The team's voices faded toward the locker room like a river draining from a pool, leaving me and Dana alone in the sudden quiet. The sun hung low and orange over the bleachers, casting long shadows across the infield grass. I sat down heavily, my legs still trembling from the six miles, and pulled off my spikes with fingers that didn't want to cooperate.

Dana dropped down beside me without asking, her long tan legs stretching out in front of her, toes pointed, flexing her calves. She'd barely broken a sweat on that run. I tried not to stare at the way her thigh muscles shifted under her skin, the smooth sweep of them from hip to knee. I failed.

"You okay?" she asked, tilting her head. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, strands escaping around her face.

"Fine." My voice came out breathier than I wanted. "Just—that was a lot."

"Casey runs her favorites hard." Dana's mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "She sees something in you."

The grass was cool and damp under my thighs, soaking through my shorts. I picked at the laces of my spikes, twisting them around my fingers, because looking at her felt like standing too close to a fire I didn't understand.

"She said that. That she sees something." I swallowed. "I don't know what."

Dana laughed, low and easy. "Oh, I think you do."

The silence stretched between us, filled with the distant sound of a door slamming shut somewhere beyond the field house. A bird called somewhere overhead. Dana reached for the water bottle sitting between us, condensation beading on the plastic, and took a long drink. Her throat moved as she swallowed. I watched the column of it, the way her head tilted back, the way her lips pressed against the rim.

"Want some?" She held it out to me.

I took it. The plastic was slick and cold. I drank, and I could taste her on the mouth of it—salt and something faintly sweet, the ghost of her lips against mine by proxy. I handed it back without meeting her eyes.

"So," Dana said, settling onto her elbows in the grass, her body long and loose, "you're the freshman everyone's talking about."

"Am I?"

"Eleven point nine in tryouts. Dead heat with Chen." She raised an eyebrow. "That's fast."

"I've been running since I was twelve." I shrugged, trying to sound casual, like my heart wasn't hammering against my ribs. "It's just—what I do."

"Just what you do." Dana repeated the words slowly, like she was tasting them. "You know how many girls would kill for that time? How many girls train their whole lives and never break twelve?"

I didn't know what to say to that, so I said nothing. I tugged at the hem of my tank top, and it rode up, exposing a strip of my stomach. I felt her eyes on it—on the defined lines of my abs, the smooth dark skin there, the way the fabric clung to the curve of my waist. I didn't pull it down.

"Casey's going to make you into something," Dana said, her voice lower now. "I can tell. She's got that look in her eye when she watches you."

"What look?"

Dana's gaze met mine, and something passed between us that I couldn't name. Her eyes were light—hazel or green, I couldn't tell in the fading sun—and they held mine for a long moment before she looked away.

"Just a look," she said. "You'll figure it out."

The grass was cool against my palms. I leaned back on my hands, letting my chest arch slightly, feeling the stretch in my shoulders. Dana's eyes flicked down to my chest, to the thin white fabric of my sports bra visible through my tank top, and she didn't look away quickly. She let her gaze linger, and I felt heat rise in my cheeks, felt it spread down my neck.

"You're staring," I said, and my voice came out steadier than I expected.

"Yeah." Dana didn't deny it. "You're worth staring at."

The words hit me like a physical thing, settling somewhere low in my belly. I didn't know what to do with them. I'd never known what to do with any of this—with the way Coach Hill's eyes lingered, with the way Lupe's naked body had made my mouth go dry, with the way my own hand had found its way between my legs in the dark.

"I'm not—" I started, and stopped. I didn't know how to finish the sentence.

"Not what?" Dana asked, and there was something patient in her voice, something that made me feel like I had all the time in the world to figure it out.

"I don't know." I laughed, a short, nervous sound. "I don't know what I am. I don't know what any of this is."

Dana was quiet for a moment. Then she sat up, turning to face me fully, her knees brushing mine in the grass. The contact was electric, even through the fabric of our shorts. I felt my breath catch.

"You don't have to know," she said. "You're nineteen. You've got time."

"Does it get easier?" I asked, and I hated how small my voice sounded.

"No." Dana smiled, and it was soft, almost tender. "But you get stronger. You learn to carry it."

The sun dipped lower, painting the sky in shades of gold and pink. The air was cooling, raising goosebumps on my bare arms. Dana reached out and brushed a strand of hair from my face, her fingers grazing my cheek, and I froze.

"Sorry," she said, but she didn't pull her hand away. Her fingers lingered against my skin, warm and light. "You had something in your eye."

"I—" I couldn't form words. Her touch was doing something to me, sending sparks down my spine, making my thighs press together.

"You're really beautiful, you know that?" Dana said, and her voice was quiet, intimate, like she was telling me a secret. "When you ran that six miles, the way your body moved—I couldn't look away."

The words settled into me, warm and frightening. I didn't know what to say. I didn't know what I wanted. I only knew that her hand was still on my cheek, that her thumb was tracing a slow circle against my skin, that I was leaning into her touch without meaning to.

"I should—" I started, but I didn't move.

"You should what?" Dana's voice was a murmur. Her eyes were on my lips.

The moment hung between us, charged and fragile. I could feel the heat of her body, close enough to touch, close enough to close the distance. My heart was pounding so hard I was sure she could hear it.

"I don't know," I whispered.

Dana's hand slid from my cheek to my jaw, her fingers curling gently around the curve of it. Her thumb brushed across my lower lip, feather-light, and I felt my breath hitch. My eyes fluttered closed without my permission.

"Macy," she said, and my name sounded different in her mouth, like a question and an answer all at once.

I opened my eyes. She was so close now. I could see the flecks of gold in her hazel eyes, the tiny freckles across the bridge of her nose, the way her lips parted slightly, wet and pink.

"Dana," I breathed, and I didn't know if it was a plea or a warning.

Her hand slid down, down, her fingers trailing along my collarbone, over the thin strap of my tank top, coming to rest on my shoulder. She squeezed gently, and I felt the heat of her palm through the fabric.

"You're tense," she said. "All that running. All that pressure."

"I'm fine," I said, but my voice cracked.

"Let me help you stretch out." It wasn't a question. She was already shifting, moving to sit beside me, her long legs brushing against mine. "Your hamstrings must be screaming after that run."

I didn't protest. I let her guide me, let her position me on the grass, my legs extended in front of me. She knelt beside me, her hands on my calves, and I felt the warmth of her palms through my skin.

"Just relax," she murmured, pressing her thumbs into the tight muscle of my calf. "Let me take care of you."

I closed my eyes. Her hands were strong and sure, working the knots out of my muscles with practiced ease. I felt myself melting into the grass, my body going loose under her touch.

"That's it," she said, her voice low and soothing. "You're doing so well."

Those words—the same words Coach Hill had used, the same tone, the same quiet intimacy—sent a shiver through me. I opened my eyes and looked at her, and she was watching me with something dark and hungry in her gaze.

"Dana," I said, and my voice was barely a whisper.

"Shh," she said. "Just breathe."

Her hands moved up, from my calves to my thighs, pressing into the firm muscle there. Her fingers found the hem of my shorts, and I felt them pause, hovering at the edge of the fabric.

"Is this okay?" she asked, and her voice was rough.

I nodded, not trusting my voice. Her fingers slid under the hem, brushing against the bare skin of my inner thigh, and I gasped. Her touch was electric, sending sparks of heat racing through me.

Her hand moved higher, her thumb tracing a slow circle on the sensitive skin of my inner thigh, just above my knee. I felt my breath quicken, felt the heat pooling between my legs.

"You're so soft," she murmured, her eyes fixed on where her hand was touching me. "So smooth."

I couldn't speak. I could only watch her, could only feel her hand on my thigh, inching higher, closer to where I ached. The grass was cool beneath me, but my skin was burning where she touched me.

Her fingers brushed the inside of my thigh, so close to the junction of my legs, and my breath caught, my eyes widening. The moment hung there, suspended in the golden light, two bodies on the edge of something neither of us was ready to name.

Dana's hand paused. Her eyes met mine, and I saw the question in them, the want, the restraint. The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the field, and neither of us moved.

The silence stretched, charged and breathless, and I felt the heat of her hand against my skin, the promise of more hanging in the air between us.

Her thumb traced one more slow circle on my inner thigh, and I felt the muscle jump under her touch. The sound of my own breathing filled my ears, too loud, too fast. Somewhere beyond the bleachers a car engine turned over and faded, and the quiet it left behind felt bigger than the field.

"You're trembling," Dana observed. Not a question. Her voice had gone soft at the edges, the way Coach Hill's did when she was telling me something she didn't want anyone else to hear.

"I'm not." But I was. I could feel it, a fine vibration running through my legs, through the hand I'd pressed flat against the grass. I watched her fingers rest there, just above my knee, and I couldn't decide if I wanted her to move them or leave them exactly where they were.

Dana smiled. It was a slow thing, unhurried, like she had all the time in the world and meant to use every second of it. "Liar."

The word landed somewhere low in my belly and settled there, warm and heavy. I should have pulled away. I should have laughed it off, stood up, said something about getting dinner before the dining hall closed. Instead I stayed, my legs spread on the grass, her hand a brand on my skin.

"You do this a lot?" I asked, and my voice came out rougher than I meant it to. "Stretch out the freshmen?"

Dana's laugh was quiet, a breath of sound. "Only the ones who look at me the way you do."

The heat flooded my cheeks. I opened my mouth to deny it, but nothing came out, because we both knew it was true. I'd been watching her since she walked onto the track, since she'd paced me through those six miles, since she'd dropped down beside me in the grass. I couldn't help it. Her body moved like water, like something that had never known hesitation.

"I don't—" I started.

"You don't have to explain." Her fingers curled slightly, pressing into the muscle of my thigh, and I felt the heat of her palm radiate through my skin. "I'm not asking for anything."

But her hand was still there. Still touching me. Still tracing those slow, deliberate circles that made my hips want to shift toward her.

The sun had sunk low enough that the shadows stretched long and thin across the infield, reaching toward us like dark fingers. The air had gone cool, raising goosebumps along my arms, but where Dana touched me I was burning. I watched her throat move as she swallowed, watched the way the fading light caught the line of her collarbone, the smooth sweep of her shoulder.

"You're staring," she said, and there was amusement in her voice, a low thread of it.

"Yeah." I didn't look away. "You're worth staring at."

Her smile widened, slow and pleased, and I felt a rush of something that might have been pride, might have been power, might have been the first stirrings of understanding what it meant to want and be wanted in return. Her hand slid up my thigh another inch, and my breath caught in my throat, my eyes fixed on hers.

The moment held. The sun dipped lower. Somewhere in the distance, a door opened and closed, and neither of us moved toward it.

Dana's hand slid back down my thigh, slow and deliberate, and then she was standing, pulling me up with her. My legs felt like they belonged to someone else, unsteady and weak. She didn't let go of my hand.

"Come on," she said. "You're going to seize up if you don't get the salt off you."

The locker room was dim when we pushed through the door, the last of the evening light bleeding through the high windows. The air was thick with steam and the smell of soap, the concrete floor cool under my bare feet. I'd left my spikes by the bleachers. I didn't care.

Dana walked past the row of lockers to the showers, and I followed because following her felt like the only thing my body knew how to do. She reached back and pulled her tank top over her head in one smooth motion, and I stopped breathing.

Her back was a study in lean muscle, the long sweep of her spine dipping into the curve of her waist, the way her shoulder blades moved under her skin as she reached for the button of her shorts. She shimmied out of them, and the fabric slid down her thighs, over the swell of her ass, and pooled at her feet.

She wasn't wearing anything underneath.

I stood there, frozen, my own clothes suddenly too tight, too hot. She turned to face me, and I got the full length of her—the high, firm breasts with their dark nipples already peaked, the flat plane of her stomach, the dark blonde triangle of hair between her legs. She was beautiful in a way that made my mouth go dry.

"You're going to shower in your clothes?" she asked, and there was a smile in her voice.

I fumbled with the hem of my tank top, my fingers clumsy and thick. I pulled it over my head, and the air hit my skin, raising goosebumps. I felt her eyes on me, on the thin white fabric of my sports bra, on the bare strip of my stomach, on the shorts I was still wearing.

"Everything off," she said, and it wasn't a request.

I reached behind me and unclasped my bra, letting it fall. I stepped out of my shorts. My underwear followed. I stood there in nothing but my bare skin, and Dana's gaze traveled over me slowly, deliberately, like she was memorizing every inch.

"God," she breathed. "You're perfect."

The word hit me in the chest. I didn't know what to say, so I said nothing. I watched her walk to the shower and turn the handle, watched the water hiss against the tile, watched the steam rise around her body like a veil.

"Come here," she said.

I crossed the room on legs that didn't feel like my own. The water was warm when I stepped under it, streaming over my shoulders, down my back. Dana reached for the soap and lathered her hands, and then her palms were on my shoulders, sliding down my arms, leaving trails of slick heat.

"You're so tight," she murmured, her thumbs working into the muscle of my shoulders. "All that tension."

I closed my eyes. Her hands moved down my back, tracing the line of my spine, the curve of my waist. She pressed her body against mine, and I felt the soft weight of her breasts against my shoulder blades, the heat of her skin through the water.

"Relax," she said. "Let me take care of you."

Her hands slid around my waist, her fingers splaying across my stomach, and I felt her lips brush the back of my neck. I shivered, and not from the cold.

"I've been watching you all day," she said, her voice low against my ear. "The way you move. The way you look at Casey."

My eyes flew open. "I don't—"

"It's okay," she said. "I'm not judging. I'm just saying I see it."

Her hands moved up, cupping my breasts, her thumbs brushing over my nipples. I gasped, my hips pressing back against her without my permission. She laughed, low and pleased.

"So responsive," she said. "I bet you've never done this before."

I shook my head, unable to form words. Her fingers pinched gently, rolling my nipples between them, and I felt the heat pooling between my legs, the ache that had been building all day finally finding a focus.

"That's okay," she said. "I like teaching."

Her hands slid down my body, over my stomach, my hips, stopping just at the top of my thighs. I could feel her breath on my neck, the press of her body against mine, the way her fingers hovered at the edge of where I ached.

"Do you want me to touch you?" she asked.

I wanted it so badly I could barely breathe. But something else was pulling at me, a thread I couldn't quite grasp. I opened my eyes and looked past the steam, past the tile, to the doorway of the locker room.

Coach Hill was standing there.

She was leaned against the doorframe, her arms crossed over her chest, her blonde hair still in its tight ponytail. She was wearing her coaching clothes—the navy polo, the khaki shorts—and she was watching us with an expression I couldn't read. Her eyes were dark, hungry, fixed on us with an intensity that made my stomach flip.

She didn't say anything. She just watched.

Dana followed my gaze and smiled, slow and knowing. She didn't stop touching me. Her fingers traced a circle on my hip, and I felt her lips brush my ear.

"She likes to watch," Dana murmured. "She always has."

I couldn't look away from Coach Hill. Her eyes moved over my body, over the water beading on my skin, over the way Dana's hands were still on me. I saw her throat move as she swallowed, saw the way her fingers tightened on her own arms.

"She's not going to join us," Dana said, and there was something like amusement in her voice. "She's just going to stand there and burn."

The water was still running, warm and steady. Dana's hands were still on me, but I couldn't feel them anymore. All I could feel was Coach Hill's gaze, heavy and hot, pinning me in place.

"Turn around," Dana said, and I did, because I didn't know what else to do. She reached for the soap again, her hands sliding over my chest, my stomach, the curve of my hips. I kept my eyes on Coach Hill, on the way her chest was rising and falling faster, on the way her lips parted slightly.

Dana's hands moved lower, sliding over my ass, the backs of my thighs. I felt her fingers brush the crease where my thigh met my body, and I heard Coach Hill's breath catch from across the room.

"She's so pretty when she's turned on," Dana said, loud enough for Coach Hill to hear. "Don't you think, Casey?"

Coach Hill didn't answer. But I saw her jaw tighten, saw the way her hands had dropped to her sides, her fingers curling into fists.

"I think she is," Dana said, her voice a low murmur against my skin. "I think she's the prettiest thing I've seen in a long time."

I was trembling, caught between the two of them, between the heat of Dana's hands and the weight of Coach Hill's gaze. I didn't know what I wanted. I only knew that I didn't want it to stop.

"Okay," Dana said, stepping back. "Let's get you rinsed off."

She turned me under the water, letting it wash away the soap, the steam rising around us. I kept my eyes on Coach Hill, on the way she hadn't moved, on the way she was still watching me like I was something she wanted to devour.

"I'll be outside," Dana said, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. She stepped out of the shower, grabbing a towel, and walked past Coach Hill without a word.

Coach Hill's eyes followed her for a moment, and then they were back on me. She didn't say anything. She just looked at me, standing there in the steam, my skin flushed and slick, my heart hammering against my ribs.

I reached for a towel and wrapped it around myself, my hands shaking. I walked past her, close enough to feel the heat of her body, close enough to smell the faint scent of her perfume beneath the steam. She didn't move. She didn't speak. She just watched me go.

I dressed in the locker room with fingers that wouldn't cooperate, my skin still damp, my body still humming with everything that had just happened. I could hear Dana and Coach Hill's voices in the hallway, low and intimate, but I couldn't make out the words.

I stepped out into the hallway, my bag slung over my shoulder, and I stopped.

Coach Hill had Dana pressed against the wall, one hand braced beside her head, the other tangled in her blonde hair. She was kissing her—deep, hungry, consuming—and Dana's hands were on her hips, pulling her closer.

I couldn't look away. I watched Coach Hill's tongue slide against Dana's, watched the way her body pressed into her, the way her hips ground against her through their clothes. I watched Dana's head fall back, watched the way her throat moved as she swallowed a moan.

And then Coach Hill's eyes opened.

She looked at me over Dana's shoulder, her blue eyes dark and burning, and she didn't stop kissing her. She held my gaze while her tongue was in Dana's mouth, while her hand slid down Dana's side, while her fingers curled into the waistband of Dana's shorts.

She was showing me. That was what it was. She was showing me what she could do, what she wanted, what she was capable of.

I stood there, frozen, my heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat. I didn't know what to do. I didn't know what to say. I only knew that I couldn't look away, and that somewhere deep in my belly, something was burning.

Coach Hill's tongue slid out of Dana's mouth, slow and deliberate, and she licked her own lips. Her eyes never left mine.

"Good night, Macy," she said, and her voice was low and rough, like she'd just run a race.

I turned and walked away. My legs were shaking. My skin was on fire. I could still feel her eyes on me, could still see the way she'd looked at me while she'd kissed Dana, and I knew—I knew—that I would be thinking about that look for a long, long time.

The door swung shut behind me, and the cool night air hit my face, raising goosebumps on my still-damp skin. I walked toward the dorm, my bag heavy on my shoulder, the image of Coach Hill's eyes burning into me with every step.

I was soaked. And it wasn't from the shower.

The night air did nothing to cool the fire under my skin. Every step toward the dorm sent a fresh pulse of heat through me, the memory of Coach Hill's eyes pinning me in place while her tongue worked against Dana's. I could still feel Dana's hands on me, the ghost of her touch sliding over my breasts, my stomach, the crease of my thigh. My body was a live wire, humming with a charge I had no name for.

The dorm hallway was quiet, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. I fumbled with my key, my hands still shaking, and pushed the door open. Lupe was sitting on her bunk, legs crossed, a physics textbook open in her lap. She looked up when I came in, and her dark eyes swept over me once, taking in my damp hair, my flushed skin, the way I was gripping my bag like it was the only thing holding me upright.

"Long practice?" she asked, and there was something knowing in her voice.

"Long day," I said, and I didn't meet her eyes. I dropped my bag by my bed and sat down, my legs giving out beneath me. I could still smell the steam, the soap, the faint trace of Dana's perfume on my skin. I could still see Coach Hill's face, the hunger in her blue eyes, the way her jaw had tightened as she watched me.

Lupe closed her textbook. "You're flushed," she said. "You look like you ran a marathon."

I laughed, and it came out hollow. "Something like that."

She was quiet for a moment, and I could feel her gaze on me, patient and waiting. "Did something happen?"

Everything. Nothing. I didn't know how to put words to it—the way Dana had undressed me with her eyes, the way her hands had moved over me in the shower, the way Coach Hill had stood in the doorway and burned. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.