Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

Windy

Thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack. My sneakers sound like rubber hammers slapping the polyurethane in a rhythm that makes my body music. Probably not the kind that tops charts, but it's a beat that keeps me pushing forward even though my lungs are on fire and all my muscles are protesting.

These extra laps are punishments. I embarrassed Coach Vanderman and the program by getting drunk, even if it wasn't on purpose. Taryn tried to take the blame, but I wouldn't let her. Now there are two of my favorite people in the world that are mad at me.

"No slacking, Howell. Pick up the pace and sweat the rule-breaking out along with the alcohol!" Vanderman shouts.

Being recruited to play for the University of Mariposa had been one of the proudest moments in my life. Paul Vanderman's easily the most legendary women's soccer coach of all time. I've spent the last three years proving his belief in me was well placed. Disappointing him sucks, and I double down on the speed and push even harder to make it up to him.

I can feel Coach McCree scowling at me from across the fieldhouse where he's running early-morning conditioning drills with his offensive line. It kinda feels like a third super-important person is mad at me because he is, but that's silly. Right? I don't even know him. Not really. He's just the man who rescued me from my own stupidity the other night and kept me safe.

If it feels like there was more to those moments, like maybe he truly cared about me and wanted to look after me, well that's just my overactive imagination. Right? I'm so confused. It's been four days since he found me passed out on a bench beneath the statue the stadium is named after. Coach McCree hasn't spoken to me since the next morning when he called me a good girl for texting him that I was home safe and for coming to the health department to be checked out.

My eyes go to where Coach McCree is standing, his clipboard in one hand and a bullhorn dangling from the other. Everything about him is so jumbo size the clipboard looks the size of a sticky note in comparison. After I got over my hangover the day after we met, I internet stalked him to learn everything I could about his past.

Coach Deke McCree is a three-time college national championship winner, Lombardi award recipient, and played defensive end for two Superbowl winning teams during his time playing professional football. At seven inches over six-feet tall, he's exactly a foot taller than me. Google says he weighs two hundred and sixty-three pounds, which is more than a hundred pounds more than I weigh, but looking at him, I think every single one of those pounds has to be muscle.

His chest looks broad enough that I could curl up for a nap on it, and the memory of being perched on his lap when he stopped me from falling the other night is thankfully one of few crystal-clear memories I have from that nightmare of a party and everything afterward. I'd never admit it out loud, but I've replayed the safe feeling of being in his arms over and over again since then.

My brain trips over the memory of his strong embrace just as my feet literally trip over a divot in the rubber track. I go sprawling onto the rough surface, my palms and knees scraping along the polyurethane as momentum drags me forward over it. The skin of my kneecaps gives way to the tearing friction and my palms are already prickling with pain. I've fallen enough times to know in about five seconds things are gonna become really, really ouchie.

"Owie, dammit, dammit, dammit." I roll to my side but make no move to clear off the track. It's early enough that the athletic center is pretty empty. Only the die-hard jocks who work out every second they get, and idiots like me who are on punishment from their coaches are here so long before the sun's even ready to peek out.

"Language, little lush. Good girls don't swear. Give me your hands so I can see your injuries." Coach McCree must have sprinted like lightning to get over to me so quickly.

He seems to be here every time I turn myself into a damsel in distress. I don't know whether to be embarrassed or grateful. Coach McCree takes my hands in his, turning the palms up so we can both see the torn-up skin. Classes are gonna be a nightmare for the next few days. Luckily, most of my courses are online this semester, so I can hide out in my dorm and cover myself with Band-Aids and ice packs.

And if that means I lower the risk of getting caught being clumsy and awkward in front of the ridiculously hot football god who the whole state seems to worship, I'll gladly put up with the lecture Coach Vanderman is going to give me for missing practice.

I look over my shoulder to check where Coach Vanderman is right now. He hasn't noticed my tumble, thankfully, and is busy talking with Assistant Coach Michaels and Bhodi Wells.

"We need to get these abrasions cleaned up and start icing your knees. I'm going to pick you up now, and I want you to loop your arms around my neck and hold on tight. Ready? On three." Coach McCree's voice is so rumbly I'm almost too distracted to pay attention to what he told me to do.

"I can walk." I don't want to, but I know I need to at least make the offer.

"Sure you can, but we're doing this my way. I always get my way, little girl. Best remember that now." His cryptic comment has me sidetracked enough to forget my objection.

My arms circle his thick neck and my fingers tangle in the short hair at his nape. The cut feels fresh, leaving the close-cropped salt-and-pepper strands feeling a little fuzzy under my fingertips. He lifts me from the ground in a single smooth motion that has me feeling a lot lighter than the scale says I am.

Coach McCree carries me all the way from the track into the fieldhouse, embarrassment turning my face beet red the whole way. The way he settles me down on the cold vinyl table in the training office's first-aid bay and looks me over is unexpectedly tender and gentle.

He waves away the trainer who approaches and begins to take inventory of my injuries. The way his hands move over my limbs should feel clinical and impersonal, but my reactions are definitely not unaffected. Shivers of awareness chase everywhere behind his fingers.

"Once we get these scrapes disinfected, I'm going to bandage them up and get you back to your dorm to ice your knees and wrists. Doesn't look like you're going to swell, but we'll keep an eye on your knees, especially today and tomorrow. I'll let Paul know you won't be at practice for a few days." His voice trails off and I realize he's not really talking to me so much as narrating his thoughts for himself.

"Um, you don't have to do all this for me. I'm sure you have lots of more important football-y things to do." I feel bad that he keeps having to rescue me, even though it's nice having someone taking care of my ouchies.

"You are important too. Now, hold this ice pack on your knee with this hand while I clean up your other one." He fishes out the little rubber pellets that litter the track. The turf beads come from the fake-grass field and no matter how many times the track is swept, they're always all over it. The way they stick like vicious little burrs to scrapes and turf-burn is brutal.

Deke flicks the last of the tiny black beads away from my skin, his nail scraping just barely against my abraded palm. My whole hand is cradled in his so tenderly it makes me want to cry. I haven't had anyone tend to me with such care in longer than I can remember.

Sure, my parents love me but with as many kids as they had, by the time I came around I think they were burned out on kissing booboos and fussing over scrapes. Coach Vanderman radiates concern for all us girls, but it's a general ‘worried about his players' vibe and not anything special just for me.

This is… different.

I like it.