Page 7 of All Signs Point to Malibu

“No. It’s just a course I’m taking. Put it back.” I started the online sports psychology program on a late-night whim after too much whiskey and a trip down memory lane on the anniversary of my brother’s death. I have no plans of actually becoming a certified sports psychologist—I just want to be the best possible coach to these kids.

“You know, I was thinking maybe I should be looking into some sort of online course after graduation—school guidance counselor says a backup plan for athletes is smart.”

I nod carefully. “It is smart...but for now, let’s focus on plan A—football, okay?” He’s talented enough not to need a plan B, he just needs to believe it and keep pushing hard.

I take the exit off the freeway and drive toward the football field. Cars up on blocks in driveways and run-down homes line the streets where kids play ball and neighbors try to cool off in small inflatable pools on overgrown lawns. I didn’t grow up in a neighborhood like this one. Money-wise, I had everything handed to me. Giving back by choosing to coach a local team instead of accepting offers from elite high schools obviously reveals something about my psyche, but I haven’t gotten that far into the course yet.

A block later, I pull to the side of the road. “Out you go.”

Marcus belches and sends me an annoyed look. “Seriously, man? You’re really gonna make me walk from here?”

“Don’t want the others to think I’m playing favorites,” I say, picking up his bag and giving it to him.

“Even though you are?”

“Even though I absolutely fucking am,” I say. “Out.”

Marcus grins as he opens the Jeep door and climbs out with his gear into the sweltering heat.

“See ya at the field.” He closes the door and I drive away. My gaze drifts into the rearview mirror. Marcus, bag slung over his shoulder, scuffs his feet as he walks down the street. His broad shoulders are slumped forward and his head is down.

He’s my star player, and he has every reason to think he can make it to the big leagues as long as he stays focused on what matters. But his lack of confidence is his biggest enemy. My help can only go so far, but I’m determined to do everything I can to make sure that kid survives the season, gets scouted, and gets the future he more than deserves.

TWO

HAILEY’S DAILY RULE FOR SUCCESS:

Always be early. On time is late.

Late, I pull my convertible into the parking lot of the posh private high school in a rich area of town where I absolutely did not live ten years ago. My mother stretched the truth on the school application—specifically our zip code—to ensure I could attend. Then she held three minimum wage jobs to pay the lofty tuition fees. She firmly believed that a good education would break our family’s “curse” of bad financial luck, even though she never fully explained what that meant and made sure I stayed away from anyone who could. Growing up I never knew any other family besides her and I respected her enough not to go seeking. I knew she had her reasons and I trusted them. She was the only person I needed in my life anyway. Strong, independent, and fearless, she taught me to trust my own instincts, follow my goals, and never let anyone tell me I don’t belong.

My job was to keep my nose down and grades up.

I delivered.

And now my zip code reflects the status of this high school. Unfortunately, after a valiant battle with breast cancer, my mother hadn’t lived long enough to see it.

I take a deep breath as I stare at the “Career Week” banner draped across the front door of the school. A bell sounds and teens wearing school uniforms—altered to reflect their individuality—swarm inside the building. Ten years ago, the wrong shade of tights would have sent a student home with a detention warning. Now the skirts are shorter, worn with fishnet stockings or knee-high socks. Blazers are adorned with patches and the expensive, flashy runners are definitely a newly permitted accessory.

I lower the visor and stare at my reflection in the tiny mirror.

Deep breath in, deep breath out...

You belong here.

Inside the high school, nothing has changed. It even smells the same—a slightly nauseating combination of gym socks, pencil shavings, and disinfectant. Hallways are lined with lockers thick with generations of painted-over graffiti and stickers. An impressive trophy case displays the school’s athletic achievements. On the walls are posters about next year’s student council elections and the upcoming prom.

I round the corner toward the gymnasium and nearly collide with...

Warren Mitchell.

He swiftly dodges me as though I might set him on fire if our skin touches.

If only.

“Hailstorm.” It’s a mix of heavy disdain and physical pain.

I fold my arms across my chest and narrow my eyes at the old nickname. “I’m pretty sure I’ve asked you to stop calling me that.”

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