drawer, disgusted with myself. What the fuck kind of man have I become? Getting off to the scent of an eighteen-year-old in the place where I'm supposed to be teaching these kids discipline and respect.
Because of her.
I findthe note slipped under my office door after practice, folded once with my name written in her careful script.
Coach Reynolds - Thank you again for everything. I hope you sleep well tonight. - T
I stare at the paper until the words blur.Sleep well.Like she knows exactly what she does to my nights. Like she's doing this on purpose, this careful dance around what we both feel but can't say.
The paper smells faintly of her perfume making my mouth water and my dick spurts in my pants.
I fold it carefully, slip it into my wallet. Tonight, when I'm stroking myself raw thinking about her, I'll have something that's actually been in her hands. For a split second, I consider wrapping the paper around my cock, but I'd shred it into a thousand pieces and I'm keeping this shit forever. Besides, papercuts on your dick? Hard pass. No, I'll sit there with my head back, paper pressed over my face, imagining it's her sweet pussy instead of some note, but it's the closest damn thing I have to her.
For now.
I'm so fucking screwed.
CHAPTER 2
Taryn
The coughing starts at 5:47 AM, deep and wet and rattling through the thin walls of our duplex like a freight train. I'm already awake—have been for the last hour, staring at the water stain on my ceiling that looks like either a duck or the state of Florida, depending on how sleep-deprived I am.
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.
