Coach Packer blew his whistle, and all the girls on the team looked his way. Including me.
“Johnson!” he bellowed. “What did I say about touching that ball?”
I scowled at him. I hate it when he calls me ‘Johnson.’ It makes me sound like a boy. It’s not like he’s singling me out or anything—well, I mean he is singling me out at this particular moment, but that aside—he always uses all our last names. And all the girls hate it. It makes us all sound like boys. Perhaps it’s to help our coach forget he’s coaching a girls’ team.
Coach Packer is the reason there are so many girls on the team this year to begin with. Back in first semester, when a number of the girls, and parents of the girls—including my overbearing, overprotective, and frankly meddlesome mother—insisted there be an equal opportunity for the girls to play. Sure, there was already some interest in a girls’ team, and yes, I had wanted to play soccer this year, but I was still on the fence as to whether I really wanted to be on an actual team. I still question that decision.
That is, of course, until, like, every time I set eyes on Coach Packer. You see, Coach Packer is a total DILF! That, for those not up on the lingo, is a dad that I’d totally like to French-fuck! Oh my god, is he ever hot! In fact, some of the girls call him ‘Coach Pecs’ behind his back, on account of his rippling, yummy pectorals. Of course, some of the others call him ‘Coach Packing’ on account of the weapon we all know he’s packing down there in his short-shorts.
Yeah, he’s every schoolgirl’s fantasy, and I’m no exception to that rule. In fact, I think I may be the epitome of it. Those pecs? Holy shit. I just want to ride my cooch on them. I don’t care how dirty that sounds. He’s ripped as fuck. And that ass? My god.
But then again, of course, is this hard-ass—no pun intended—attitude he always has when we play.
And sometimes, I think he’s especially hard on me. And not the kind of ‘hard-on’ I like, either, if you get my meaning.
“Johnson! Don’t just stand there gawking at me like I’ve got granny-panties on my head! What did I say about touching that ball?”
“Um…” I stammered. “Not to?”
“So tell me what the hell you were doing back there.”
“Touching the ball,” I said sheepishly.
“There’s a reason it’s called ‘football’, ladies.”
“Actually, it’s called ‘soccer’, Coach P.”
Yeah, I call him Coach P. That’s my thing. I like having my own nickname for him. This may sound stupid, but…well, in my crazy world, I think that gives me an edge. Of course, right now, maybe I’m being a little too edgy…
A number of the other girls giggled at my retort. A few others gasped.
Oh shit, I thought to myself. Did I just put my foot in it? I know Coach P. is trying to make a point.
“We are the one country in the world that calls this game ‘soccer’,” retorted Coach P.
“What about Canada?” I said.
God, I’m being such a smart-ass today? Why am I giving Coach P. such a hard time?
Oh, right. Because he’s giving me a hard time.
“Fine,” Coach P. grunted. “Smart-ass. Two countries. Against the world. But still, you know how that makes us look as a nation? It makes us look like a bunch of dumb hick, redneck, Yankee-Doodles who can’t even name our sports right. So the least we can do, Johnson, is get the rules right.”
I’d love to yank his doodle! Maybe then he wouldn’t be such a grumpy-grump all the time.
“Am I right, Johnson?”
“Yes, Coach P.,” I said, snapping out of it. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“So why do you keep doing it?”
I shrugged and made a meek face. “Force of habit?”
He nodded. “Same reason we Yankee-Doodles keep calling it ‘soccer’, right ladies?”
The girls giggled again. Coach P. was funny when he wanted to be. Only…he wasn’t laughing. He just had this scary red angry look on his face.
Coach had this incredible piercing stare. That—paired with the fact that, just by looking at his physique, you just knew he break everybody’s neck there—got us all to shut up.
“What’s it going to take to get you to stop this…habit of yours?”
I shrugged sheepishly again.
Then I hated myself. I was both intimidated and weirdly attracted to him. Everyone was. Sometimes I wonder if Coach Grumpy-Pants wouldn’t be so grumpy if he knew just how much pussy he could get if he just so much as hinted at it. He could just say ‘wish I had some pussy right now, and like six dozen girls would be whipping their panties off and throwing themselves at him. That’s how much pussy I bet he could get. Or cock, if that’s what he’s into. Who am I to judge? Though every girl I know hopes he’s straight. Or at least bi. Even my own mother—shudder—has said as much.
Ugh! Coach P. is impossible to read, though.
“Am I going to have to tie your hands behind your back, Johnson?”
My jaw dropped. I looked back at the other snickering girls, and then back at Coach P.
His face was a stone. A really sexy stone with a piercing gaze that made me want to melt into a puddle.
All I could think about now was him putting those big, strong hands on me, and tying me up. Fuck, if he did that—even just tied me and didn’t touch me or anything—I’d probably cream my panties right there.
“Who knows?” he added. “Might even improve your game. I can’t imagine you playing any worse.”
“Okay,” I said.
He narrowed his eyes at me. “Okay what, Johnson?”
“Maybe you’re right, Coach P. Maybe I’ll play better with my hands tied.”
I wondered what he’d even use to tie me up with. Skipping rope?
We stared awkwardly at one another, as it sank in how stupid I was being. He was kidding, Jessica! Of course he was kidding. And so was I…right?
Just then, the bell rang, signaling that lunch practice was over, and that next period was starting.
Saved by the bell, as they say!
Huh. My mother uses that expression a lot. I guess now I really know what she means by it.
Of course, what I’d really like is for Coach Packer to ring my bell…
“All right, ladies. Time to hit the showers and get to class.”
I spent the rest of the day thinking about what Coach Packer had said to me. I daydreamed about it all through chemistry class. And English class. And drama class. I just couldn’t stop fantasizing about being tied-up!
It’s not like I’ve never thought about it before. Long ago, when I was a girl, my friend Susie Turnbull and I used to take turns tying one another up with skipping rope, though it was usually Susie tying me up. Then, she would taunt me that my prince would never come to save me, and she was going to keep me tied up as her captive, forever. Back then, Susie and I were too young to realize what we really wanted our princes to do with us, once they turned up.
Of course, once we’d grown into our teens, we both turned out to be huge pervs, albeit in different ways.
Susie Turnbull, it turned out—true to her name I guess—really was into girls. That made our friendship a little awkward after that, since I could never feel the same way. Nope; no pussies for me, please. Cocks, on the other hand, I’m obsessed with. Although…I have to admit even being tied up by a girl was still a bit thrilling. Why you ask? I can’t say. I guess I’m still figuring that out.
But anyway, now that I’m 18, that fantasy is much more elaborate, and involves whips, chains, handcuffs, ball-gags, paddles, and of course, a really hot guy with a really big cock and not much in the way of mercy!
Fuck Prince Charming! I’ll take Coach Meanie-Pants over Prince Charming any day!
Somehow, until now, all that had still remained a fantasy. I mean…I’ve even got bondage doddles in my notebooks. And yes, some of them look an awful lot like me, tied-up, and at the mercy of a guy who looks an awful lot like Coach P.
God, if anybody were to find those and distribute those drawings, I would, like, literally die!
Still, this was the first time a man—any man, let alone the guys at my school, and much less Coach Packer—had directly offered to tie me up. Even if it was a joke. There was something about his tone, and the way he uttered ‘tie you up.’ It felt real. Real down to my core. So real, I could still feel it in my puss.
I thought about it all the way home, too.
By the time I got home, I really needed to just head up to my room, log on to FetLife, and read stories about coaches dominating their younger female players.
First, I had to dodge my mother’s daily invasive barrage of questions. Like: ‘How was school?’ ‘How was soccer practice?’ ‘How is Coach Packer?’ ‘Did he mention me?’
Yes, mom, I get it. You have a thing for him. So do I. We all do. Get over it, all right? Jesus…
Of course, I’m not one to talk. The first thing I did when I got to my room was lock my door, dig around in my bedside table drawer for ‘Big Red’—which is what I call my vibrating dildo—and get on my laptop and onto FetLife.
I had a few messages from random guys of varying ages, the usual slew of messages asking about random hookups and wanting to Dom me. I’ve never exactly felt right about entering “the lifestyle.” It seems kind of intimidating, really. I model in a few bits of fetishwear I pick up at the local adult store—and by model, I mean I take bad selfies on my phone—but I never ever show my face. What if my mom saw? Fuck, I would literally die of shame! Assuming she didn’t kill me first.
I noted one dick pic I’d been sent as well. A lot of girls say they hate this. Me? I don’t. I know I probably should, but…I seem to have mixed feelings about it. I still think it’s a bit obnoxious. But then again, when I’m told a picture of me in some silly, skimpy outfit I threw on made him so hard he wanted to share his erection with me, well…I’ll take the compliment. Even if it’s bullshit and he’s just sending the same dick pick to everyone. Even if it’s not really his dick. It’s the fantasy that counts, and sometimes I’ll just rub one out by looking at it. While I imagine sucking on it.
Yes, I know; I’m a huge perv with a major phallus and oral fixation, okay?
Of course, there’s only one cock I really want to see, and that’s Coach P.’s.
On a whim, I decided to do a quick search for people in my area—NYC if you must know, but I won’t get more specific than that—and look for people matching what I knew about Coach P.
I’m not sure why I did it. I know I could never really appeal to Coach P. I mean, look at him. He’s like Dwayne Johnson with Zac Efron hair, and he could have any girl he wants. Why would I even stand a chance? Of course, I would do anything for him. And I do mean anything! You think that would give me an edge? I do. Especially when big red is out…oh…mmm…oh god…
I don’t know a whole lot about Coach P.’s personal life. Yet. So that made the search a bit challenging. I do know he’s married, and has one young kid. I think he’s still a toddler, but for all I know he could be like 5 or 6 now. There’s a picture of the 3 of them on his desk, in his office, beside the gym. I also know Coach P. is 36 years old. I only know this because I overheard Mrs. Holland, my Chemistry teacher, remark to one of the guidance counselors that ‘didn’t he look great for 36? Doesn’t look a day over 25.’ So, I knew his age, his build, his location, and then I added a few fetishes which were perhaps more my interests than his. But you never know…
After all, how would I know what he’s into? But I just had this feeling. Like he was this cruel alpha dom, and all he needed was truly submissive sex slave. And anyway, I wasn’t seriously trying to find him. At least, I don’t think I was. But I just couldn’t get him out of my mind. He’s so my type—if I could have a type, anyway. Again, I’m not exactly the dating type. But I’d like to be. I think. So far, I’ve made out with a few random guys at parties. And dances. And once, I gave a football jock a blowjob in the boys’ locker room on a dare. But for the most part, nothing really stuck. If I start talking about playing with rope, they seem to laugh, like I’ve said something funny. Then they aren’t talking to me the next day, and that night I’m back on FetLife, perving out to some random dick pic, pretending I’m tied up and licking it.
So…there I was, browsing 36-year-old male FetLife users in NYC.
And…lo and behold, there he was, in all his magnificence.
Much like I did on FetLife, Coach P. made a point of never showing his face. But I recognized the distinctive tattoo on his arm. I’d never seen him with his shirt off before though. Fuck…I mean, I already knew he was gorgeous, but…I didn’t know he was this gorgeous! There was this one shot of him with a leather mask, no shirt, and black pants, domming a blonde I imagined must be his wife. She was this skinny, perfectly tanned, perfectly slender thing.
Fuck I hated her. Fuck I was jealous.
If she ever fucks up, I vowed, I may just have to seduce and steal him away for myself!
I noted that, as a blonde myself, I might even be his physical type too!
I fixated on this one image of him in particular, where he was tying the blonde up. He was behind her, and the pic showed off all the muscles in his back and shoulders.
I turned on big red, and lost myself in imagining myself with Coach P.
Mmm…then, it was half an hour or so of pure bliss.
Later, when I was finally spent, I took a shower, joined my mother for dinner, and then went straight back up to my room for some more naughty, private fun.
No one needs to know I’m getting off on looking at pics of my coach, do they? I mean, fuck, how many other women—or men for that matter—haven’t done the same?
I took note of his listed fetishes. They were so compatible with mine. He likes receiving oral. Of course, I’ve realized most guys do. But I’m just about obsessed with giving oral. He likes shibari rope bondage and leather armbinders. So do I! I mean, I’ve never tried them or anything. But I’ll like to. He likes girls to be a little bratty, and I’m…well…nothing if not bratty. And most of all, I noted his status. ‘Complicated and looking for a play partner.’ His wife—who’d been in some of those earlier photos—didn’t seem to be listed on FetLife at all.
“Trouble in paradise?” I said aloud—probably the last thing I uttered before falling asleep that night and dreaming about seducing him.
When I awoke the next morning, I got a naughty idea I just couldn’t get out of my mind. I was still so wound up about the day before, that I wanted to show up for practice in the sluttiest getup I could get away with. And seduce him.
What could go wrong, right?
I tried on several outfits, but the winner was a plain white sports bra which shows my nipples, and booty shorts with the word “Willing” across the butt.
It was too daring to wear to school, that was for sure. I’d been sent home once because a V-neck was too low, and that was nothing. Stupid Principal Stuffy-Face! And this outfit was skimpier than a bathing suit—well, skimpier than a one-piece, anyway. But before I can be sent home, Coach P. would still have to see it. And that first glimpse is all I need!
I also packed the skipping rope—the one I’d used to play tie-up games with Susie Turnbull so long ago—in the event he needed something to tie me with.
Now…listen. I’m not crazy, or delusional or anything. I knew just how bat-shit-crazy this all was. Which is why I still wore my regular gym clothes overtop them, just in case I chickened out.
And really, I was certain I was going to. I always do. Well, except when Lisa Doyle dared me to flash my tits at that cab driver on 78th Street. Well, and that time Shelly Wasserman dared me to give Gavin Doyle a B.J. in the locker room during an afterschool football game. Oh god, I still can’t believe I did that! God! I’m awful this year! It’s like ever since I turned 18, I’ve been starring in a reality porn show of my own making!
So…hmm…maybe it was 50-50 that I’d dare to do it. Especially if I told the girls, and they double-dared me to.
And of course, they would.
And of course, they did!
Once lunchtime practice rolled around and I got to the girls’ locker room, I took Susie, Shelly and Lisa aside and showed them my outfit under my gym clothes in the locker room, and they dared me to do it.
Lisa even offered me five bucks.
Then when, I showed them the skipping rope and mentioned the tie-up game, Susie offered me ten.
When we got to the field, and practice started, I made my move.
I made sure to be standing in Coach P.’s line of sight when I started taking a few more clothes off.
First, the shorts, revealing the skimpy “Willing” booty-shorts.
Then, the shirt, revealing the sports bra, the nipples which showed through, and my now-quite-bare midriff.
Coach P. stared a few moments, his jaw seeming to hang. His eyes felt nice on my body—like I could actually feel him petting me from twenty feet away.
I bit my lip and smiled at him.
He shook his head and looked away.
I looked to my friends, who giggled.
Then, I joined the game.
As I played, it seemed Coach P. was working extra hard not to look at me, though I knew he wanted to. He normally had no problem watching me, as long as I was “Johnson” and dressed in my boyish gym clothes. Now though, he was having trouble.
And I love trouble!
I made a point of touching the ball with my hands every chance I got. I wasn’t even trying to break the habit anymore. Heck, now I was embracing it. A number of the girls there—the ones who didn’t like me very much to begin with, and the same ones who presumably wrote “Jessica Johnson is a dirty slut” in the bathroom stalls—scowled at me. But I knew they were just jealous. I looked hot, and I knew it.
Susie, of course, also gawked quite a bit. And a little too eagerly. And maybe for too long. But I made my peace with that long ago. She’s a sweetheart, and I love her. In a platonic way, of course. I’m pretty sure it’s platonic.
“Johnson!” barked Coach P.
I bit my lip and turned his way, still holding the ball in both hands.
“Coach?” I asked. A not-so-innocent look on my face.
“What the hell are you doing?”
I looked around. “Playing soccer.”
“On what planet is…” he waved his hands at my outfit, then to the ball I was holding, “any of this soccer?”
“Planet Yankee-Doodle?” I said.
He seemed to be fuming. The other girls were either laughing, or cringing, depending on their disposition toward me.
Coach P. glared at my friends, and the other laughing girls, then back to me.
“First of all, put the ball down.”
“Yes Sir!” I said, dropping it.
I put extra emphasis on the ‘Sir’. I wanted him to be my Sir. And I knew, deep down, he wanted it too. He just didn’t know he wanted his sub to be me yet. But he would!
“Come here,” he said. “I want a private word with you.”
Of course, there would be nothing terribly private about it. Everyone was still watching.
“What are you all gawking at? This isn’t a soap opera, ladies. Get back to practicing. Unless you’d all like to run laps for the rest of practice.”
That got them playing again.
Coach P. sighed.
“I know,” I said. “It’s a bad habit. Maybe, like you said yesterday you should tie—
“Why are you dressed like that?” he said, cutting me off.
“These are my gym clothes.”
“Those are not gym clothes. Those are not swim clothes. Those are not anything appropriate for scholastic wear.”
“I’m wearing cleats,” I said helpfully.
“Your cleats are not the issue.”
I looked down at myself, then smiled up at him seductively.
“What, too revealing?” I said. “Am I making you uncomfortable, coach?”
“Is that a rhetorical question, Johnson?”
I cringed at his use of my last name.
I shrugged. “Why not? You certainly seem to like using them.”
He crossed his arms. Suddenly, I felt a little nervous. He seriously looked like he was about to kick my ass, and I don’t mean in a sexy way.
“Is there something you’d like to say to me, Johnson?”
“I, um…” I stammered. My resolve was wavering. I gulped. “I brought skipping rope.”
“You…” He looked genuinely confused. “What?”
“Skipping rope. In case you wanted to tie my hands behind my back. Like this.”
I held my hands behind me, letting him look at me. Letting him imagine what I’d look like with my hands tied like that.
“See? Look,” I continued, getting the skip rope from my bag and showing it to him, biting my lip. “I thought maybe you’d want to tie me up. Well…just my hands, behind me so I can’t use them. And then you could watch and tell me if I play better.”
He gave me a long, evaluatory look.
I’d have felt he was undressing me with his eyes, were I not half-naked already. So instead, I started picturing him naked. I looked to his shorts, to see if there was any evidence of his cock stirring.
“That was a joke, Johnson,” he said evenly.
“Oh,” I said. Then I bit my lip. “Still…I think it’s a good idea. Might improve my game.”
“I don’t think that would be appropriate,” he said. “Nor very safe. Nor very smart.”
“Okay…but maybe…” I came in closer. “Maybe we could just play a different game then. Maybe later? Just the two of us? You could give me a…private lesson. You could tie me up first.”
I bit my lip and waited for an answer. This was it. All my cards were laid out on the table.
He glanced away, back at the other girls on the field. Then back to me, looking me up and down.
“What do you think?” I asked.
“You want to know what I think?”
“Yes, Coach P.”
“I think…” he said, coming a little closer.
“I think…” he said, coming closer still. “You should run laps for the rest of practice. Then maybe take a nice, long, cold shower.”
With that, he dismissed me with a wave of his hand, and went back to watching the game.
I, in turn, swallowed my pride—whatever pride I had left, anyway—and ran laps for the rest of the hour, getting a number of catcalls from the boys in the street on the other side of the fence.
Well…at least someone appreciated my outfit!
The bell rang and all the other girls went back inside, leaving me alone in the soccer field. I kept running laps while the others went inside, and idly watched Coach P. gather the ball and head inside.
I gathered my other gym clothes—the less sexy, boyish ones—but rather than put them back on to go inside, I just stuffed them into my gym bag. They were still clean anyway—no need to soil them. I’d run so many laps in the hot sun I was dripping sweat.
Besides, I wanted to stick with the sports bra and booty shorts just a little longer. The white top was soaked though, so my nipples were showing, and I wanted to see if I could change Coach P.’s mind one-on-one.
Or at least apologize. I hadn’t decided which yet.
I headed inside, about a minute after him. I made my way to the gymnasium, ignoring the catcalls from the junior boys in the hallway.
“Show us your tits,” said one of them, calling after me as I passed.
Feeling a little daring, I figured, what the hell.
I turned, and lifted my sports bra, momentarily flashing them.
One of them fell right off the window sill he was sitting on.
I smiled and winked. The hollering continued.
“You’re so hot!”
“Come hang with us.”
“Sorry boys,” I replied. “Wish I could! But you know…girls only!”
I ducked into the women’s locker room.
“Awww!” I heard several boys say as I entered.
I got more catcalls from the girls as they changed too. I pirouetted and curtsied my way past them, not engaging with their questions of what had gotten into me.
“I can’t believe you actually did that, you naughty slut,” said Lisa.
Lisa winked at me, and slipped a fiver into my booty shorts.
“Hey!” I objected, in mock indignation. “You can’t treat me like a piece of meat. I’m not just some night club stripper!”
Susie smacked my ass.
“Yow! Hey!” I said turning, to berate her.
“Your sweet ass says otherwise, you sexy bitch,” said Susie.
Susie also slipped a fiver into my booty shorts.
“A bit short, aren’t you sister?” I said. “You promised me ten.”
“Ten if you actually got him to tie you with the skipping rope.” She looked me up and down. “You’re lucky I decided to give you five. But damn…”
Susie held up her phone and took a picture.
“Hey!” I said.
“You’ve given me an image for my spank bank tonight.”
“Perv!” I said. “But fine. Just you wait. I think I can still get him to do it.”
I took the skipping rope out of my bag and kept moving, out the other way, toward the gymnasium, where his office was.
“Maybe he’s just shy. Too many voyeuristic, gossipy girls!”
I winked at them, then headed into the gym.
The gymnasium was empty, and the door to Coach P.’s office at the back was closed. The shutters were drawn too. Whatever he was up to in there, he didn’t want people to be able to see in.
I smiled to myself.
I quickly crossed the gym to the office.
I knocked on his door, and waited.
Nothing. Apparently he was ignoring me. Or maybe he was on the phone.
I opened the door.
There was Coach P., sitting at his desk, staring daggers at me, like I’d just interrupted him.
But he wasn’t on the phone. Nor was anyone else in here. But he was breathing heavy, like he’d just been working out. And his forehead was sweaty. And I couldn’t see his hands. They were hidden, under the desk. Had he been—
“Jesus, Johnson! Ever hear of knocking?”
“I did try knocking. You didn’t answer.”
“That’s the point. You knock so I can decline to answer if I’m busy.”
“And are you…busy?” I asked.
I closed the door, and strolled slowly towards the desk.
“Johnson,” he said evenly. “Don’t…”
“Just…just…whatever you’re doing. I think maybe you should just go.”
“But you said you were busy. Busy doing what, coach?”
“Johnson, I’m warning you.”
“Your cock’s out right now, isn’t it?”
“Johnson, how dare you—
“Ha!” I exclaimed, quickly running around the desk.
He scrambled in vain to hide the massive erection he had sticking out of the zipper of his pants.
Coach P.’s cock was huge!
“It’s huge! It’s gorgeous! Wait…Did I inspire that?”
“No. Of course not.”
I smiled. “Liar. What, and you couldn’t even wait to get home to beat off?”
He moved to put his cock back in his pants.
I slammed the skipping rope onto his desk, startling him.
Coach P. stopped. He stared at it, then back up at me.
I leaned back against the desk, hands behind me.
“Don’t you want to tie me up?” I asked softly. “Is that what’s got you so hot? That you want to tie me up? Or is it that I’m totally willing to let you?”
He looked like he both wanted to throttle and fuck me.
I flushed a little. I’d welcome either action. Especially if he tied me up first…
“I won’t tell a soul,” I added.
“Not the point, Johnson,” he said, scowling. “It’s wrong. And I could lose my job.”
He quickly scrambled to put his cock away.
Then, after some awkward stuffing of the huge thing back in his pants, it was gone.
Sigh! What a disappointment!
A moment later, he was standing, though the bulge in his pants was still really obvious.
“Get out of my office, Johnson. Get to your next class, and don’t you ever dare do this again.”
“Or what?” I said playfully. “You’ll tie me up and punish me?”
“No,” he said. “I’ll kick you off the team. Assuming I’m not reprimanded or fired first.”
“I won’t tell on you,” I said. “Scouts honor.”
“What about the other scouts?” he asked, raising an eyebrow and nodding to the shutters in front of his window.
I looked over and saw three pairs of eyes peering in through the crack at the bottom.
It was Susie, Lisa and Shelly! Damn those delightful, relentless perverts!
“Look,” he added. “I don’t know what you girls are up to. You’re entitled to your fun on your own time. But please keep it appropriate if it involves me. If word gets out about this, not only could I lose my job, but I could lose my kid. Hell, my wife will probably arrange to get my balls in the divorce.”
I looked back at coach, then down at the family photo on his desk.
Then, I felt really guilty. It was all sinking in.
I thought we were just having fun, but, he was right. My mom got everything when she divorced my dad, and now I hardly ever get to see him. I couldn’t do that to his kid, much less to him.
“Coach, I…I’m sorry. Really. I just…oh, god.”
“It’s…fine. Look. Just go and let’s forget this ever happened, all right?”
“Okay. God. Yeah. Okay. I’m sorry.”