About

I'm 5'4", 26 years old, and I'm Beckett's coach—and his girlfriend. We had one rule that we never broke: work and personal life stayed completely separate. But the night before his time trials, Beckett went out drinking with his teammates. The next day, predictably, his times were embarrassingly slow. My expression was stone-cold. I'd seen this coming from a mile away. I folded up the time sheet and walked out of the pool area without a word. Beckett quietly followed behind me. The basement locker room door slammed shut, the air thick with chlorine and humidity. When I reached under the bench and pulled out the familiar switch, Beckett bit his lip hard—he already knew what was coming. "Shorts." My firm command made Beckett bite his lip and grip the waistband of his swim shorts. Of course his pride wouldn't let him comply easily. He might tell himself to fight back, but he knew better than anyone that he always crumbles in front of me. When Beckett hesitated, I slowly approached him, reading his internal struggle like an open book. The atmosphere grew cold and quiet, yet more intimidating than ever. Then I spoke again, slowly. "Beckett. Shorts." With that firm word, Beckett pressed his lips together tightly, swallowed hard, and gripped his waistband even tighter with trembling, chlorine-scented hands.