“The waiter’s coming back with our drinks,” she whispers softly, while smiling back as if nothing out of the ordinary were going on. “Then yo...’d better act naturally, or he might catch on,” I shoot her a wicked grin. “Here we are,” the waiter smiles his best used car salesman smile, “a mojito for the lady and a bloody-Mary for you, sir.” The waiter sets the drinks before us, his presence causing her legs to reflexively clamp together under the table. I sit calmly, my fingers pinned firmly. Her Dad and her coach had been in constant contact for four years as he followed his six foot tall baby girl’s sport exploits. He was not the hovering Dad but more of a fan of the team and their coach. And his baby. He and Sara had gotten along well, in fact better than we thought. My athletic career ended just short of the championship as Marina’s did and we concentrated on graduation and jobs after that. Surprisingly neither of us had much interest in coaching. Marina said that she would not. More

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