Cassie Mint

  The Coach

  First published by Black Cherry Publishing 2022

  Copyright © 2022 by Cassie Mint

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Cassie Mint asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  First edition

  ISBN: 978-1-914242-67-0

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

  Find out more at reedsy.com

  Contents

  Keep in touch with Cassie!

  1. Peyton

  2. Joshua

  3. Peyton

  4. Joshua

  5. Peyton

  6. Joshua

  7. Peyton

  Teaser: The Tutor

  About the Author

  Keep in touch with Cassie!

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  One

  Peyton

  The sun creeps over the horizon, spilling pink and gold light across the beach. Hush, hush, the waves go against the shore, as I sit halfway between the water and the road behind me, my fingers dug deep into the cool, gritty sand.

  Watching. Just watching, and wishing.

  I’ve got nowhere else to be.

  Figures in wetsuits call to each other out in the surf, whooping and hollering when they catch a good wave. It’s rough today, white foam capping the waves, and seabirds scream from overhead. Cars and trucks and bikes rumble past on the road behind me, and sometimes a driver will slow, one elbow leaned out of their window as they watch the surfers mess around.

  Some watchers are jealous.

  Some don’t get it at all.

  Some are just bored on their long commute.

  But lots of them slow down just the same to watch the surfers ride waves, twisting and crouching on their boards. Can’t blame them for being nosy, really. It’s something else, seeing people be so free.

  Someone screams–not a seabird but a person this time, out toward the back of the pack in the surf. I push to my feet, heart hammering and my palm slick, brushing my hand against the side of my shorts, and I’m scanning, scanning, my half-arm shading my eyes from the sunrise, scanning the water for a surfer in trouble or for something else.

  A fin.

  It’s rare, you know. Super rare to get attacked by a shark. I was unlucky. And it’s a risk all surfers knowingly take when we go out there–out into the creatures’ domain.

  Doesn’t stop my heart from jamming in my throat as I scan the water. Checking that each person out there is fine, one by one.

  They’re all okay. Someone must’ve been splashing and flirting or some shit.

  “Damn it,” I mutter to myself, because even though they’re all fine, I’m not. My heart’s thumping and squeezing extra hard in my chest, and there’s this high-pitched ringing in my ears. I’m woozy, swaying on my feet as the beach goes all blurry, and my balance is already bad these days.

  I sit back down with a heavy thump. The sand is still cool, not warmed up yet by the sun, and I dig my hand back in.

  A small crab scuttles past my ankle. I’m barefoot, my flip flops tossed by my hip, and the salt breeze lifts and plays with my blonde hair. It’s almost like the beach is apologizing for what happened to me here all those months ago, almost like it’s checking up on me and taking care.

  Jeez. I really am losing my mind.

  Better write this crap down for my therapist.

  I don’t stay much longer. God knows there’s zero chance of me getting in that sea, even if I had a wetsuit and a board and my life depended on it. I wish I could go in. But this halfway mark on the beach is the closest I’ve gotten since the attack.

  Any closer, and my head spins. Any closer, and bile surges up my throat.

  You hear all these stories about surfers getting attacked by sharks, and then going straight from the hospital to the beach to surf again. Well, I guess those folks are braver than I am. And I hate that, I hate that the shark didn’t just take half my arm but all of my courage too.

  I know which of those things I miss more, that’s for sure.

  * * *

  I wait until the evening to go to the campus pool. It’s quietest in here at night when most students are out partying or studying or hooking up and having lives, and there are fewer bodies in the water. The lights come on, giving the whole pool this eerie glow, but I like that. The smell of chlorine, too.

  I like any reminder that this isn’t the ocean.

  Tonight, I nudge the door open to the pool room with my shoulder, my towel rolled and tucked beneath my half-arm. My flip flops slap against the tiled floor and I keep my chin raised high and my gaze averted as I cross to the long bench against one wall.

  Flip flops off.

  Towel on the bench.

  I fiddle with the side of my bikini bottoms, throat tight. Most nights, I at least make it into the water, but even now, some nights I don’t.

  It’s warm in here, the dark windows misting over. Some machinery hums nearby.

  And he’s here. I know without looking across the room that the burly, serious swim coach with his big chest and tattooed arms–he’s here. Running a practice, probably. There’s a steady slosh, slosh, as arms cut through the water, and bodies move up and down the pool in neat lines, his swimmers so obedient under his steady gaze.

  I can always feel when his eyes are on me. I get this prickly, tingly feeling racing over my skin. Mostly, I hate people staring at me, but when he does it… I just feel flustered.

  And he does it a lot. The swim coach looks at me sometimes like he can hear the panicked thoughts clanging around my head, like even though we’ve never spoken, he knows me.

  I never look back at him, though, even though he’s so gorgeous it hurts my eyes. I’m a coward now, remember?

  Still, I focus my thoughts on that man to distract myself as I edge toward the poolside. I don’t use the ladder–I haven’t got the trick of using it with one hand and that makes me feel like an idiot, but also, I don’t like having my back to the water. I prefer to sit like this, right on the edge of the tiles, slipping first one leg in then another, eyes scanning the brightly-lit depths.

  I know it’s dumb. Believe me, I know.

  But the traumatized brain wants what it wants.

  My throat’s already closing, so I pause here and think more about the swim coach. I’ve never looked back at him, never looked him in the eye, but of course I’ve stolen glances. Hell, I can see his reflection right now in the dark, misted glass–he’s prowling along the side of the pool, arms folded over his broad chest as he watches his swimmers. He looks so strong and tall and confident, muscled arms glistening in the humid air.

  Coach Kane. An established campus hottie—though he never gives the students a second look. He surfs too, sometimes, further up the coast.

  God, I shouldn’t know that. I’m turning into a creeper.

  One game I like to play when cold water’s sloshing around my legs and I feel the panic closing in is: what color is Coach Kane’s hair? Because it depends what light you catch him in. Right now, in this dim room, it looks brown–pushed back with one stray lock dangling over his forehead. But if you ever see him in the sunshine, it lights up the strands with bronze and dark gold.

  In the window, Coach Kane’s reflection glances at me.

  I duck my chin, breath held.

  Oh, boy. I’ve been sitting here for ages, not even in the pool yet up to my knees.

  “Come on, Peyton.” Sometimes I need to call myself out by name. Give myself a quiet talking to, because everyone else has gone soft on me since the accident. “Get your ass in that pool or I swear to god, Coach Kane will think you’re the biggest baby he’s ever seen.”

  That does it. My success rate of getting in the pool is much higher when the swim coach is here. I’m sure I never even cross the man’s mind, but I hate the idea of him thinking less of me.

  Water floods up to my armpits as I slide myself in, and I bite back a squeak, arms held aloft and heart drumming.

  It’s freezing. No matter how warm they heat the air, this pool always feels freaking arctic–especially if you’re locked in place, paralyzed by terror like me. Goosebumps break out on every inch of my body, and my nipples pebble inside my bikini.

  I glance at the swim coach, cheeks warm if nothing else.

  He’s crouched at the far end of the pool, talking to one of his swimmers.

  So, okay. No more excuses. I scan the water again before sinking up to my chin. Tendrils of long, blonde hair have escaped my messy bun, and they’re floating on the surface of the water. Truly, once I’m in the pool I should be less noticeable, but for me, this is always the most embarrassing part.

  I was a good swimmer before. A great one. Maybe I didn’t compete on any college team, but I could cut through powerful surf like an eel. But since losing my left forearm, my stro ke is all off, and it’s like I can’t figure out my balance in the water.

  I look like an idiot when I swim. I look like an idiot in front of him—the man whose heavy gaze makes my nerves spark to life beneath my skin.

  Well.

  Nothing for it. He’s not really looking, after all.

  I kick off the side, clinging close to the wall, and thrash through my first lap.

  Two

  Joshua

  She’s here. The girl who’s afraid of the water. The girl who got chewed on by a shark; the girl who comes to the pool house every night like she’s walking to the gallows.

  Peyton Harris.

  Fuck, I shouldn’t know her name.

  I shouldn’t pay her any notice at all–it’s clear enough from the way she carries herself, chin raised and eyes shuttered, that she resents every scrap of attention she gets. I bet she gets a lot, too, with half her arm gone and such a tawdry tale behind it. I bet the gossip follows her around campus, buzzing like a swarm of angry bees.

  But I can’t help myself from staring at her reflection sometimes in the darkened pool house windows; can’t help but steal glances when her head’s down and she’s kicking through the water.

  Like now. Droplets fly from her side of the pool, and if one of my team splashed like that, I’d turn the air blue from cursing them out. But any fool can see that Peyton’s not being sloppy–she’s working hard, struggling to relearn her stroke, and she’s fucking terrified for every second she’s in the pool.

  My mouth dry, I watch her reach the end and kick off for a new lap, her pretty jaw set and eyes sparking.

  God, I’ve never seen anyone so brave.

  A few times, I’ve thought about giving her pointers. Sidling over to her side of the pool and offering some friendly coaching tips to help her find her stroke again. But something tells me that’d be about as welcome as a slap in the face, and I don’t want to make her any more self-conscious.

  Better to keep one eye on her in the dark window’s reflection. Better to keep my distance, though every part of me calls to go nearer.

  It took me by surprise, the first few times I saw her. I was shocked at the possessiveness snaking through me, the drumming, primal urge to go and lay my claim. To leap into the water beside her, holding her aloft and supporting her hips as she learns to balance again; to feel her wet limbs twining around me when she pauses for breath.

  Like I said. An older coach like me, and a pretty young thing like her? About as welcome as a slap in the face.

  One of my swim team reaches me, his shoulders breaking the surface of the water, and he shakes the drops from his ears and asks me a question, his chest heaving with strain. I force my eyes away from Peyton–make myself look down and listen.

  I’m here to do a job, damn it, not yearn after a girl who’s ten years my junior.

  That resolve lasts less than twenty seconds. Because Peyton’s scream pierces the air, water flying as she stumbles against the side of the pool, and I’m already sprinting, conversation forgotten. I’m already launching myself into the cold water, clothes and all, and fighting my way to her side.

  It’s clear before I’ve reached her what’s happened. One of my team stands nearby, palms raised and face chalky white, shaking his head in denial. And I can see it–can see how he must have swum too close, his bulk creeping up on her from the corner of her eye, and what that must have felt like to Peyton Harris. How it must have thrown her back to that morning in the ocean, a red tide washing over her ruined board and her head dizzy with fear and pain.

  “It’s alright.” The swimmer clears off with a jerk of my chin, leaving me alone on this side of the pool with the sobbing girl. She’s gasping for breath, eyes glassy as she cringes against the pool wall, and she’s not really here. Not in her mind.

  “Peyton.” I rest a palm on her shoulder. Fuck, she’s cold through. “Peyton, you’re okay. You’re safe.”

  No change. She wheezes for each breath, her panicked gaze fixed on the water, and I make a call.

  “Come on. We’re getting out, honey. Ready? One, two–”

  On three, I boost her by the waist, setting her ass on the tiles. Peyton whips her legs out of the water and wraps her right arm around her knees, staring at me blindly as she rocks back and forth.

  Her face is pale. Her breaths are shallow.

  And–no way.

  I’m not leaving her like this, not for anything, so I turn and yell over my shoulder for one of my top swimmers to take over the practice. She nods, boosting herself out onto the side, and then I’m pushing out next to Peyton and scooping her into my arms.

  Peyton’s a tall girl and athletic too, her lean body glistening and wet, but she feels like nothing cradled against my chest. I hitch her closer, feeling every sob and tremble with an answering twist behind my ribs, my soaked sneakers thudding against the pool house tiles.

  I shove the door open with my shoulder and then we’re in the dim corridor, heading for the changing rooms. Tile turns to scratchy carpet.

  Alone. We’re suddenly alone.

  “You’re safe with me, Peyton,” I tell her quietly, just in case she’s coming back to herself in time for a new fear to set in. “We’re going to get you warm and dry and feeling better. No funny business. Okay?”

  When she nods, her soaking wet bun wobbles against my shoulder.

  Good. Warm relief sinks through me–relief that she’s back with me, and that she trusts me enough for this. To let me help her. We may never have spoken before, but we’ve spent almost every night together in this pool house for months, and Peyton’s more familiar to me than some of my neighbors. I’ve definitely looked at her a hell of a lot more.

  Why did we never speak before tonight? There must have been a reason, but I can’t remember it now.

  But it’s done. We’ve crossed that line together, and as I nudge the changing room door open with my shoulder, calling out a warning to anyone inside, I make another private call.

  I’ll help this girl for as long as she’ll let me.

  In fact, I hope she never stops letting me at all.

  * * *

  The pool house showers are a lukewarm insult, but I bundle Peyton in there anyway to warm up while I hunt down her clothes. The handle squeaks as I crank it down, the weak spray pattering against the tiles, and I set her down with a pinch of regret.

  I’d rather stay here with her. Would rather keep her cradled against my chest and warm her with my body heat.

  But Peyton hops on one leg and tugs her locker key off her ankle, handing it over with a flush to her cheeks. Avoiding my eye.

  She’s got nothing to be embarrassed about. She’s a survivor, and so damn strong.

  I’m going to prove that to her.

  Two minutes later, after jogging back to the pool room for her things, I bring her towel and bag through the shower doorway. I was only gone for a tiny snatch of time, but my throat closed up tight with worry at being away from her even for a minute.

  It’s that possessiveness again. That need to make her mine. I push those feelings down, burying them deep in my chest.

  It’s not the time.

  Peyton’s still in her emerald green bikini when I come back to the showers, still covered up, but there’s something painfully intimate about seeing her there under the spray. Her face is tipped up, her lips parting as she stands under the water. As she spins slowly, the water drums against her collarbone, sluicing over her smooth, tanned skin.

  I set her things on a nearby chair. “Shall I leave you to finish up? Wait out there?”

  Peyton shakes her head, watching me with a slight frown. And okay, then. I’m happy to stay, though I’m not sure what the hell I can do for her with this part.

  I mean, I know what I’d like to do: shampoo her hair. Chafe her upper arms until she starts to warm up. Wrap her in that towel and kiss the tip of her nose.

  But we’d never even talked until a few minutes ago.

  “You’re soaked too,” Peyton says, her voice raw. “You should go and get dry, Coach Kane.”

  Right. Yeah, of course she doesn’t want me to stay in here while she showers. I should be ashamed of myself for thinking that, even for a second.

  “I’ll meet you out in the lobby,” I tell her, voice brisk. Hoping like hell she didn’t read any of that shit on my face.

 

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