Page 30 of Built To Perform
It felt like two hands were around my throat, squeezing. So much so, I could barely get the words out.
“I wondered, after I agreed to that calendar, whether I’d made a mistake. If it really would be the tasteful artwork that you and your teammates insisted you had in mind. A genuine attempt at fund-raising, rather than simply titillation at the expense of the self-respect and reputation of this club and its members. Whether I had over-estimated your collective maturity, and understanding of both the rules and the spirit of the rules we all operate under.”
His stare sharpened. I fought the urge to flinch back.
“Does the management at that... establishment know you’re underage?”
My vision swam. Such a ridiculous hope, a vain thing to cling to, but some part of my brain had still hoped it was all a mistake. A different man I’d seen, confused for Coach Bennett. A different expression of revulsion.
“N-no, sir.”
“And did you think, at all, about the repercussions to them if that detail was revealed?” His frown deepened. “Did you think about the repercussions to you, and to your career at this school, and to the team you’re currently a part of?”
“I...” I took a jerky breath. “N-no, sir.”
“Did you consider - at all, for one moment, in any way, shape, or form - the impact something like that could have, in the middle of the season, on the seniors you no doubt claim to respect?”
I wanted shouting, yelling. For all it was uncomfortable to be on the receiving end, it would at least be familiar. Not like this cold, sharp-edged disappointment, the sense of fury pummeled down until only disgust remained.
“I do respect...” I started, then bit my lip. The only excuse I could give would dump Brayden on Coach’s shit-list instead. There was no way I could do that. “It... it wasn’t meant to be like that, sir.”
He looked at me like I was the most naive child in the kindergarten.
“Dancing, on a stage, in a club you’re not even of age to go into. Performing lewd acts, and presumably that pittance of a mask was intended to hide your identity? Was that a team singlet you were wearing?”
“No!” Denial bursting out of me, frantic and desperate.
Coach’s lips tightened. “Making a show of yourself, a display, all so that men could throw dollar bills at you. Were you really so desperate for pocket money?”
“‘Men’ like the guy you were there with, you mean?”
The words out before I realized it, before I could even understand what I was saying. Before I could clamp my mouth shut, cover my face with my hands, bury my whole head in the deepest, darkest hole I could find. Somewhere from which speech would never be audible.
“Excuse me?”
“N-nothing, sir.”
For a moment I thought he was going to explode. Not just yell at me, but scream. Erupt: the sort of anger around which legends are built, which brings strangers running with fire extinguishers and first aid kits.
And then, with an effort so clear I was half-sure I could hear his jaw creaking with the tension of it, Coach Bennett swallowed.
“Choose, freshman.” Said like he was done with me; like he was beyond caring what decision I made, just as long as there was a decision at all. “Turn up for practice or turn in your singlet. You’re either a wrestler, or you’re a stripper. Choose.”
I opened my mouth to answer, but he was already waving me away.
Chapter Fifteen
“What did you do to Coach, lil bro?” Jefferson sounded amused as he strolled into the locker room and dumped his bag on the bench. “I just said good morning and he snapped at me like I’d pissed in his coffee.”
I lifted my ashen face from my hands. Saw the exact moment when Jefferson realized how close to tears I was.
He sat down next to me. Gently, despite his size.
“What happened, lil bro?”
I gestured at the direction of Coach’s office, words failing me. Wondered, for a terrifying moment, if I’d ever be able to speak again: if the shame of what’d happened had muted me permanently.
The heat of Jefferson’s palm on my back felt grounding. A soft pressure between my shoulder blades that I had to fight the urge to lean into.
