“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 notthatold.”
“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.
“Notthatone! 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 tobethem, 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?”
