Chapter 6: Exploring the New Body
The bag of clothes and toiletries feels heavy in my grip as I follow Coach Dunn through the front door of his condo. The place smells like leather and sandalwood, with dark hardwood floors and a big sectional couch that looks way too expensive for a college coach's salary. Sunlight pours through sliding glass doors leading to a small patio.
"Guest room's down the hall to the right," he says, his voice low and steady. He's trying to act normal, like this is just a favor for a player in trouble. But I catch the way his eyes sweep over me when he thinks I'm not looking.
I follow him past a kitchen with granite countertops and a dining table buried under playbooks and protein shake bottles. The guest room is small but clean: a twin bed with a navy comforter, a wooden dresser, a nightstand with a lamp. There's a framed photo of a mountain range on the wall, generic and safe.
"Bathroom's across the hall. Towels are in the linen closet. Help yourself to anything in the kitchen." He gestures with a thick hand, his bicep straining against his polo shirt.
I set the bag on the bed and let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. "Thanks, Coach. Really."
He nods, but his jaw is tight. "Three weeks. We'll get through this." He holds my gaze a beat too long, and I feel that familiar flutter in my chest. My nipples harden against the fabric of my jersey, and I have to look away.
"Make yourself at home." His voice is rougher now. He turns and walks out, his footsteps heavy on the hardwood.
I stand there in the quiet room, the silence pressing in. My body hums with nervous energy. I need a shower. I need to feel clean, to wash off the panic and confusion of the day.
I grab a towel from the linen closet and step into the bathroom. The mirror catches my reflection: that stranger with the wide blue eyes, the full lips, the cascade of dusty blonde hair. I still can't believe it's me.
I lock the door and strip off the jersey and shorts. My body is a landscape I don't recognize: the swell of my breasts, the curve of my hips, the softness of my thighs. I step under the hot spray and let the water run over me, my hands shaking as they trace the unfamiliar terrain.
And when my fingers brush between my thighs, a jolt of electric pleasure makes me gasp. I press my palm flat against the cool tile wall, my breath hitching. I didn't expect that. I didn't expect any of this.
My fingers hover there, trembling, the water drumming against my shoulders. It feels weird touching myself since this body doesn’t feel like my body. And maybe I’ve fucked up a lot with not giving a woman the attention she deserves but I never took what wasn’t given to me. But the sensation lingers like an echo, and this body—my body—aches for more.
I slide my hand lower, parting the soft folds with hesitant fingers. The touch sends another jolt through me, sharper this time, and I bite my lip to stifle a moan. The sound escapes anyway, swallowed by the hiss of the shower. My knees buckle slightly, and I brace myself against the tile with my free hand.
What the hell is this?
I've had sex. Lots of it. I know what arousal feels like, the throb of blood rushing south, the impatient hunger. But this is different. This is a slow, building wave that starts somewhere deep and spreads outward, radiating through my entire body. My thighs tremble. My nipples ache. My breath comes in short, shallow gasps.
I press harder, circling that sensitive nub, and my hips buck against my own hand. A whimper escapes my throat. I feel wet and warm and utterly vulnerable, every nerve ending screaming for more. My reflection fogs over in the mirror, hiding the stranger I've become.
I can't stop.
My fingers slide lower, dipping inside, and I gasp at the sudden pressure. It's tight, hot, unfamiliar. I curl my fingers instinctively, searching for something I don't have words for, and when I find it, a sharp cry tears from my lips. Stars burst behind my eyes. My legs give out completely, and I slide down the tile, the water still pounding against my back.
I sit there on the shower floor, breathing hard, my hand still wedged between my thighs. The pleasure fades slowly, leaving me shaky and hollow.
It terrifies me that I don’t know if I ever made a girl come like that. I really am an asshole.
The banging on the bathroom door cuts through my daze like a sledgehammer.
"Alex! Alex, are you okay?"
Coach's voice, rough and urgent. I hear the panic in it, the way it cracks on my name. The name that doesn't fit anymore.
I open my mouth to answer, but all that comes out is a shaky breath. My hand is still between my thighs, wet and slick, and the reality of what I just did crashes into me like a linebacker. I was touching myself. In his shower. While he was right down the hall.
"Alex!" The doorknob rattles. "I heard you fall. I'm coming in."
"No, wait—"
But the lock clicks open. Coach Dunn fills the doorway, his broad shoulders blocking the light from the hallway. His eyes find me on the shower floor, naked, water streaming over my curves, my hand still trapped between my legs. His gaze drops to where my fingers disappear, and his jaw tightens.
"Shit," I whisper, scrambling to cover myself. But there's nowhere to hide. The shower is small, and he's already seen everything.
His eyes snap back to my face, and something dark flickers in them. Something hungry. "You're not hurt," he says. It's not a question.
"No. I'm... I'm fine." My voice sounds thin, pathetic.
His hand extends into the steam, thick and weathered, the veins prominent across the back. I stare at it like it's a foreign object, my brain struggling to process the gesture through the haze of arousal and embarrassment.
His voice drops lower, quieter. "Take my hand."
I reach up, my fingers slick with water, and his palm engulfs mine. The contact sends a shiver up my arm, electric and warm. He pulls, and my feet slip against the wet tile. I lurch forward, my body colliding with his, water soaking into his polo shirt instantly.
My face presses against his chest. I feel the solid wall of muscle beneath the damp fabric, the heat of his body seeping through. His arms close around me, steadying me, and I'm trapped against him, naked and trembling, my nipples grazing his chest with every shaky breath.
"Coach, I—" My voice dies in my throat. I feel it. That familiar hardness pressing against my hip. Thick and insistent, straining against his khakis. My breath catches, and I should pull away. I should apologize. I should do a lot of things.
But I don't move.
Neither does he.
The only sound is the shower still running behind me, steam curling around us, and my own ragged breathing. His hands are splayed across my bare back, fingers pressing into my skin, and I feel the slight tremor in them. Like he's holding himself back.
"Frank," I whisper, and I don't know why I use his first name. It just slips out.
His grip tightens. A low sound rumbles in his chest, almost a growl. His face hovers above mine, his breath hot against my forehead, and I can see the war playing out behind his eyes. The hunger. The restraint.
I should run.
I should stay.