Chapter 8
Jett
He smiles and wipes sweat off his forehead. “Thanks, Coach Cordier.” He pauses, his smile turning into a smirk. “Maybe I’m gonna beat your time one of these days.”
“You never know, Coach Cordier.” I take it back. I was never that cocky.
“Do your stretches,” I grunt. “Try this.” I stretch into my favorite cool-down exercise, then immediately wince.
“You okay, Coach?” Jeremiah eyes me, then drops into the same pose as me.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m good. Just getting old.”
He grins. “You’re not that old.”
“Wow, thanks. Now focus.” We stretch side by side for several minutes.
While I’m in perfect shape, I overdid my workout this past weekend.
I lost count of the times I took the elevator down to the gym on the ground floor to work out.
I definitely didn’t do it because I was hoping to run into a certain pain-in-my-ass physical therapist. Nope, definitely not.
Note to self: stop working out excessively because you want to run into a certain straight guy.
And stop thinking about said straight guy.
Although he didn’t feel that straight when he came in your hand. Fuck.
“Are we done yet?” Jeremiah groans, sweat beading off his forehead, his skin glistening in the afternoon sun.
“One more.” I change my position into a standing hamstring stretch, and Jeremiah groans even louder.
“Not that one! I fucking hate it.”
“You’ll hate yourself even more tomorrow if you don’t do it.”
“Yes, Coach,” he sighs, then mirrors my stance.
“Hold it. Thirty more seconds.” My legs are screaming at me.
“Coach Cordier?” Jeremiah stares at me expectantly. “Are we done yet?”
I wipe my hand along my cropped hair. “Yeah, yeah. We’re done. Good job today.”
He smiles like I just handed him the fucking moon on a silver platter. “Thanks!”
I shake my head, then wave him off. “Now, get the hell outta here. Don’t you have homework to do?”
Jeremiah tips his head back and groans. “History essay on the French Revolution.”
“Good stuff. Can’t say I’m jealous though.”
Jeremiah grabs his stuff, then jogs off.
I wish all aspects of my life could be this easy.
After the initial nerves, I’m starting to relax more when I’m around the students.
My confidence grows every time I’m at work.
The students seem to like me. I know what it’s like to be them, which makes it easier to see them and what they need from me.
Now, if I could just transfer this version of myself to other aspects of my life, that would be perfect.
Maybe if I practice my social skills more, it’ll get easier.
In the coaches’ office, I run into Hua Jing, who trains the women’s sprint disciplines, and Santos, who’s in charge of the men’s long-distance.
“Hey, man, how’s it going?” Santos smiles at me, then shows Hua Jing something on his phone. “This one. My baby mama got it for me this morning. Now I can do my pull-ups in the garage.”
Hua Jing nods. “Sweet. What are you doing for the rest of the day?”
“Not sure. Maybe watching the game, grabbing a few beers.”
I wish I knew how to add something to the conversation. I search for the right words in my head, but I just end up spacing out.
“Wanna come?” Santos lifts his brows in question, and it takes me a few seconds to process that he’s talking to me. “It’s my birthday. Wanna grab a few beers tonight with me and H.J.?”
“H.J.?”
Hua Jing shakes her head. “He means me. Too damn lazy to full name me.”
“I ain’t lazy. Just tryin’ to give you street cred, girl.”
“Don’t need it.”
“You so do.” Santos rolls his eyes and bumps my shoulder with his. “So, you game?”
I lick my lips, shove my hands in my pockets, and shrug. My head is spinning with nerves, and my chest is tight. I push through the sensation. I won’t allow it to control me. Instead, I push myself out of my comfort zone. “Sure. Why not?”
Santos’ face splits into a wide, toothy smile. “Good man. Around eight? The Bleachers?”
“The Bleachers?”
“Yeah, it’s a sports bar downtown. They have Happy Hour every Friday from six to ten.” Santos waggles his eyebrows.
“Okay. Sounds good.” I need to make an effort, and I guess it starts tonight with Santos and Hua Jing.
The bar is buzzing when I enter, and I’m seconds away from turning on my heel and getting the hell out of here.
I almost had a panic attack earlier when I was getting ready.
I think I changed my clothes at least three times and ended up with a simple pale pink T-shirt and some loose-fitted black jeans.
The crowd and loud music surround me, and that feeling of being suffocated returns.
I try not to imagine everyone staring. Why would they even care about me?
They’re engulfed in their own lives. I inhale deeply, then make my way toward the back of the bar.
Santos shot me a text a few minutes ago that they got a table. When I find him, he’s with a group of eight people, shots and beers lined up on the table in front of them.
“Jett, my man!” Santos yells, holding up his fist for me to bump. “You came!”
“Yeah.” I shrug, then bump his fist as I take in the group of people. A beautiful dark-haired woman in a pink halter top and huge gold hoops sits next to Santos, sipping an orange drink.
“This is my baby mama, Layla. Baby, this is Jett.” Santos waves his hand between us.
“Hi Jett. Nice to meet you.” She holds out her hand, and I grab it.
“Nice to meet you, too.”
“Take a seat, man. Yo, Chris, move on over for my man Jett.” A redhead with glasses moves over on the bench.
My stomach drops when I recognize him from the Sports Medicine Department.
I thought it was just going to be Santos, Hua Jing, and me.
The thought of Wes possibly being here makes me feel nauseous.
He’s fucking everywhere. I scoot past Santos and Layla, then drop down next to Chris.
He tips his chin at me, his eyes swimming with intoxication.
“Wassup,” he slurs, then lifts a glass of beer to his lips.
“Hi,” I say flatly.
Santos points at a pitcher of beer in the middle of the table. “Help yourself, man.” Then he holds up a bright-blue shot. “Want a Kamikaze?”
I shake my head. “Nah, I’ll stick with the beer.”
“Sure.” Santos winks, then slams back the shot.
“Oh my fucking gawd!” Hua Jing, who just showed up, squeals. “You fucking came, Cordier!” Then, turning to Santos, she holds out her hand in a gimme gesture. “Pay up, motherfucker!”
Santos groans, then digs his hand into his pants pocket and pulls out some cash.
“Woohoo!” Hua Jing rubs her hands together, then grabs the money, fanning herself with it.
“You’re an idiot,” Layla sighs.
Chris laughs. “Shit, dude. You lost another bet?”
“Shut up,” Santos mumbles, then grabs another Kamikaze.
“What was the bet?” I ask. Santos doesn’t say anything, just looks at me sheepishly.
“He didn’t think you were gonna show, Cordier,” Hua Jing smirks, stuffing the money into her purse. “Ah, ye of little faith.” I’m not even offended.
“Was I that obvious?” I ask her.
She shrugs and drops her purse onto the table. “You definitely looked like you weren’t sure you wanted to go.”
I guess I can see that.
The conversation drifts to Chris, who is originally from Seaside, a town just north of Cannon Beach.
We talk about annoying tourists and growing up in a small town.
He’s pretty nice, actually, and after a while, I’ve got a decent buzz going.
When the pitchers are empty, I volunteer to grab the next round.
The Bleachers is bigger than I initially thought. People are gathered around the bar where a large flatscreen TV is showing a college football game, and there’s a long line to get drinks.
Instead of getting in line, I need to take a leak.
I head toward the men’s room and pass by some pool tables, when familiar carefree laughter catches my attention.
Wes. I find him in the very back with his arms wrapped around a pretty blonde woman bent over the pool table, ready to take a shot.
His face is close to hers, and when he whispers something against her ear, she giggles loudly.
My stomach tightens, and an unfamiliar feeling courses through me. It’s not jealousy exactly, but more like a quiet craving. I can still remember how he felt against me, his hot breath fanning across my face.
I briefly close my eyes and focus on my breathing. It’s better this way. I have no business lusting after Wes. When the tightness in my chest eases, I open my eyes to find two pools of light blue staring right at me. Surprise washes over his face, then shifts into a small smile.
My breath catches in my throat. He looks so fucking good with his lightly tanned arms and tousled blond hair, spilling over his forehead. I have no doubt he knows how fucking sexy he is.
His face is yanked away when the blonde woman turns to kiss him.
He dips his head, closing his eyes, and kisses her back.
No longer having his attention, an uneasy anger grows inside me.
Shaking myself, I hurry toward the men’s room in long strides.
I need to get laid, that’s it. It has nothing to do with Wes. I’m just horny.
I get drunk after that, although I shouldn’t with the meds I take.
Kamikaze shots become my new best friend.
I throw down the blue drinks like they’re fucking candy, and before I know it, I’m singing Happy Birthday at the top of my lungs with the rest of the group, slamming my hands against the table.
I should get drunk more often. It’s strangely liberating, like the world can just go fuck itself.
I end up on the dance floor with Layla and Hua Jing, singing along to Beyoncé’s Single Ladies.
I feel young and free. The illusion breaks when I spot Wes and the blonde on the dance floor, grinding against each other.
I was never young. I certainly was never free.