The Rake (Boston Belles #4)(70)

It’s just a fixation, I tell myself as I round the first loop and see him in the distance. Once you kiss him, you’re not going to be obsessed anymore.

And then I start making excuses for myself again. So what if he’s married? That his wife is pregnant? What she doesn’t know won’t be able to hurt her.

One kiss is not going to mean anything. He is probably going to do me a favor and never think about it again. And I’ll be able to move on and meet someone my age.

But then I think about what my dad said about that geography teacher, and my stomach knots so many times over it becomes heavy with dread. I think about Dad kissing another woman who is not Mom, and I want to throw up. It’s wrong.

I don’t want to be that person, the person who makes someone’s life … wrong.

But if Coach Locken decides to cheat on his wife, then things between them are not that good. You can’t destroy a good relationship, can you?

The second loop is a breeze. I’m so deep inside my head, on autopilot, my legs carry me at the speed of light. I don’t even have to regulate my breathing. It’s on the third loop that my knee starts giving in. It’s more than a dull, persistent pain. This time there’s a sharp zing in my foot too. The cramp is unbearable. I limp the rest of the way to him.

“What happened?” I hear Coach Locken before I see him as I descend the hilly loop. “You were about to break your record before that last loop.”

“My foot is cramping,” I shout back.

“All right. Let’s see.”

He offers me his arm when I get to him, and I lean against it as we scurry toward his car. It’s the only car parked on the edge of the reservoir. Dad drops me off for practice before he goes to work—not before making sure other kids and Coach are there—and I normally get a ride back to school with one of the harrier’s parents.

It’s a big, silver Suburban. He pops the trunk open and it’s the size of my room. There’s sports equipment strewn everywhere.

“Hop in.” He jerks his chin. But I can’t. My foot is down for the count. With an understanding smile, Coach Locken reaches for me. “May I?”

I nod. He hoists me up by the back of my thighs to sit on the edge of his open trunk. He takes my injured foot, slips my running shoe and sock off, and starts massaging, really digging his thumbs as he arches my foot, rotating it here and there.

“Holy crappers,” I moan, plastering myself horizontally across his trunk, so I’m lying down. “This feels like giving birth.”

It also makes me think about his pregnant wife and douses the excitement of being touched by him.

“Watch that language, young lady.” But he sounds more like a friend than a teacher.

“Sorry, but it hurts like a mofo.”

Does he even know what this slang means?

“Perfection costs.”

“I better get that scholarship.”

“Chances are good. Would you wanna stay local or go somewhere else for college?” he asks.

“West Coast, maybe.” I blink back at the ceiling of his SUV. “California.”

Golden beaches and blistering sun sound like my vibe. I bet Santa Barbara and I are going to get along swimmingly.

“Really? Growing up, I lived in Fresno for a while. If you move, I’ll give you my aunt’s number. You know, so you wouldn’t feel so alone. What does your boyfriend think about it?” he hums. “You wanting to move all the way to the other side of the country.”

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” I supply, a little too breathlessly, a little too fast.

“Ross Kendrick is not your boyfriend?” Locken asks innocently, rolling up his sleeves.

Oh. Come on. Ross Kendrick doesn’t like girls, and isn’t shy about it either. Coach is in no risk of winning any Oscar prizes for his acting.

“How’s your wife?” I change the subject. It’s one thing skating over the forbidden and another walking right into it. “Are you having a boy or a girl?”

“A boy.” He doesn’t sound too hot about answering the question, his tone turning sour. “She went to live with her mom. It’s complicated.”

“Okay.”

We hear a pop a few seconds later, coming from my foot.

“Ahh. You broke me,” I laugh.

“Not yet,” he mutters under his breath, but I hear it. I hear it, and suddenly I’m filled with fresh desperation to be touched by him.

“Roll your ankle. Stretch your heel.”

I bring my knee to my chest and do as I’m told. I know what view he’s getting now, when I’m in this position. My running shorts ride up and he can see my panties. White cotton.

“Feels much better. Thank you.”

“A massage for those short muscles?” he offers, his voice comically thick now. “We still have twenty minutes before school starts.”

“Sure.”

This time, he gathers my heels together, pulling my knees as far apart as he can. I’m wide open in front of him as his fingers start traveling my inner thighs. It’s a brutal stretch, but I need it.

Even so, I know he is not supposed to touch me that way at all, and that we’ve crossed a line. The invisible, red string that separates us from casually inappropriate to doing something that could land him in jail and me in therapy for a lifetime.