Spring Slam

Note: All participants in sexual activity in this story are 18 years old or older.

Further note: All characters in this story are fictional. Any similarity between the names of characters and names of real people is entirely coincidental. Likewise, all events, schools and organizations in this story are fictional, and not meant to suggest any real-life counterparts.

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She was three rows behind me.

Squirming in the uncomfortable charter bus seat, I tried not to think too hard about just how close she was, not to think too hard about all that had happened this week, not to think too hard about her. I knew already it was hopeless. I wasn't going to be sleeping on this ride home. I took a deep breath as we slowly pulled away, into the dusk.

I should never have taken this job. My remote job paid well enough to get by, mostly, and it's not like I knew what I was doing. What business did I have being an assistant coach? Jessica had pushed me into it, insisting I'd be great at it, reminding me of my athletic history.

"You played baseball! You were kind of like a star! And they really need someone, Chris."

"Baseball isn't softball, you know that, right? And besides, that was like, over 20 years ago."

"You'll be great. How hard could it be? And like I said, they really need someone."

Jessica was persuasive. Within weeks, I was helping correct swing mechanics, taping wrists, and keeping stats. I think Jess was also hoping I might hit it off with Coach Reece. She kept asking about her. Coach was single too, after all, and she maybe had a little thing for me, if Jessica's hints were to be believed. But I didn't expect much. I'd been single for a decade, since Caitlin and I had divorced, and I was getting used to it.

I pulled out my phone, and checked my work email, communications from my real job. I needed to catch up. This week I'd been remarkably skilled at ignoring responsibility. Responsibility. Yeah, I needed to just put an end to what was going on here, didn't I? It would be the responsible thing to do. I just didn't know anymore. I just knew I wanted this. I wanted her. Damn, I thought. No sleep tonight.

When we'd pulled into this sprawling resort hotel a week ago, the players seemed more excited about the pool, and especially about the boys, than about competing. The girls of Northwest High were having a mediocre season, and they were mostly over it. The seniors, especially, were distracted. SpringSlam was taking away their final high school spring break. Since this was both a baseball and softball tournament, the thought of a hotel full of boys held more appeal to them than the promise of two games a day.

I was not surprised, then, when I showed up at the social that first night and found most of the girls flirting aggressively. Riley was wearing a tight black dress and heels, next to Sara who wore a blue dress and flats, both chatting up a couple of boys from one of the baseball teams. They wore more makeup than I'd ever seen on either of them. I smiled a little and shook my head, to myself. Jenna was laughing animatedly at another boy's conversation, fingering her long gold necklace. I spotted Coach Reece across the room, sipping a cocktail. I grabbed a beer and joined her.

"Coach."

"Coach."

"Everything under control here?"

"We can only hope so."

I mingled with a few of the coaches from the other teams, plotting my exit. Then I spotted her.

Kennedy was sitting by herself, at a table off in the corner, just looking into the crowd. One of our seniors, she looked bored. To be fair, this sort of thing really wasn't her scene.

I thought I should check on her. Making my way over, I noticed she was wearing a plain white shirt, something one or two steps more formal than a t-shirt. Stepping closer, I could see from the side that she wore a denim skirt. Clean white canvas shoes, tied. She'd made an effort to dress up, just a little, but the other girls here were practically prom-worthy. I sat across from her.

"Hi, Kennedy!"

"Hey."

She glanced at me, then looked down. Kennedy had sort of a round face, pale with a smattering of red freckles. A baby face. She looked back, pale blue eyes focused on me, before looking down once more.

"Having fun?"

"Ha! Good one."

She rolled her eyes then let her chin rest in her hands.

"Yeah these things can be long and boring. I have to put in an appearance, but I'm really just trying to get through it."

"They're torture."

Kennedy let her face drop to the table, then shook it slightly back and forth in frustration. Looking back up, her hair was in her face. Kennedy's hair was short, just past her chin short, and wasn't really styled. Plain hair. Almost blonde, it had very slight traces of reddish brown. She blew a wisp of it from her face, full lips puckering, then wiped it away with her hand. I just stared at her hand for some reason, small and strong, short nails, stark white. I sighed.

"Yeah, they are. Torture."

"I'd seriously rather be anywhere else."

"So what would you be doing if you were home?"

"Shredding. Fooling around on my guitar. Probably hiding in my room if my mom was drunk."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

"And I didn't know you played. Guitar, that is."

"Since I was ten. You know..." Kennedy's voice took on a fake tone. "...I don't feel so good. I really think I should go back to my room, Coach Schraeder."

"This is you faking it, I'm guessing?"

Kennedy smiled, a rare look on her, a very slight smirk, bigger on the left side of her face than on her right, just barely showing her teeth behind her big lips. I wondered why I felt suddenly satisfied that I'd gotten her to smile.

"Come on, Kennedy. Let's get out of here."

I'd found myself walking beside Kennedy, following her lead, walking with her away from my own room and toward hers. Kennedy looked the way I'd expected a softball player to look - sort of short and stocky, with strong limbs and a little bit wide around her belly. It surprised me how many of the girls were tall and thin. Tall and thin like Caitlin, I thought, then wondered why I was comparing these high school students with my ex-wife. It was a weird thought, and I shook it off. I still wasn't sure why I was walking along with this particular high school girl, rather than just saying see you later and heading to my room, but I was discovering that Kennedy's company was surprisingly enjoyable.

"You know, Coach, it's really gross when they all start acting like these flaky, flirty weirdos. It's just not fun."

"Yeah, I'm sure all the baseball boys here are having their effect."

"But they're so obvious about it."

"It's not subtle, is it?"

Kennedy took a big breath.

"Why do you think my teammates all think I'm a lesbian?"

I paused, a little stunned that Kennedy was opening up to me so much.

"I - I don't know, Kennedy. There's nothing wrong with being a lesbian, of course."

"There's nothing wrong with it, but I'm not! And why do they all think I am? I mean, just because I don't throw myself at every cute boy I see doesn't mean I'm into girls!"

"No it doesn't, Kennedy. And I'm sorry your teammates make those assumptions about you."

"Yeah, well..."

She seemed especially sullen tonight. Social mixers really weren't her thing. I was surprised it had rattled her so much. Kennedy hadn't played well earlier in the day. It was unusual for her. Most of the time, she carried the team. I'd been wondering if her performance in the opening game had anything to do with her mood, but now I realized she had bigger things on her mind.

"Well this is my room. See ya, Coach."

"See you tomorrow."

That night, I remembered, had been the first night of fitful, broken sleep. Why then? Did I already have some premonition, some inkling of what was coming? At that point, as far as I knew, I was just being a good coach to my player, just as I would be to any player. So why couldn't I sleep? Why was I so amped up? Why, every time I almost drifted off, did Kennedy's face appear in my imagination? I kept thinking how nice it was just to talk to her a little, how relatable she was, even in one of her bad moods, how - oh just admit it - how shockingly cute Kennedy's face was, those watery barely blue eyes, those expressive lips that were too big for her pale round face, and her nose that was too small for it. I sighed and I tossed and I turned and I wondered what was wrong with me. I did everything but sleep.

In the morning, sitting in the dugout, I found myself watching Kennedy swinging her bat around in the on-deck circle as the game started. She'd smiled at me wordlessly when she first saw me that morning, smiled more warmly than I'd ever seen her smile. Now I watched her prepare to bat. The Lady Bobcats wore their hideous yellow uniforms that morning, and I focused on Kennedy's back in yellow, the green number 5 in the center of it, and above it, in green lettering, the name "WHITE." Kennedy stretched, and I sighed. Her butt was a little large, but firm. Strong. Shit, I reminded myself, stop it. Stop thinking about this teenager like that. Kennedy twisted her cleat into the grass painted with the SpringSlam 2022 logo. She adjusted her green batting helmet.

"Batting second for Northwest, and playing third base, Number 5, Kennedy White!"

She approached the plate slowly, adjusted her stance, wiggled, waited, watched, her back to me. I swallowed. She took the pitch for ball one. Kennedy took a few swings then settled back into her stance. She took the next for strike one. I wiped my sweaty hands on my pants. Kennedy settled in, then swung hard, driving the ball into left-center field, running straight through first and sliding hard into second, safe with a double.

"Whooh Kennedy! Go, girl!" Hannah, to my left, cheered her on.

Kennedy stood, brushed herself off, and I swear I thought she looked straight at me with a little smirk.

Kennedy's heroics started off a seven run inning, and when the team finally took the field, I watched third base, Kennedy standing, pacing, waiting to field a ball, and then I swear for just a second she looked toward the dugout, looked unmistakably at me, and just stared for a very long few seconds, those pale blue eyes underlined with thick eye-black.

What the fuck? I didn't know what to think. Was this a friendly look? Or did Kennedy realize I'd been kind of watching her extra closely for whatever reason unknown even to me, and had she understandably found it creepy, and was she giving me a sort of threatening, warning look? It was honestly kind of hard to tell.

Suddenly, a ball was hit down the third base line, and Kennedy moved to her right to field it deftly, then threw an absolute rocket to Ava at first, and even from across the infield I could hear the loud POP in Ava's glove. Kennedy was pacing back toward second, looking down. I decided I'd better watch where I looked. I would ignore Kennedy.

On the bus, I closed my eyes, remembering how successful I'd been, how I hadn't looked her way all day. I'd actually slept that night, a little, and felt much better the following day, when I'd done my assistant coaching job through both games without paying Kennedy any extra attention. That night, I'd actually caught up with a little bit of work from my actual job. I sighed as I remembered how I had thought all the weirdness was successfully behind me.

It was fully dark now on the road, and I tried to sleep, but I couldn't stop thinking about the next few days.

Wednesday's first game was an easy one. The Lady Bobcats, wearing the slightly less hideous white uniforms with green lettering and yellow trim, feasted on Center High. And in the third inning, returning to the dugout following her first home run of the day, Kennedy started something.

She high fived her teammates, of course, then walked to the end of the dugout, passing me. As she did, the back of Kennedy's hand just barely grazed my knee.

I think I held my breath for a full minute. Had it just been an inadvertent bump? It almost certainly was. Yet I was suddenly hyper-aware of Kennedy's presence. I was suddenly right back where I'd been a couple days earier, in some sort of spell. It wasn't helped when, after returning to the dugout from fielding in the fourth inning, it happened again. Just a little maybe-accidental bump, the back of Kennedy's hand against my knee, and I followed her with my gaze, but she didn't look back.

Oh god. Two accidental bumps. Accidents, nothing more, nothing intentional, nothing implied. Until Kennedy returned from batting in the sixth, following a routine ground-out, and made contact with me again. Except this time, she turned her hand over and, with the inside of her last three fingers, grazed my leg just above my knee, let them trace over it and fall off, just enough.

Her touch had been just short enough not to draw anyone else's attention, and just long enough to leave no doubt that it had been intentional.

I was stunned. I followed Kennedy with my eyes, but she just walked away, down the length of the dugout, never looking back. I caught my breath and tried to figure out what the hell to do with this situation.

I don't remember anything from the rest of that game. Nothing. I was in a sort of trance. I think I was thinking about Kennedy, but I have no idea what thoughts I was actually having. My memory picks up again between the day's two games.

Still sitting in the dugout, I was surprised by Kennedy plopping down, hard, sitting next to me. Right next to me. Kennedy's elbow pressed up against mine.

"Hey Coach!"

She gave me a warm look. Not quite a smile, but a friendly look.

"Hi Kennedy. Um...hi."

Kennedy laughed, holding her hand over her eyes.

"You played a great game."

"You coached a great game."

"Yeah right." I nudged Kennedy with my elbow, and she laughed. "I didn't do a damn thing."

"Coach Schraeder!" Kennedy's mouth hung open in mock outrage. "Language, Coach!"

"Sorry. I forgot there are innocent little ears around."

Again, mock outrage. "I'm offended!" Again, Kennedy laughed. I'd never seen her so animated. I smiled, then sighed.

Kennedy bent down and untied her cleat. Lifting her foot to the bench, she let it rest there, heel on the edge of the bench, toes hanging over it. Her mustard-yellow sock was bunched up. More significantly to me, the whole side of her socked foot pressed against my leg. I could feel her little toe flex. I held my breath. Kennedy pulled the sock up tighter. Then she put it back down on the ground, slipped her cleat over it, and started tying.

Bent over, she looked up at me, her face half upside down. Her short hair hung oddly.

"You haven't been mad at me, have you?"

"No, Kennedy. Why would you think that?"

"Well it's like the past couple days, you sort of acted like I don't exist."

"Kennedy. I - I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you feel that way. I mean, I got the feeling one time when you looked at me that maybe you didn't want me paying you too much attention, that it was weird."

"Oh." Kennedy looked thoughtful. "Coach, I was looking at you cause I thought, like, that you and me, we..." Kennedy paused, choosing her words carefully. "...like that we had, or no, like...I thought that we were close."

"Oh. I hope we are close, Kennedy."

Should I have said that?

Kennedy sat back up and looked me in the eyes, a slowly growing smile on her face. She breathed a big, heavy breath.

"Good."

"Good."

"Well...I gotta go meet up with Coach Reece!" With that, Kennedy was gone.

Oh hell. Oh crap. Oh wow. Was Kennedy trying to flirt? Was this what her flirtation looked like, I wondered. Not just little friendly maybe-I-kind-of-like-you hints, but actual I-hope-something-happens-between-us posturing? Was it even possible?

Kennedy? What did I even think of her? Did I like her like that, I wondered. Was I actually attracted to her? Idiot, you spent like a whole night unable to sleep, a whole day with nothing but Kennedy on your mind, of course you're attracted to her. Of course you like her. But like that? It seemed impossible. She wasn't really my type anyway, I thought as I reminded myself that I'd been single for ten whole years. Did I even know what my type was anymore?

None of those thoughts mattered, I urgently alerted myself. She can't be your type and you can't like her like that. You're a forty-two year old man, and she's in high school. High School! But she's a senior, some part of my mind perked up. A senior who has already accepted a softbal scholarship at State University for this very fall.

Doesn't Matter! my rational mind shouted back. She's a player on this team that you're coaching, and you, obviously, are a coach. You're an authority figure. Conflict of interest, abuse of power, come on man, anyone in the year of our Lord 2022 knows this would be all kinds of wrong.

Assistant coach, the desirous part of my mind screamed back. You have no actual authority over that girl. Come on!

Like that actually matters! Age gap! Huuuuge age gap! She's not half your age; she's less than half your age!

My internal debate was interrupted by the entire team walking back to the field. Kennedy came into view, striding confidently, young, sort of wide softball body, strong and athletic, adorable youthful freckled face, slight smile, and I knew without a doubt I'd been wrong earlier. Kennedy was definitely my type, I thought, just as the bulge in my pants started to grow to uncomfortable proportions.

The second game that day was a haze of desire. Kennedy started the game with a towering homer, and I watched every curve of her body as she rounded the bases. How had I never noticed her before? My god, she was sexy. In the field, my eyes never left her as she patrolled the area around third base. I closed my eyes and sighed. Kennedy's attention had somehow landed on middle-aged me, and I couldn't figure out if this was a miracle or a curse.

Later that evening, in my hotel room. I paced back and forth. Nothing about this was right, but there was no way I wanted it to end. Kennedy. I would have never guessed I'd have developed feelings for her, for this particular girl, for the shy, tomboyish third-baseman. In conflicted frustration, I flopped onto the bed. As soon as I did, I heard a knock at the door.

I opened the door to find Kennedy, alone, standing there and looking down the hall, presumably to see if anyone was coming. She wore a long-sleeve gray t-shirt with barely noticeable purple trim as well as jeans, light blue jeans that were just a little long on her short legs and were tight through the thighs, a little loose at the bottom. And her feet - Kennedy's small pale bare feet were partially covered by black Adidas slides. She was holding another shirt. I caught my breath.

"Hi - um, Hi Kennedy!"

"Coach, can I come in?"

"Um - sure, you ca..."

Kennedy was already hurrying into the room, past me. I looked quickly down the hall to the left, then the right, then closed the door.

"OK Coach, you -have- to help me. Have to."

"Sure, Kennedy, anything you need."

Kennedy smiled a little smile, and looked at me funny.

"Aaanything?" She sounded mischievously cute."

"Well - um, yeah. Anything."

Kennedy smiled thoughtfully.

"Hmmm."

"I'm getting scared."

I sat on the edge of the bed, sort of hoping Kennedy might sit next to me. She didn't. Instead, she stood directly in front of me, dropping the up-to-something look.

"Coach, I need you to tell me which of these shirts looks better on me. We're going to the mall tonight..." Kennedy rolled her eyes as she said the word. "...and everyone seems -so- dressed up, and I just thought - just tell me which one, ok?"

"Sure. Of course. I mean, have you asked any of the other girls? Or Coach Reece?"