Lucinda glances over as Assistant Coach Bradley walks past the doorway. She acts nonchalant, like she hasn’t planned this. “Coach, coach!”
He’s twenty-eight years old, a former college athlete himself, with years of experience as a football linesman. But football team management positions are rare, and assisting with women’s soccer gets him valuable coaching experience, keeping his resume from having blank spots.
“Lucinda,” he smiles affably, pausing in the doorway, leaning against the frame, “What’re you still doing here?”
Practice ended over an hour ago, and the women’s locker room is besides Lucinda deserted. But still, he’s a man, and it’s a matter of propriety, so he doesn’t enter.
She rolls her eyes at his reticence. “Come closer. I need you here,” she demands, “I’ve told you before. Even if the other girls were here, they wouldn’t care.”
“Um,” he frowns, looks around, confirms no other women are using the space. He grits his teeth, carefully steps inside. “What’s going on? Did you get injured?”
She is doing a stretch, one knee up on the bench, other on the ground, leaning forward, extending her leg behind her. She looks at her knee like it’s in pain, but really, the position is to show off her ass, the butt-hugging blue-and-green-and-white fabric stretched taut and shiny, tight up in her crack.