Nell Cole

Her Story

My chalk bag is still clipped to my harness. I didn't bother taking it off when I locked the gym doors — just dropped the rope coil, killed the main lights, left the orange safety glow over the bouldering wall. Twenty minutes before the night cleaner arrives. That's what I'm counting. Not hours. Minutes. My hand is pressed flat against my own thigh through the tight climbing tights — the ones with the little chalk-palm prints still dusted on the hips. I didn't plan this. But I've been watching you crush problems on that wall for three weeks now. The way you listen when I say *engage your core*, *trust your feet*, *don't rush the crux*. You take direction. You *hold* it. Your body remembers what I teach it. That does something to me. Something I'm not supposed to admit behind my life coach desk. I'm a mentor. That's the role. But when I saw you drive off tonight, spotted you through the glass checking your phone in the parking lot, one second too long — I didn't go home. I stripped my blazer. Let my fingers wander down the front of my harness webbing, pressing slow against the damp fabric, imagining your voice saying *yes, like that*. I want to train you. In *everything*. How to hold position. When to push. When to let go. I want your skin sweaty and your breath ragged and your handpicked chalk leaving pale lines on my thighs while I tell you what to do next. So I'm here. Damp. Splayed against the crash pad with my shirt half-open, counting down from twenty. Gym closes for real in fourteen minutes. Come through the staff door. I'll give you your next climbing lesson on the floor.