Page 95 of The Path to Loving Him
I can actually feel sweat dripping down my back.
And if I wasn’t the new teacher on campus with the possibility of one of the students or athletes spotting me, my shirt would be off and tucked into the back of my shorts right now, allowing me to bake in just my bra.
But unfortunately for me, this is a shirt-on establishment at all times.
I bend down and dip my paintbrush in the paint again, wishing this torture would end. Just a few more strokes and I should be done.
During sixth period today, I met the team. It was a little awkward because they were all slightly confused about why a woman would be coaching them, but thankfully, Ryland spoke highly of me and how I helped Bennett get to where he is despite Ryland never seeing me coach.
Now, do I wish my hiring was handled differently? Absolutely.
But am I grateful? Always.
I just believe if David included Ryland, we wouldn’t be in this weird limbo where I have to prove myself. Instead, Ryland would have hired me based on my merit. Now it feels like I have to prove myself to him, which doesn’t seem fair.
Hence why I’m up on a ladder, on a Friday after school, touching up the paint on the foul pole.
It was one of many things on the list Ryland gave me and told me not to worry about, but I thought maybe if I did some of the things, he’d respect me more and notice my dedication to the team.
Next week, we’ll start conditioning with the boys, and Ryland said he expects me to help in all ways. I told him it wasn’t a problem, as I work out myself and keep up on my weight training—even if that means working out with rocks rather than actual weights in the gym—so I could help with anything he needed.
After our conversation last night, I feel like we really have started a new chapter. Seeing how he picked up his sweet niece and snuggled her into him was stupefying.Those muscles of his. How he held her so tenderly.But also finding him sprawled across the floor, his laundry scattered everywhere and him writhing in pain from an itty-bitty Lego? Well, it showed that he’s very human, and that maybe he’s not as intimidating as I assumed. Meaning, I think I can make this work.
No, I know I can make this work.
“What are you doing?”
“Jesus Christ,” I shout. I’m startled half to death, shaking the ladder beneath me with a jump.
“Careful,” he shouts.
But it’s too late . . .
The ladder wobbles, I quickly grab the wet pole for stability as my paint tray tips, it totters, and then with a goopy splash of yellow, it falls off the ledge and right onto Ryland Rowley’s head.
“Motherfucker,” Ryland says as he wipes paint away from his eyes, unable to see.
I wince as I stay glued to the wet foul pole, my legs quivering to keep the ladder in place. But my overcompensating only makes it worse, and before I can stop it, the bitch of a ladder crashes to the ground.
With catlike reflexes coated in desperation to save myself, I wrap my legs around the pole and cling to the wet, sticky surface.
“I’m going to die,” I say as I stare down at my impending death.
It’s been nice knowing this earth.
I had a rough start, so it’s a shame I have to perish just when things start to look bright.
Isn’t that just the witch’s tit?
“What’s going on?” Ryland asks, unable to see from the paint.
“The ladder,” I shriek. “It’s down.”
“Fuck. Really?”
“Nope, just lying to create an unnecessary amount of drama on a perfectly fine Friday afternoon.”
“Sarcasm isn’t needed,” he shouts, wiping at his eyes still, but the paint keeps smearing.
