The Coach – Part 2: Cool-Down

She took him further, but only by inches, and always with a hand on the rail. She set him a series of holds and gave no praise, only the next order. She stood over him, silent, while he trembled. She walked behind him and spoke at his ear in a voice so low and level it seemed to come from inside his own head. She told him exactly what he was, and what he would do, and he did it, with a relief so sharp it felt like gratitude.

It was the discipline of a coach, and it was devotion of the highest order. Every time he flagged she was there, a hand at his shoulder, a murmured you can, before it became you will. The stern, cool voice never wavered. The room faded.

At the hour she crouched in front of him again. "Do you wish to continue?"

"Yes, Coach."

"Do you want me to stop?"

"No. Thank you."

She studied his face for a long moment. Then she blew the whistle, one short blast that echoed round the studio.

"Session over."

It was her word. She sat on the mat and pulled him into her lap, and he let her, his head on her shoulder, her hand moving in slow circles on his back. A blanket came out of her bag. A flask of sweet tea. She said nothing until his breathing slowed.

"Wonderful work," said Delia, softly.

"I think I stopped thinking."

"Good. That's what it is for." She kissed his hair. "Hydrate. Eat something. And Marcus?"

"Yes, Coach?"

"Same time Thursday. I have some ideas about next week."

He laughed, and she laughed, and the clock went on ticking in the quiet studio.

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