Chapter 15
Hades
“Do you want something to drink?” I ask.
“I didn't come here to drink, Coach. I came to talk. Though if you're offering food, I'll eat it, obviously.”
I roll my eyes and put the kettle on anyway, then plate up some leftover pasta from lunch. I've told her a million times not to call me Coach, but it never sticks.
“Say whatever you came to say and go home; I'm expecting someone,” I tell her.
“Okay, okay, I'm not going to ask why you're in a rush.
But first, three things, so you can take it all in calmly.
One: I'm not judging you, like I already said.
Two: I'm not asking you to confirm or deny anything; I'm not an idiot.
Three: I'm telling you this because I respect you and I actually like you, even when you scream at me on the field. Not just because you're my coach.”
“Iris, will you just say it? You're making me nervous,” I say.
She takes a sip of tea, burns her tongue, makes a face, and then fixes me with a look before she says a word.
“Okay. So people are starting to talk in the locker room. Not much, and not with any bad intentions, don't go thinking that. But they're starting to talk.”
I breathe in and grip the mug with both hands. I can already picture what's coming, and I know I won't like it.
“Talk about what, Iris?”
“God, you really do have a patience problem, don't you?”
“I have enormous patience with you, so just say it,” I press.
“Small stuff, for now. Little things. Tina asked me on Friday in the cafeteria why you were acting weird around Guerrero. Lucía mentioned it to Zoe. I've been seeing it since basically Florida, because, come on, Coach, those looks. You practically undress her with your eyes. And on top of that—”
“God,” I breathe.
“Yeah, yeah, Coach, that's exactly what I say every time someone brings it up.
I've already shut down three conversations where I could.
I've said what any decent co-captain would say: everyone does what they want with their personal life, we don't comment on what happens off the field unless it affects the team's performance, and Hades has every right to sleep with whoever she wants.
Sorry, the Coach, not Hades. I don't know where that nickname even came from.”
“It's fine. I've known you all call me that for years.”
“Okay, well, that's just the first thing. The second is even worse,” she says, raising her eyebrows.
“Even worse?”
Iris nods slowly. No jokes. She means every word.
“Dante Vega; you know, that journalist, he's been coming into the club cafeteria for two weeks.
Made friends with Marisa, the girl at the register.
Bought her coffee twice. Then starts asking questions, plays innocent, but you know I don't like that guy.
Marisa answers because she's a good person and she gets along with everyone, she's not suspicious by nature. But that information, in his hands, is ammunition,” she warns me.
“How do you know?”
“Because Marisa told me yesterday when I was paying for lunch.
I asked if Vega had shown up again, and she said, 'Yeah, just today he came in for a coffee and asked me if I'd ever seen the coach have dinner with any of the players.
' She said no, because you don't eat with anyone at the facility, which is true.
But Coach, that guy knows exactly what he's looking for.
And he's going to find something if you're not very careful.”
“Does Drummond know?” I ask, switching from tea to wine.
“Drummond knows Vega has been hanging around the club. She doesn't know the Marisa detail. Better she doesn't. I don't want Marisa getting into trouble for being a decent person.”
“Thanks for the warning,” I say.
“Don't thank me. We protect each other here. That's just how it is. And if this blows up, you'll have an entire locker room behind you. I'm telling you, and I know those players better than anyone,” she says.
“You don't have to do this. I created this problem, and I need to fix it myself.”
“Hey, this is exactly what I need to do. I usually do it for more likable people, but it's fine. We're cool.”
A smile slips out of me.
“Take the pasta and get out of here,” I tell her, pulling out a container for her to put the food in.
“One last thing, Coach. Then I'm gone. Whatever you decide, whatever it is, decide it with Mireya, okay?
Not for her sake. She's an adult and, sorry, but she's sharper than you in some things.
If you decide on your own, you'll both lose.
If you decide together, you might still lose, but at least you won't lose each other.
You hear me? And yes, I'm leaving, she's probably about to show up, and it would be very awkward if we ran into each other.
Oh man, what if she gets jealous and thinks we're, you know what I mean. That would be really messy,” she adds, on her way out.
Mireya
I pull up in front of Diana's place at eight fifty-three, and I could swear I just passed Iris's motorcycle going the other direction, but maybe it just looked like hers.
Lately I've been a little paranoid about someone finding out.
I sit in the car a few more minutes, running my fingers over her note in my pocket, because I did not like the tone in her voice the last time we spoke.
When I go in, I drop my bag on the couch, take off my jacket, and she lets out a breath that sounds like she needs to talk right now.
“Wine?”
“If you have anything stronger, that's better. Even with training tomorrow, I think I need it,” I admit.
I follow her to the kitchen and stop when I see a plate with leftover pasta on the table and two half-drunk mugs of tea.
“Did you have company?” I ask, raising my eyebrows.
“Iris.”
“Iris?”
“Iris, yes,” she confirms.
“What was Iris doing here?” I press.
“Warning us.”
Diana pours two glasses of whiskey and sets them on the counter. Then she comes over, presses her forehead against mine, and lets out a long, slow breath.
“Mireya, before anything else, I need to tell you three things. One from Lauren, one from Iris, and one from me. Okay?”
“God, you're making me nervous,” I say.
She starts with her ex-wife and walks me through the whole conversation, the worries, the need to get rid of anything written down, the comment that I don't deserve a relationship where we're always hiding.
“Here's the note,” I say, pulling it out of my bag and handing it over.
“I'm not burning it. I'll put it in a safe in my bedroom,” she tells me, kissing my forehead.
“And Iris?” I ask.
Diana breathes in and tells me that too. Tina. Lucía. The journalist asking questions.
“God, I had no idea about any of that,” I say.
“She told me, 'We protect each other here,' and she took it really well.”
“And yours?”
“Mine?”
“The third thing. The one that's yours.”
Diana sets her glass on the counter. She turns and comes to stand beside me, her back against the cabinet.
“Lauren is right. If we keep going like this, we're going to lose each other in slow motion and make a lot of problems along the way. You deserve all of it or none of it; not a secret. We need to make a decision as soon as possible,” she says, leaning in and resting her head on my shoulder.
“What do you want to do?” I ask, and I'm literally shaking.
“Move forward. I don't care about the consequences,” she answers without a pause.
“This could end your coaching career,” I remind her.
“I know. I'll take the risk. The only thing I'd want is to keep it between us until after the playoffs. It's not that long. After that, I'll resign if I have to, but I don't want to lose you,” she confesses, her right arm wrapping around my waist.
“One thing. If this comes out before the season ends, it doesn't catch us apart. It catches us together. We both own what happened, okay? That's all I'm asking,” I say, wiping my eyes with my fingertips.
She kisses me, and when I kiss her back, my whole body shakes. I already knew what her lips felt like against mine, but I didn't know how she kissed without holding back. Without Florida in the back of our heads, without the sprained ankle keeping a wall between us.
I slide my hands to her waist and under her shirt, moving slowly up her sides as she pulls my t-shirt up.
“Bedroom,” she breathes against my mouth.
We don't really break apart. We make it down the hallway kissing, dropping pieces of clothing on the floor until there's nothing left between us.
“I love you,” she whispers as she lays me down gently on the bed.
It's the first time she's said it out loud. No note. No cover of darkness or the fog of a sprained ankle blurring everything.
“I love you too,” I breathe, and I'd rather not think about how stupid I probably look right now, how long I've waited for this, or how impossible it still is.
She straddles me, her knees on either side of my hips.
I run my hands up her thighs, higher, to her breasts, and bite my lower lip as my hands learn the shape of them.
Diana closes her eyes, tips her head back, and when my fingers find her nipples, she makes a sound I've never heard from her. Low, completely unguarded. No hiding.
“Come here,” I murmur, pulling her down toward me.
Her nipples harden under my tongue. She buries her fingers in my hair — not pulling, just pressing, like she needs something to hold on to, like she feels it too, that we've crossed a line there's no coming back from.
When I lift my head, she takes my face in her hands and kisses me. Deeper this time. She bites my lower lip, her free hand searching for my breasts.
“Tell me if you want to stop, because there's no going back from here,” she breathes against my mouth.
I just shake my head and find her tongue with mine.
She pulls back to kiss my neck; slowly, her lips brushing just below my ear, then trailing down my collarbone, down between my breasts.
She drags her tongue across them, then takes one nipple into her mouth, and I can't stop my hips from lifting, searching for more contact while a sound escapes me I couldn't hold back.
“Are you in a hurry?”
“I've been in a hurry since Florida. I'd rather not tell you the things I've imagined with you,” I admit, breathless.
“I've imagined a few things too,” she says with a smile.
Diana keeps moving down, unhurried. She kisses my stomach, my hip, drags the tip of her tongue along my inner thigh.
Her hands on my hips, holding me against the mattress, as if she thinks I might escape — as if I could ever want to.
When she moves between my thighs, she just lingers for a moment, almost taking her time.
I prop myself up on my elbows. Her hair falls across her bare shoulders, and I feel her breath warm against me.
And then I feel the warmth of her mouth. Soft at first, then she settles into exactly the right rhythm. My hands go to her hair on their own, my fingers winding through it, keeping her close.
The pleasure gathers inside me, a heat that builds and tightens into something I can't contain. I close my eyes and cry out. My head drops back, my hips lift, and I stop fighting it.
“Don't stop,” I beg between gasps.
She doesn't. She slides two fingers inside me without pulling her mouth away, moving them to the same rhythm. I give her my whole body. I come apart piece by piece. When it breaks, I come with my eyes shut and her name on my lips. Long, deep, and absolutely perfect.
Diana doesn't move her fingers until I stop shaking.
Then she works her way back up my body with small kisses, pressing herself against me, leaving the evidence of how much she wants me on my skin.
She lies beside me and slides her arm under my shoulders, pulling me against her chest. It's exactly like that first night when my ankle was hurt, except this time there's no injury, no pain. Just us.
“Your turn,” she murmurs, kissing the top of my head.
I lift myself slightly and push her gently until she's the one on her back.
I part her legs and settle between them, kiss the scar on her knee, and I can't help smiling, because the first time I saw it back in Florida preseason, I thought that someday I'd want to kiss it. And here I am doing exactly that.
“What are you laughing at?” she asks, surprised.
“I'll tell you later.”
I move up to kiss her stomach, the space between her breasts, her neck. Then I slide my right hand between her thighs and find her warm, wet, waiting.
“Don't hold back, I want to hear you,” I tell her quietly, noticing she's trying to muffle her sounds.
I move my fingers slowly inside her, matching the pace of her breathing.
The moment I sense she's getting too close, I slow down.
She protests. I wait a couple of seconds and start again.
She mutters a curse against my lips when I do it a second time, but I just smile.
A small pause, and then I continue — slow, then slower, then slower still.
I feel her tense, her hips searching for more friction, more speed, more of everything.
“Are you in a hurry, Coach?” I murmur.
“You're terrible. You're destroying me,” she says, digging her nails into my shoulders.
Then she closes her eyes, pushes her head back into the pillow, grips the sheets hard, and lets go with a long, full moan.
When she stops shaking, she cups my face and kisses me softly: my forehead, my cheeks, my mouth. Small kisses, one after another.
We lie side by side, my head against her collarbone, my leg over hers. Our hands linked on her stomach, rising and falling with her breathing as it gradually settles.
“This is a problem,” she says suddenly.
“I know.”
“A colossal problem,” she repeats.
Sleep takes a while to come. For both of us.
But we stay like that, in the dark, breathing against each other, pretending tomorrow isn't coming, or maybe pretending it won't bring consequences, that we're just two ordinary women with no forbidden lines between us.
That I won't have to slip out of her house at six fifteen in the morning so nobody sees me.
And when my eyes finally close, the last thing I think about is the taste of her skin, the sound she made when she came, and how impossible it will be to forget either one.