6. Nate - To the Blue Coast
The whine of the bus engine warming up is a dull thrum, an omen vibrating under the soles of my shoes as I watch the last duffel bag disappear into the cargo hold.
The air in the parking lot is still crisp, but in my chest, I already feel the stifling heat of what's waiting for me.
This is supposed to be a field trip—a week of supervision and the sea—but for me, it's a sentence of confinement in a space far too small.
I climb the bus steps with a rigidity I try to pass off as authority.
I take the first seat on the right, the one reserved for teachers, next to the window.
It's the perfect vantage point to monitor the entire aisle, but it's also the most exposed.
I don't need to turn around to know who took the seat directly behind me.
I feel the shift in the air, catch the scent of that goddamn coconut fragrance that smells like summer and impudence, and hear the dull thud of a backpack being dropped to the floor.
The bus pulls out. The gears grind, the school slides away behind dirty glass, and I stare at the asphalt with the concentration of a man trying not to look into the abyss. But the abyss has decided to close the distance.
"Coach? Excuse me, I can't find the schedule for the afternoon activities."
His voice is a whisper right at the level of my left ear.
I feel the heat of his breath on the skin of my neck.
Before I can even answer, I feel his hand.
A light pressure, almost accidental, on my shoulder.
It isn't a firm touch; it's a grazing of fingers that linger a second too long on the fabric of my polo.
"It's in the folder I gave to everyone, Sinclair. Look harder," I reply without turning. My voice is steady, but my fingers grip the armrest until my knuckles turn white.
Ten minutes pass. The landscape turns greener, the city vanishes, and I hope for silence. But Leo has no intention of granting it.
"Coach? Is the hotel gym really open 24/7 like Tyler said?"
I feel his arm resting on the back of my seat again, and this time, his forearm presses against my shoulder.
It's a constant contact, rhythmic with the jolts of the bus over the uneven road.
Every time the vehicle swerves, he slides a bit further forward, his shoulder bumping mine with a familiarity that sends blood rushing to my brain.
"Yes, Sinclair. But you're here to train on the track, not to lock yourself in a weight room," I say, turning my head just enough to catch the profile of his face in my peripheral vision.
He's right there, inches away, those blue eyes shining with a predatory light—a violent contrast to the darkness of my own thoughts.
"Oh, I'll train, Coach. I promise. I'm going to give it my all," he murmurs, and this time, the touch on my shoulder is almost a caress—a circular motion of his thumb before he pulls his hand away.
The entire trip is a silent siege. Every mundane question—about dinner time, the water temperature, the Wi-Fi—is just an excuse to invade my space.
He brushes against me to pass me a bottle of water I didn't ask for; he touches my arm to point at something out the window I don't care about.
Every time he does, a bolt of electricity shoots down my spine, a shockwave crumbling my determination piece by piece.
My brown eyes stay fixed on the road, but my mind is entirely consumed by those few inches of skin separating us.
By the time the palms finally begin to dot the roadside and the azure of the Blue Coast explodes on the horizon, I feel as though I've run a marathon. The bus pulls up in front of the hotel, a modern white structure reflecting the blinding morning sun.
We disembark. The chaos of the kids grabbing their bags is background noise I ignore. I head for the reception desk like a man seeking a fallout shelter. I grab the stack of keycards.
"Sterling, Nathan. Single," I tell the receptionist, with a haste bordering on rudeness.
She gives me a professional smile and hands over the plastic card. "Here you go, Coach. Room 305, third floor. Ocean view."
I clench the key in my palm, feeling the sharp edges of the plastic. 305. My only goal is to reach that door, turn the lock, and slide the bolt. I want silence. I want darkness. I want the salt scent of the ocean to drown out the smell of Sinclair.
As I head for the elevator, I feel his gaze following me. I don't need to turn around to know he's smiling. He knows I'm rattled. He knows that a few hours of travel did more damage than months of training.
I step into the room, and the air conditioner hisses a blast of freezing air that hits me full-on.
I shut the door behind me and lean my back against the wood.
I close my eyes—my brown eyes burning from the built-up tension.
For a moment, I hope this room can actually protect me.
But as the sound of the waves begins to filter through the windows, I know that 305 isn't a refuge. It's just a cell, and Leo has the keys.