Page 9 of Stroked Hard
I say one last goodbye to my mom and once she’s out of sight, I turn to my apartment and take a deep breath. Here’s to new beginnings.
I collect the empty boxes I’ve accumulated, break them down, and prepare to take them to the recycling bin. I want to be done unpacking, not wake up feeling crowded by empty boxes. I need order. The quiet, the order, the simplicity . . . that is who I am and all that I want.My mom has survived so many years like this, and so can I.I might be alone, but not really . . . alone.
Fumbling slightly with the oversized boxes, I make my way down the stairs and out to the community recycling bin two buildings over. My apartment complex is a combination of things: townhomes, condos, and apartments. Luxuries such as recycling bins are closer to the condos and townhomes. I’m not mad about it, I get it, the property manager is making more money off those residences, but maybe they could have put something a little closer to my building.
I’m chucking the boxes in the bin, sweat dripping off my forehead even though the sun is falling, and wishing I’d asked my mom to help me since the heavy lid of the recycling bin keeps shutting on me. Not being tall enough to flip it all the way over, I’m really feeling the challenge of being kind to Mother Nature.
Recycle and save the earth for future generations, not that I have any plans on contributing to the future generations with my own kin, but it’sniceto be nice.
I have four boxes left and the struggle is real. I bend over, hand on my knees and catch my breath. Yeah, I work out, but I haven’t in a little bit, and it’s blatantly obvious from my inability to recycle without having to catch my breath.
“Need help with that?”
I still. Chills run up my arms, my stomach starts fluttering with nerves, and my palms instantly start to sweat.
That voice.I know that deep, raspy voice.
Turning my head to the side, the sun shines behind the figure standing in front of me, casting a shadow on his form. A very delicious shadow.
Tall, broad shoulders, lean but muscular frame, and signature faux-hawk. He’s unmistakable.
Hollis Knightly.
What the hell is he doing here?
Chapter Three
HOLLIS
And here I thought my day was pure shit thanks to my coach thinking I’m not ready for trials. Fuck that prick, I’m more ready than I’ve ever been.
Two years ago, my long-time coach, Coach Wilson, was diagnosed with prostate cancer. There was no other option than to quit coaching and take care of himself. However, the cancer was metastatic, spread so fucking quickly, and took his life within two months.Two months. Two months to attempt to say thank you and goodbye.It was fucking devastating, not just because I had to find a new coach, but because I lost a very important man in my life, someone who’d been by my side since I can remember. He knew me as Knobby Knees Knightly.I miss him.
Now I have a coach who has made it his mission to make my life miserable.
Why stick around with him? Coach Wilson set me up with him. It’s fucking crazy to think this way but a part of me believes that being with my current coach, Coach Ted, keeps me close to Coach Wilson, as if Coach Ted carries a bit of his soul inside him.
Fucking insane, I know, but I can’t seem to let go, which means I deal with the prick on a daily basis.
I’m not going to lie; I’m bit of a princess at times. I know what I like. I know how I want to be spoken to, and I’ve worked hard to get where I am today, so I have the right to be cocky. I also have the right to be coddled.
Yeah, coddled.
Pet my ego, make me feel good. I prefer my coach to praise me, not lift his head with a barely there nod if I do well. A well-executed knuckle blast is more appreciated, but Coach Ted doesn’t get that despite the countless times I’ve told him.
Instead, the fucker has me doing extra sets of dryland training, flipping onto a mat over and over again. I’m sore as shit, volatile in the worst way, and hungry.
I’m always hungry.
On the way home, I stopped by my favorite burger joint, grabbed two pablono burger sans bun with Cheddar-Jack cheese, skipped the fries, and came home to my condo. Searing with anger from coach’s tactics today, it all dissipated when I spotted the little sun-kissed brunette that’s been starring in my dreams for the past six months.
Seeing that sultry ass in minuscule jean shorts instantly evaporated my shit mood. What the hell is she doing here?
“Well, isn’t it the little salad ruiner herself? I know, I’m handsome as fuck but that doesn’t mean you get to stare all you want,” I tease, snapping her out of her bent-over position, mouth agape. Yeah, I could have made a cruder comment but I held back.
Standing tall and brushing her hands on her shorts, she says, “What are you doing here? Are you stalking me now?”
“If I were stalking you I sure as fuck wouldn’t be doing it by a dumpster.”
