She sighs. “Because I’m the one who supplies this house in tampons, that’s how.”
“Good point.”
She opens her door. “Listen, I don’t know whether you’re telling us the truth about Coach Ford. It doesn’t actually matter. The point is, your body is obviously beyond ready to have sex, and it’s time to take appropriate measures.” She grabs her purse and puts on her lip balm while waiting for me to unbuckle.
“You’re not mad?”
She turns to me. “This is not me giving you permission to pursue your coach, or anyone else. But…who knows what could happen. I want you protected because I love you.”
“OK.”
I go with her, but I save the “I love you, too” for when I stop being mad about my parents reading my diary.
18
Addie
I don’t know if it’s the extra hormones in the pill, or the increased testosterone from training so hard, but I’m feeling more and more ornery lately.
I bury myself in swim practice and studies, determined to put Coach Ford out of my mind.
Despite missing six of our top swimmers after the awful meet against Saint Mary’s, the alternates turn out to be pretty good. Hunter and I both place, essentially carrying the team to a win in the next two meets.
Ridley and her minions are fairly subdued and compliant at the next few practices.
All eyes are on the coach to turn this ship around, so I’m happy to leave him alone on a personal level for the rest of the season.
Fortunately, nobody seems to suspect anything untoward, and my parents evidently haven’t told anyone about what they read in my diary. If they had approached the school with concerns, Ms. Frazier probably would not have denied Coach Ford’s request to re-assign my independent study to another teacher advisor.
For my part, I turn in my weekly progress reports to his cubby in the main office, like a rule-abiding student. I don’t speak to him at practice; I don’t even make eye contact.
I follow orders, I swim my heart out, and that’s it.
On days when he’s particularly shouty and grumpy, and I find myself getting extra turned on, I take care of my problem in the privacy of my own bedroom late at night.
Dad is still pounding around the house, mad as a bear, but at least he stopped threatening to put his fist through Coach Ford’s face.
Instead of writing in my diary, I’ve gotten into the habit of searching the internet for videos of Coach Ford swimming. There are loads of them since he swam in college and at world championships.
One of my favorites is of him swimming the 300 freestyle. The best part is when it’s over and he launches himself out of the pool and punches the air. His tall, tan form is so jacked from hard work, and he looks so happy. I want to climb him that big, wet tr
ee and let him soak my skin.
I have this fantasy that I’m his girlfriend in college, denying him sex before a meet, helping him shave his whole body.
“Babe, you’re killing me,” he says.
“You know everyone in the stands is watching you. Half of them want to fuck you, but I want you to remember who you belong to.”
“As if I could forget.”
The fantasy continues as I imagine his lips on me, while in real life I’m snuggled under my blanket, pinching my nipple.
I’m falling asleep while trying to induce another wet dream when the text notification dings in my ear.
“Hunter, come on,” I mutter.
But it’s not Hunter.