Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
CHAPTER FOUR The Flick of the Wrist
SHE DIDN'T OWN A PAIR OF CLEATS — OR BOOTS AS THEY CALL THEM IN ENGLAND.Bear really wasn't sure if it would make a difference, anyway. She had ran countless times across the football field at WSU in her trusty sneakers. She was sat out on the grass, stretching her legs, music playing from the speaker of her cellphone.
Just as she finished stretching out, she heard the soft lands of footfall approach her. She turned just in time to see Sam with a big smile on his face. "Ready for your first practice?" he asked. She offered her hand to the man with a big grin. He took it immediately and helped her to her feet. "Ready, Coach," she replied, hands moving to her waist. "What should we start with?"
He looked taken aback by the comment. Inwardly, he liked being called coach. He wasn't sure why. He didn't think it was weird, or something that got him feeling all excited. But it made him smile and feel... appreciated. He cleared his throat, shaking the thought from his head. "We'll just run a few laps around the pitch first to get you used to the length."
She nodded her head. At that, she bent down to pick up her phone and cut off the music. The sounds of Little Mix died abruptly before she dropped the device back into the grass. "I'm not going to slip, right?" she asked with a hint of a nervous laugh. He shook his head. "No," he replied. "No, I believe you are safe."
They stood there a moment, smiling at one another. It took another beat of silence before Bear tore her eyes away from Sam. "I should start running," she stated, awkwardly. Sam nodded his head with a slight laugh. "I will run with you," he offered. Her head snapped toward the man in surprise. "But you just had a full training," she argued, "you're probably dying to get off of your feet."
His shoulders lifted slightly, nonchalantly. "Yes, but it can get lonely running. Don't you think?" He looked at her, his eyes challenging her to argue. She scoffed out a laugh, giving in almost immediately. "It's your funeral," she retorted, jokingly. She was the first to take off in a stable jog, focusing on keeping her breathing steady. Sam kept up with her with ease. It probably had something to do with how long his legs are, or how often he runs the pitch.
