Chapter 4: Distracted at Practice
The smell of chalk dust and stale sweat usually centered her. Today, it was just noise. Grace stood at the end of the springboard runway, the leather of her grips biting into her palms. The balance beam stretched out before her, a four-inch-wide strip of suede over wood that demanded absolute focus.
She closed her eyes, took a breath, and saw Skye’s face against the wall, lips parted, eyes dark with want.
Her run-up was off by half a step. She hit the board, sprang, but her connection was weak. Her hands slapped the beam on her mount, the impact jarring up her arms. She wobbled violently, fighting for balance, her heart hammering against her ribs. She didn’t fall, but the mistake was glaring, amateurish.
“Gracie! What was that?” Coach Miller’s voice cut across the gym, echoing off the high ceiling. He was a wiry man in his sixties, his patience thin this close to championships. He strode over as she dismounted, his clipboard held tight. “Your head is in another zip code. That’s the third missed connection today. You planning on pulling that shit in two weeks?”
“No, Coach. Sorry.” Grace wiped her hands on her hips, avoiding his eyes. The ghost of Skye’s thigh between her legs was more real than the rough suede under her fingers.
“Sorry doesn’t medal. Get it together. Your floor routine is next. I want to see sharpness. I want to see fire. Not whatever this…” He gestured at her vaguely, “…this fog is.”
She nodded, moving to the mat. The pounding music of another girl’s routine filled the space. Grace tried to let it drown out the memory of Skye’s whispered ‘You’re so wet for me.’ It didn’t work. As she moved through her tumbling passes, her body executed the mechanics flawlessly—muscle memory carved from a decade of work—but the performance was hollow. She finished her final pose, chest heaving, and saw Coach Miller watching her, his expression unreadable. He just shook his head slightly and turned away.
That stung more than a shouted critique.
The clock in the locker room ticked with agonizing slowness. She showered fast, the water doing nothing to scrub the feeling of Skye’s skin from her memory. She rushed back across campus, the damp ends of her hair chilling her neck.
Their room was empty. The bed was still unmade, a tangled monument to the morning. A single sheet of notebook paper sat propped on her desk.
G— Had to run to Poli Sci. Professor’s a hardass about attendance. Back by 6. Tonight. –S
Grace traced the loops of the ‘S’ with her finger. A weird mix of disappointment and anxious anticipation twisted in her stomach. She showered again in their small attached bathroom, needing to wash the gym away. She pulled on soft grey sweatpants and a loose, faded tank top, the fabric comfortable against her sensitive skin.
She tried to study. A textbook on kinesiology lay open, the diagrams of muscle groups blurring into meaningless lines. Every creak in the hallway, every distant voice, made her head snap up, her heart doing a foolish little jump. She was a coiled spring, tuned to the sound of a specific footfall.
The door finally opened just after six. Skye stepped in, dropping a heavy backpack by the door with a thud. She wore tight, dark jeans and a green v-neck that made her eyes look impossibly dark. She saw Grace and stopped, a slow smile spreading across her face.
Grace was on her feet without deciding to be.
They met in the middle of the floor, no pretense, no greeting. Their mouths found each other in a kiss that was less frantic than the morning’s, but deeper, more knowing. Skye’s hands slid under Grace’s tank top, settling on the bare skin of her waist, thumbs stroking the defined ridges of her abs. Grace sighed into the kiss, her own hands tangling in the heavy silk of Skye’s hair.
When they broke apart, both were breathing heavily. Grace rested her forehead against Skye’s.
“So,” Grace whispered. “What do we do tonight?”
Skye leaned back, her hands still warm on Grace’s skin. “I was thinking… a date.”
The word hit Grace like a physical thing. Date. It was a label, an intention, a thing that existed in the outside world. The cozy secrecy of their room shattered. She took a small step back, the anxiety coiling tight again.
“A date? Like… out?” Grace’s voice was small. “Skye, people will see. They’ll talk. My team… my parents…”
Skye’s expression softened. She reached up, cupping Grace’s face in both hands, her thumbs brushing the apples of her cheeks. “Hey. Listen. I know a place. It’s called The Violet Door. It’s a bar, just off campus, past the old bookshop. It’s… it’s for us. For women like me. Like us. No one there will give a shit who we are, and no one from campus ever goes. It’s safe.”
Grace searched her eyes. The confidence there was a lifeline. The fear was still a cold stone in her gut, but a stronger, newer part of her—the part that had pushed Skye against a wall—wanted this. Wanted to be with her, somewhere that wasn’t this room.
“Okay,” Grace said, the word barely audible.
“Yeah?” Skye’s smile was brilliant.
“Yeah.”
Getting ready was a new kind of intimacy. Skye shimmied into a short, tight black skirt that sat low on her hips. She paired it with a cropped black shirt that ended several inches above the waistband, exposing a taut slice of her stomach and the sharp lines of her hip bones. She looked powerful, edgy, breathtaking.
Grace stared into her closet, feeling a wave of inadequacy. Jeans, t-shirts, leggings, hoodies. She pushed hangers aside with growing desperation before her fingers brushed against something softer at the back. She pulled it out. It was a simple navy blue sleeveless dress, bought by her mother for a cousin’s wedding two summers ago. It was made of a light jersey material, cut straight, falling to just above her mid-thigh. She’d never felt like herself in it.
She put it on in the bathroom. It felt strange against her skin, loose where she was used to compression, hinting at the lines of her sports bra and boy-shorts underneath. She looked at her reflection: the blonde hair, the un-made-up face, the athletic legs emerging from the dark fabric. She looked like a gymnast playing dress-up.
Taking a deep breath, she opened the door.
Skye was sitting on the edge of her bed, buckling a chunky boot. She looked up.
Her hands stilled. The breath left her lungs in a soft, punched-out sound. “Holy shit, Grace.”
Grace blushed, looking down at the floor. “It’s the only dress I have.”
“Come here.”
Grace crossed the room. Skye stood, her eyes devouring her. She didn’t say another word. She just kissed her, a kiss that was all heat and possession. Grace melted into it, her hands coming up to Skye’s shoulders, then sliding down, over the bare, smooth skin of her back, down to the curve of her ass under the tight skirt.
The kiss turned hungry, desperate. Grace walked her backward until the backs of Skye’s knees hit the bed and she sat down with a soft gasp. Grace didn’t break the kiss. She followed her down, kneeling on the floor between Skye’s spread legs.
Her hands pushed the black skirt up, bunching it around Skye’s waist. The sight underneath made Grace’s mouth water. Black lace panties, already dark with a damp patch at the center. Skye’s scent, musk and vanilla, filled the space between them.
Grace hooked her thumbs under the lace waistband. She looked up, meeting Skye’s gaze, asking a silent question. Skye’s eyes were wide, her lips swollen. She nodded, once, a sharp movement.
Grace pulled the panties down Skye’s powerful thighs, over her knees, letting them fall to the floor. She was exposed, completely. Grace had never seen anything more beautiful. The neat, dark curls, the glistening, swollen flesh beneath.
Nervousness fluttered in Grace’s chest. She’d never done this. But the want, the need to taste her, overrode the fear. She leaned in, her breath ghosting over Skye’s wet cunt.
“Guide me,” Grace whispered, her voice trembling.
Skye’s hands immediately buried themselves in Grace’s hair, not forcing, just holding. “Use your tongue,” Skye said, her voice a rough scrape. “Start slow. Flat against me.”
Grace obeyed. She leaned in and pressed the broad, flat of her tongue against Skye’s entrance, licking upward in a long, slow stripe. The taste was complex, salty and sweet, utterly and uniquely Skye. Skye jolted, a sharp gasp tearing from her throat.
“Fuck, yes. Just like that.”
Encouraged, Grace did it again, learning the terrain. She lapped at her, exploring the folds, finding the hard, little nub of her clit with the tip of her tongue. When she circled it, Skye’s thighs tensed on either side of her head.
“Right there. Oh, God, Grace, right there.”
Grace focused there, licking and sucking, mimicking what she herself loved. She slid a hand up Skye’s inner thigh, her fingers finding the soaking wet heat of her entrance. She pushed one finger inside, slowly, feeling the incredible, tight warmth clench around her.
Skye cried out, her hips bucking off the bed. “Another. Please.”
Grace added a second finger, curling them as she drove her tongue relentlessly against Skye’s clit. The rhythm was messy, instinctual, fueled by Skye’s broken sounds and the tightening of her hands in her hair. Grace could feel her own arousal, a throbbing, empty ache between her own legs, but this was about Skye. About watching her come apart.
Skye’s breathing became ragged, frantic. Her back arched off the bed, a tendon standing out in her neck. “I’m gonna come. Don’t stop, don’t you fucking stop.”
Grace didn’t. She fucked her with her fingers, deep and steady, while her mouth worked over her clit. Skye’s whole body went rigid, a silent scream on her lips before the sound broke free—a raw, guttural cry that seemed to shake the room. Her cunt pulsed rhythmically around Grace’s fingers, a flood of wet heat coating her hand.
Grace gentled her touch, slowly stilling her fingers, placing soft, lingering kisses on Skye’s trembling inner thighs until the aftershocks subsided.
Skye lay boneless on the rumpled bed, her skirt around her waist, her chest heaving. She blindly reached down, her fingers finding Grace’s chin, tilting her face up. Grace looked at her, her lips slick, her chin wet.
Skye’s expression was one of stunned, vulnerable awe. “Get up here,” she whispered, her voice wrecked.
Grace crawled onto the bed, lying beside her. Skye turned and kissed her, deep and slow, tasting herself on Grace’s tongue.
“We’re gonna be so late,” Skye murmured against her lips, a lazy, sated smile on her face.
“I don’t care,” Grace said, and realized she meant it.
They kissed again, a slow, languid exploration that tasted of salt and satisfaction. Skye’s hand drifted down, fingers gently tracing the wetness on Grace’s chin before wiping it clean with her own thumb. She brought that thumb to her own mouth, sucking it clean without breaking eye contact, a gesture so filthy and intimate it made Grace’s stomach clench with fresh desire.
“We should go,” Skye murmured, her voice still ragged. “I want to show you off in that dress.”
Reluctantly, they untangled themselves. In the bathroom, Grace washed her face with cool water, the mundane act strange after what she’d just done. She watched in the mirror as Skye quickly cleaned herself up with a washcloth, pulling her lace panties back on and smoothing the black skirt down her thighs. Grace fixed her own dress, the simple fabric now feeling like a secret armor.
“You look like you just got thoroughly fucked,” Grace observed, leaning in the doorway. The blunt words, her own, surprised her.
A grin spread across Skye’s face. “I did. My roommate’s insatiable.” She stepped close, fixing a stray strand of Grace’s hair. “And you look like the girl who did the fucking. It’s a good look on you.”
They left the house together, not touching as they navigated the hallway. The air outside was cool, a typical autumn evening that smelled of damp leaves and distant grills. They walked side-by-side, a careful inch of space between them, down the familiar paths edged with university signage.
The further they got from campus, the quieter the streets became. The buildings shifted from collegiate brick to older, low-slung structures with cracked sidewalks. Grace’s pulse was a steady, anxious drum in her ears. Every set of headlights made her want to step further away.
Then Skye’s pinky finger brushed against hers. A tentative, questioning hook.
Grace looked straight ahead, at the glowing sign of the old bookshop they were passing. She shifted her hand, sliding her palm fully against Skye’s, intertwining their fingers. The contact was electric, a simple connection that felt more dangerous than anything they’d done in their room. Skye squeezed her hand, a quick, firm pressure.
No one yelled. No one pointed. The world didn’t stop. An older couple walking a dog passed them with a nod. A car rolled by, its radio blaring.
The simple normality of it unlocked something tight in Grace’s chest. She wasn’t hiding. Her hand was in Skye’s hand, warm and real, under the streetlights. The memory of her mouth between Skye’s legs, the taste and the sounds, didn’t feel like a secret shame here. It felt like power. It felt like a reason to hold on tighter.
“It’s just up here,” Skye said, her thumb stroking the side of Grace’s hand. “The Violet Door.”
Grace saw it. A narrow, unassuming building tucked between a closed tailor’s shop and a laundromat. A simple, pale violet light glowed above a black door. A small rainbow flag sticker was barely visible in the bottom corner of the window. The bassline of a song thumped faintly from within.
Skye paused on the sidewalk, turning to face her. “Last chance to bail. We can get pizza and go home.”
Grace looked at their joined hands, then at the door. She thought of the balance beam, of the hollow performance, of the fog her coach had seen. This, here, with Skye’s calloused fingers laced through hers, was the most clear, solid thing she’d felt in weeks.
“I’m not bailing,” Grace said. She lifted their joined hands and kissed Skye’s knuckles, a soft, deliberate gesture. “Let’s go be a normal couple.”
Skye’s smile was brighter than the violet light. She pulled Grace gently toward the door, pushed it open, and a wave of warm air, loud music, and the vibrant murmur of conversation spilled out into the night. They stepped across the threshold together, the door swinging shut behind them, leaving the quiet street outside.