The Rake (Boston Belles #4) by L.J. Shen

Coach Locken bends on one knee and frowns at my leg. I can feel his breath scraping my skin. It’s hot and moist. Excited tingles chase one another down my spine.

“I’ll get you an ice pack. Wait in my office.”

“No, really, I’m good,” my dumb mouth protests, even though my brain tells it to shut up and take advantage. I’ve never had one-on-one time with Coach Locken.

“Nothing will be good when you’re benched all season because of a runner’s knee and I lose my cross-country star and you lose your scholarship.” Locken already has his back to me as he herds the rest of the boys to the locker room.

I limp my way to his office, which is tucked at the end of the hallway. The door is open. I take a seat in front of his desk and let out a whimper, because hot damn, it does hurt. Looking for a distraction, I peer around me. There’s a crap load of books about running on his shelves, a few trophies, and framed pictures of him hugging famous athletes. On his blond wooden desk is his engagement picture with his wife. They’re in some kind of a hay field, kissing, and her hand is tilted to the camera to catch the diamond ring. She looks small and is a brunette and … I don’t know … good. She looks like a nice person, not like all the things I hoped she’d be. I’m slammed with terrible, disgusting guilt for constantly fantasizing about him kissing me.

This is stupid. I should get up and leave.

Quit cross-country while I’m at it. Volleyball sounds more like my jam.

I’m bracing the armrests, about to stand up when he walks into his office and closes the door. He is bigger than I remembered. Taller. He fills up the room. It reminds me of my dad, and I’m crazy about my dad. But Mr. Locken also still looks boyish enough that, unlike my dad, it’s not creepy to think about kissing him.

I lean back in my chair. Business as usual.

Coach Locken lifts an ice pack in the air then tosses it over to me. “Press.”

I do as I’m told. The cold feels nice against my knee. I groan. “I better get a scholarship. I don’t even like running.”

He laughs and to my surprise drags his chair and positions it in front of mine. My heart beats a thousand miles a minute.

“How’s it feeling now?” he asks. His timbre is low, gruff.

“Yeah. Fine.” I feel so dumb, so young, so juvenile. I wish I had something sophisticated to say. Something to blow him out of the water. To make sure he knows I’m more than just a kid.

“Let me have a look.” He pats his knee in invitation.

I swing my gaze to him, uncertain what he’s asking me for. Surely, he’s not suggesting …

“Put your foot in my lap. I wanna see what’s the damage.”

I do as I’m told, my chest swelling with pride. I’m pretty sure he’d never offer this to any of the other boys on my team.

His lap is taut with muscle. Hard as a rock. My leg is long and skinny and if you look closely, there’s a dusting of blond hair covering it. He leans forward, removing the ice pack I’m pressing against my knee. He frowns.

“Doesn’t look any better.”

“It feels okay,” I lie.

“Try rotating your leg.”

I try. Fail. I mean, I can do it. It just hurts like a mothertrucker.

Coach Locken releases a resigned sigh.

“It’ll help if we encourage some blood circulation. May I?” He lifts his hands—nice hands, I note—and keeps them in the air, looking at me questioningly.

He wants to touch me? Really?

“Just to get the blood flow back to the knee,” he explains.

Duh. Of course. I have to get my mind out of the gutter. This is so embarrassing.

I gulp, looking into those brown eyes.

He kind of looks like Matthew Broderick in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. Dorky-hot. The kind of hot you can trust because the world still has expectations of him to behave.

Honestly, I’m not even sure why I’m being weird about it. It’s not like he’s sexually harassing me. He is literally asking me if it’s okay. A rapist would just jump on me without permission. I’m reading way too much into this.

I nod, watching him through inquisitive eyes as he begins massaging my knee. It feels innocent. I’m at a stage where I’m curious about kissing and fondling and stuff, but penises are still a major turnoff. They’re just so … extra. Like, sit down. You don’t have to stand there like a stripper pole every time someone takes their bra off.

He pushes his thumbs toward my knee to help the circulation. The once sharp pain becomes mild now. I feel the muscles unknotting under his fingers.

“Better?” Locken asks.

I nod again. Swallow. Stare at his fingers. At his wedding ring. At the way his hands curl and massage the back of my knee now, the sensitive spot, and I giggle and squirm despite myself.

“Your muscles are really tight.” His frown deepens. That damn wedding ring feels like fire every time it touches my skin. Why does it have to be there? He could’ve waited until I graduated—what’s four years in comparison to a lifetime—and we could be together.

“You need to work on your stretches, Penrose. Your muscles are shortening. Probably genetic.”

“Probably from my mom’s side,” I agree. Count on Mom to pass down short muscles to me.

His fingers hike up to my thigh. Now it doesn’t feel all that innocent anymore. My body tingles. But there’s also something else. A ball of anxiety in my throat.