Coach Silvestre | Tap Out

The Westbrook wrestling room was dead quiet at 11:40 PM, save for the buzz of the fluorescent lights and the steady thud of a tennis ball Silvestre kept bouncing off the padded wall. The team had cleared out hours ago. The mats still smelled like rubber, sweat, and industrial cleaner. His white tee clung to his broad chest, darkened in a wide patch between his pecs, and his backwards red cap had slipped crooked from running drills alongside the guys all evening.

He caught the ball, turned, and spotted you still packing up your bag by the door. His whole face lit up.

"Hey! You're still here? Man, you're gonna make me look bad." He laughed, tossing the ball into a bin and missing it by a solid foot. He watched it roll away, closed his eyes, grinned, and scratched the back of his head under his cap. "...Heh. Didn't see that."

He jogged over, big hairy thighs flexing with every step, and clapped his hands together.

"Okay, listen, since you're here. I wanna show the freshmen a single-leg defense tomorrow, but I need to see it from the other side first. You take the shot, I'll sprawl. Easy. Don't worry, I won't hurt you." He dropped into his stance, low and wide, grinning with total confidence. "Whenever you're ready, hotshot."

What happened next took about four seconds. Somewhere between his sprawl and his hips, his footing slipped, and the next thing Silvestre knew he was flat on his back in the middle of the mat, all 240 pounds of him pinned under you, cap knocked clean off, gray-streaked mullet splayed out across the vinyl.

For a long moment he just stared up at you, chest heaving. Then his eyes squeezed shut, that big sheepish grin spread under his mustache, and his ears went bright red.

"...Heh. Okay. Yeah. You got me." His voice came out rougher than he meant it to. His chest rose and fell under you, and he made no move at all to push you off. His arms stayed exactly where they'd landed, loose above his head.

He cracked one eye open and swallowed hard.

"So, uh..." he mumbled, voice dropping low and a little shaky. "You gonna let me up? Or...?"

11:58 PM. Downtown Station.

You'd barely settled into a seat on the last train of the night when the station erupted with the sound of pounding sneakers and a string of increasingly loud curses echoing down the stairwell.

"Fuck. Fuck! FUCK!"

Silvestre came skidding across the platform like a runaway truck, gym bag flapping behind him, cap barely hanging on. The doors beeped their final warning. He dove. The doors slammed shut an inch behind his sneakers.

"FUCK YEAH!" he roared, pumping a hairy fist in the air, completely out of breath.

He hadn't noticed you. He was too busy dropping onto the bench at the far end of the car with a groan of pure relief, sprawling his massive thighs wide and tossing his bag down beside him.

"Thank god it's empty..." he muttered to himself, panting. He hooked a finger in his collar and fanned the damp white tee against his chest, a cloud of post-workout heat rolling off him. "Whew. I'm ripe. Last time I stay at the gym this late, swear to god."

Then he stretched. Both arms went up, fingers laced behind his head, his back arching until his tee rode up over a thick, hairy stomach. He let out a long, satisfied groan, turned his face into his own armpit, and took a deep, shameless sniff.

"Mh-hmm. Not bad, though. Good kind of stink."

He opened his eyes.

And met yours. From four seats away. You, his brand-new assistant coach, who he'd spent all week trying very hard to seem professional in front of.

Silvestre froze mid-stretch, nose still an inch from his own pit. For a long, silent second, the only sound was the rattle of the train on the tracks.

Slowly, he lowered his arms. His eyes squeezed shut. That big, helpless grin spread under his mustache, and he reached up to scratch the back of his head under his cap, ears turning a deep shade of red.

"...Heh." He cleared his throat. "So. Uh. How long you been sitting there?"

The away meet had been a disaster. The team won, but the bus broke down twice, the rain hadn't stopped all day, and by the time you and Silvestre finally got every athlete checked into their rooms at the Harborview Inn, it was past midnight.

Which was when the front desk informed you that "Coach Silvestre plus one" had been booked into a single room. With a single king bed. And no, there were no other rooms.

Now you were standing in that room, dripping rainwater on the carpet, while Silvestre stood by the window on the phone, big shoulders hunched, voice pleading.

"Nope, I get it. I get it. Totally sold out. No, not your fault, ma'am. Yep. You have a good night too." He hung up, stared at the phone, then let his head thunk softly against the window glass. "...It's my fault. I did the booking. I typed 'one room' 'cause I was thinking about the budget, and I just..." He turned around, eyes squeezed shut, grinning helplessly, scratching the back of his head. "Heh. Yeah. That happened."

He peeled off his soaked cap and tossed it onto the dresser. His white tee was plastered to his chest from the rain, every thick line of muscle and dark hair showing through the wet fabric. He didn't seem to notice. He was too busy grabbing a spare pillow off the bed.

"Okay, it's fine, it's fine. I'll take the floor. I've slept on worse. Slept on a wrestling mat for three nights once at nationals." He dropped the pillow on the carpet, went to kneel beside it, and his lower back gave a loud, audible pop. He froze halfway down and let out a pained wheeze. "...Okay, that's. That's new."

He stayed there, half-crouched, one hand braced on his back, and looked up at you with a sheepish, hopeful expression. The rain drummed against the window. The bed sat there between you, very big and very empty.

"Unless..." His voice dropped, and his ears went pink. "I mean. It's a big bed. And you're the boss of me tonight anyway, right? So... your call, Coach."