Riding Coach on the Naughty Train

Thunk of the car door and beep of the car alarm echoed in the near empty parking lot. I slipped my sunglasses on and grinned at the groan, laughing at my best friend and partner-in-crime.

“Oh well, that’ll teach you to be out partying and fucking until the wee hours like that. You knew we had an early train to catch. It’s your own damn fault, Jane.” She flipped me off and stuck her tongue out.

“Yeah, well, you’d be less of a bitch if you got laid once in a while, Drina.” She peeked over her sunglasses at me, grimacing at the brightness. Jane held her hands up in mock frustration. “Wait… yours hasn’t grown back again, has it?” Jane cackled at her ‘joke,’ grabbing her head in pain. My smile grew.

“It hasn’t been THAT long.” It’d been longer, actually. Pretty sure it had grown back. Twice. But I wasn’t telling her that. “Now come on, the team’s already here.” We joined the rest of our college debate team on the platform before boarding the train, chattering like a flock of seagulls.

Last aboard was Tony Hanson. Coach Tony Hanson. At six-foot-four, he towered above most people. My fingers itched to tangle in his copper hair and beard. I loved the way his smiling grey eyes drew you in. And he was stacked. The fantasy fuck for every woman at the university, including the staff. A former NHL player turned English Lit professor, Coach Hanson advised our debate...