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“Gatorade?” I asked.
She nodded, and I reached over to my night stand, grabbed a bottle of the blue drink, and threw it in her direction. Catya took a few gulps, then passed it back to me, and I in turn drank deeply from it.
“Good work,” she said mildly as I held the bottle to my lips.
I lowered it, and replied, “Why thank you, madam. My pleasure.”
“Oh no, no, the pleasure was all mine,” she grinned. “You know, if coaching doesn’t work out, you could always be a, like, love guru, or sex therapist.”
“You mean like somebody who fucks people to make their problems go away?” I chuckled. “I don’t know if that’s in my wheelhouse.”
She shrugged. “I mean, your dick just improved my mental health, probably even cleared my skin, so, I dunno. Look into it.”
I let out one more guffaw, then we went silent — not an awkward silence, but the kind that happens between two people who know each other so well, they don’t even have to speak to convey what they’re thinking.
Reluctantly, I sat up to put the Gatorade away in the side table. As I was screwing the cap back on, Catya shrieked.
“What, what is it?” I asked, concerned at her sudden outburst, stark as it was against the silence of only moments ago.
“Three! It’s three!” she cried.
Shit.
We had lost complete track of time, and now we had approximately three hours until we needed to board the bus for Catya’s game. How could I have let this happen? Oh my God, I was the most irresponsible person on earth, a terrible coach, a horrible friend and an even worse lover. I wished for a hair shirt and a cat o’tails with which to open up my back and bleed penitence.
“I’m so sorry,” I apologized, desperate to make things right somehow. By way of solution — not that anything was going to solve this, but worth a shot — I offered, “You can stay here, if that helps, and then we’ll just—”
“Simon, I can’t possibly stay. Are you serious?” she interrupted. “I know you don’t understand how hard it was for me to even get here, but I nearly got caught by like three different girls. And who the hell knows how I’ll explain getting back this late to my roommates. It’s not like they won’t notice, I was supposed to share a bed with Grace. How did I let this get so out of hand? What have I done?”
She looked near tears. I got out of bed to join her in the center of the room, and moved to put an arm around her shoulder. She shrugged it off, which stung, and said:
“I can’t, Simon, not right now.” She shook her head, angry and scared.
I’d known when I was about to do it that I shouldn’t try to touch her, but some instinct in me just wanted to protect Catya, to sooth and hold her, to kiss her boo-boos and put on emotional Band-Aids covered in unicorns. But that was selfish, trying to ‘help’ in a way I’d known wouldn’t be helpful. Again, I longed for a way to fully and painfully punish myself.
“Fuck,” she muttered, looking around the floor of the room, which was covered in now burnt out candles and piles of rose petals. “There’s too many roses, I can’t see it.”
Hours ago, those roses had brought tears of happiness to her eyes. She’d loved the gesture. Now, it was all spoiled by my own carelessness.
“What are you looking for?” I asked.
“My robe, obviously,” she said, looking under a chair, then under the bed.
“Hold on.”
I picked the discarded garment up from the corner and brought it to Catya, hands outstretched like it was a humble offering.
“Thanks,” she said briskly, slipping her arms into the robe and tying it in an efficient knot. “I’ll get the underwear some other time. It doesn’t matter.”
With no other words, she moved to the door of the room, opened it a crack and checked the hallway. Having ascertained that the coast was clear, she slipped out, and disappeared. My door closed with a dull thud.
Christ, what had I done?
You sabotaged your star player, my brain supplied by way of answer. You spent the entire night selfishly fucking her, not even bothering to keep track of the time, and now she’s going to be in terrible shape for tomorrow’s game.
My brain, though cruel, was right. It was my job, as her coach, to make sure that she played the best game she could, every time, and I’d completely failed her. I should’ve kept an eye on the clock, I shouldn’t have let my passion get away with me — I should’ve done better by Catya.
It hurt worse in that it wasn’t like I was the one who had to play tomorrow. All I had to do was stay upright and try to seem as though I had it together. She, on the other hand, had to do a physically demanding task for several hours with few breaks. Getting little sleep would be shitty for me, but it would be absolutely unbearable for Catya. More than anything, she’d be embarrassed to play poorly in front of the team she loved. I wasn’t sure her pride could stand it.
