“It’s alright.” Coach Conway strokes my collarbone with his thumb. I don’t like it when he touches me. His hands aren’t rough like a man’s hands—like the calluses I pick from Daddy’s palms when he comes home late from the mill and falls asleep on the couch.
“I’m sure she has a good excuse.”
There’s no good excuse for why Ma forced me to play soccer when I told her I liked basketball, for why she’s left me alone with this man who makes my skin crawl two hours after practice has ended.
“Basketball’s for butch lesbians,” she said. Better them than a man whose lips are always moist when he speaks to me, who cups his crotch whenever he sits next to me on the bench to talk about the accuracy in my kicks.
“How bout I take you to get something to eat,” he says, but this is the middle of nowhere—our town just got a Subway last month, and that’s closer to my house.
“No, I’m fine,” I say, and I try not to flinch when he suddenly squats between my legs and slaps his clammy hands down on my thighs.
word count: 196
Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner is a weekly challenge for writers to create a story in under 200 words using the provided photo prompt and introductory sentence as their ‘muse.’ Click the froggy icon to read other stories inspired by the photo and add your own.