Beneath His Touch

Chapter Nine

SARAH

Three days in a row, and I haven't seen any of them in person. Sure, Jerry texts, and that's fine. I keep coming up with excuses, telling him I'm hanging out with my girls. It's easier that way—just texting, no face-to-face meetings. But there's one problem: the looks I get. The sudden fame I've gained in my classes is suffocating. Even my friends, Faith and Vicky, have started to act differently. Luckily, we're in different departments, and they live off-campus in private hostels. But modern technology? Ugh, it makes avoiding people so much harder.

"If I were you, I'd totally go for Jerry. He seems decent," Syndra texts, adding a few emojis for emphasis.

"No chance," I type back. "Brian seemed perfect at first, too. Boyfriend material... and look where that got me."

"OMG, I still can't believe what a jerk he turned out to be," Florence chimes in. "Whatever happened to his girlfriend?"

"I haven't met her yet," I reply, my disgust punctuated with a series of angry-face emojis.

We texted well into the night, conversations circling around boys, bad experiences, and everything in between.

The next day was dedicated to my new commitment: the tennis club. They advised all new students to join at least one campus activity, and I figured tennis would be my outlet. Vicky, on the other hand, betrayed me by joining the journalism club. Typical.

"Is this all of you?" The coach's voice cuts through the air like a whip. She stands in front of us, clipboard tucked behind her back, her eyes scanning the group like she's sizing up her next meal. "According to your applications, many of you have impressive tennis records from high school, but let me tell you something: that means nothing here. The moment you step onto my court, you're nothing but amateurs. Do I make myself clear?" Her voice rises, commanding attention.

"Yes, ma'am!" we shout in unison, the words blending into a single, nervous chorus.

"I CAN'T HEAR YOU!" she bellows, and her eyes narrow.

"Yes, ma'am!!" we yell louder, straining to match her intensity.

"Now drop and give me fifteen push-ups!" she orders, and without hesitation, we hit the ground, assuming the position.

It wasn't difficult—I've been through worse—but it was still a test of endurance. When we finally got to our feet, there was a collective sigh of relief.

"Good. I like the spirit," she nods approvingly, a faint smirk playing on her lips. "Cynthia!"

A tall girl steps forward, wearing a sleek black tennis training kit. Her posture is stiff, professional, and she's holding a yellow racket with a matching wristband.

"Yes, ma'am?" Cynthia responds, her voice crisp.

"You're in charge of these recruits," the coach instructs, pointing to the group of us. "Take their measurements, figure out their positions, and determine what rackets they need. And one more thing," she pauses, her gaze sharp as a blade, "I want you to form a decent team out of them. We'll be having friendlies with Luther University's tennis team in early next month. Understood?"

"Yes, ma'am,"

Turning to us, "give me twenty shuffle run and go give out your records,"

We start taking the shuffle runs, her voice barking orders as she slaps the clip board.

"Is this all you have!!!! pick up the pace!" she shouts.

Her phone rings as she walks away to pick it.

"Wow, I thought she would be scary like the rumors," a girl beside me says as we run, "she seems easy going,"

"Yeah, definitely, however, I heard that the real deal in the club is those three girls," she points at Cynthia and another two girls, they were conversing with. I could recognize the other, I met her my first day here.