Page 24 of The Longshot

There’s absolutely nothing quite like hearing those words of affirmation fall from Coach’s mouth. Sure, Coach isn’t the most vocal when it comes to expressing his emotions, but his face has always told us everything we needed to know.

He’s always been proud of us. But on the very rare instances where the look in his eyes matches the words that come out of his mouth, you learn not to take these moments for granted.

“Aw, fatherhood is making you soft, Coach,” Hart remarks, patting him on the back. “Or are you just starting to warm up to us?”

Warren has been the coach for Crawfield for almost seven years now. Most of the lads, myself included, weren't even here when he started, so the idea of him “warming up” to us is ludicrous. Coach warmed up to each and every single one of us the day we met him.

We wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t.

I met Coach when I was sixteen after I’d been training under another local team. Yet, how we got acquainted isn’t all sunshine and rainbows.

After years of training, when the time approached for me to finally begin my debut, to make a long story short, the team didn’t know if I was going to be the best fit.

Therefore, they cut me.

I was devastated.

I’d worked for years for just a simple chance, and they took it away from me before I could show them what I was made of.

The news spread throughout the football community, and before I even had a moment to mope around, I got a call.

“Heard you’re looking for a spot?” The voice came through the line, commanding my attention.

“Who’s calling?” I couldn’t help but wonder, given that the number had no caller ID.

“Your future,” Coach’s snarky voice threw back my way, and within a five-minute phone call, suddenly, I became the newest member of Crawfield Football Club.

Coach started me on game day. A first for any rookie. I think he was trying to make a point to the bigwigs who dropped me, whereas I sunk the knife in deeper when I scored in the first half.

Since then, Coach and I have been thick as thieves, and even after five years, there’s no greater praise than his.

“Ah, shut it.” Coach rolls his eyes, flashing Hart, along with the rest of us, a playful stare as he pulls back from the huddle. “No more sappy shite. That’s the only compliment you’re getting from me today.”

“Yeah, yeah,” the team jokes in laughter, returning to their individual stations to get ready for the showers.

“Oi, Coach.” I stop him as he makes his way out. “We’re going to Tenner’s tonight.” I refer to the infamous pub our team has seemingly claimed as our personal victory spot, and our go-to every Friday, Saturday, and sometimes even Sunday night. “You wanna come?”

Coach shakes his head. “Sorry, lads, I can’t,” he declines. “Fatherhood has made me soft,” he jokes, causing a few groans as he escapes the room.

Since Delaney came into the picture, Coach hardly takes us up on our offers anymore. I can’t blame him, especially not right now. If I had someone, I’d probably drop the lads, too, but unfortunately, that’s not the case.

“Are we walking, Wilks?” Green asks, removing his boots. “Or I can drive. I don’t mind being the DD.”

I shake my head. “We’re walking. Tonight is a celebration, after all.” I raise my hands into the air. “Because tonight, drinks are on me.”

“How does this sound?” Hart hands me his phone. He’s attempting to sext some girl he met last week at the pub and said he needed my opinion.

I read the text out loud.

“How about you come to my place tonight?”

“That sounds alright.” Green nods in agreement, walking alongside us as we break away from the rest of the team on our way to Tenners.

“Yeah, it might sound okay.” I shake my head. “But Christ Hart. Learn how to bloody spell.”

He furrows his brow. “What the hell are you on about? It looks fine.”

I narrow in my stare, stopping dead in my tracks as I turn the phone to Green, showing him what the message really says:

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