Page 61 of The One I Left Behind

I watch Clayton for another second. A feeling of pride washes over me, and I’m unsure why. He’s not my son and I didn’t raise him, but the woman I love did, and she did an amazing job, which doesn’t surprise me in the least.

I tell Clayton and Harris to stop and tell the rest to keep going. I debate calling out Clayton, although he deserves the shout-out for being a team player. I don’t want people to think I’m favoring him, but he should be recognized for what he did.

After another lap, I tell them all through my megaphone to stop at the goalpost. Each of them stops, grabbing their waters, and walking around to cool down.

“You’re all running for not being team players. You’ve heard the phrase you’re only as strong as your weakest player. Instead of building up someone who is struggling, you chose to make fun of him. This is not acceptable. I’m sure some of you have missed a pass, missed a field goal, or read the play wrong. You already knew what you did wrong, didn’t you? How helpful is it if I yell at you for your mistake?”

They all remain silent.

“Would you rather me work with you at the next practice? Talk about what went wrong, give you help on improving that skill?”

No one says anything again, but there are nods.

I love Coach Marks, but he’s definitely got an old-school coaching style.

“From this point forward, we boost one another up the way Clayton was doing. If a play doesn’t go down like we planned or if the ball slips out of your hands, we pat our teammate on the back and tell them next time. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Coach.”

I don’t expect anything to change overnight, but hopefully by the end of the season, it will sink in. “Now split up into position drills.”

They all jog to their designated spots on the field, and I grab my clipboard to jot down notes on what needs improvement.

“Must be nice that the coach is your mom’s boyfriend,” one of the players sneers at Clayton.

Maybe I should’ve listened to my gut and not pointed him out.

Clayton side-eyes me on his way to the area for the wide receivers. I want to see what he has. I pick up a ball from the bag.

“Adams!” I yell and show him the ball.

He nods and jogs, glancing back at me. I throw it, and he catches the ball with ease. His skills are on point with the way he cradles and holds it into his body. I’m sure someone before Coach Marks must have worked with him. Could it have been his dad?

Practice goes well, and I get a good feeling about the team and the players’ skills. We have a solid group of boys, but I still need to do some scouting on the other teams to see how we compare. It’s been a long time since I’ve been to a high school football game.

On my way off the field, with my bag swung over my shoulder, I spot Gillian in her car, waiting by the curb. I walk over and tap on the window.

She startles, but the smile I get when she sees that it’s me is what dreams are made of. She rolls down her window. “Hey, how was practice?”

I rest my arms on the inside of her car door. “Better now.”

“You and your lines.” She playfully rolls her eyes.

“Hey, are you available Friday night?”

She nods. “I’m sure I probably am. Clayton always seems to have plans.”

The loudness of the boys talking draws my attention to them coming out of the building. “Great. I’ll pick you up at six.”

“Okay. What should I wear?”

“Nothing.”

She laughs. “Well then.” Her own eyes stray to the boys.

“I probably shouldn’t kiss you.”

“Probably not.” She slides her tongue across her bottom lip.

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