Page 29 of Courtside

When she stopped at the front desk to wrap up with the staff, David seemed to shake out of whatever stupor had taken him. “Well thanks again for today, Sage.”

She glanced back at him as she signed some paperwork. “You know it’s my job, right?” She hoped that her smile would make itcrystal fucking clearthat she was messing around.

But David was looking at her hand, brown eyes staring intently where she still gripped the provided pen. He cleared his throat. “You’re left handed?”

“Yeah,” she said, setting the pen down and thanking the front staff before turning back to join David where he waited for her. Because that’s what he was doing — waiting, walking her out, and she’d be willing to bet that he was the kind of man who would walk her all the way to her car.

“Do you shoot left-handed?” He held open the door for her as they walked out into the late afternoon heat.

“Yes,” she said. “Although, funny story, I actually shot right handed when I first started. Even though I wrote left-handed, my coaches told me it would be easier to shoot righty. So I played that way until I broke my arm in 7th grade.” She couldn’t help but smile; she remembered that time like it was yesterday. “Rather than sit out of practice for the three months it was going to take to heal, I decided to teach myself how to shoot left-handed. It totally changed my game. Being down low, being able to shoot with either hand was a huge advantage.”

They stood beside her car. As she unlocked the door she looked up at David, finding him watching her, the expression on his face almost amused. “What,” she asked, feeling suddenly defensive. Like maybe she’d said too much, or she’d been too real in sharing about herself.

“Nothing.” He grinned as he started to back away. “Drive safe, Lefty,” he called out as the distance between them grew.

Sage wasn’t sure what to say, so she just waved before lowering herself down into her car. Once the engine groaned to life and she threw it into reverse, she let herself, for just one tiny moment, think about the name David had called her.

Lefty.

She didn’t mind that at all. Not one little bit.

CHAPTER8

DON’T FORGET THE GREEN STUFF

DAVID

David hit the spacebar on his laptop, freezing the tape from their intersquad scrimmage that he had up on the TV in his home office. The folding table in the middle of the room was strewn with bits of scrap paper, three different play boards, and two partially drunk cups of coffee.

He needed a shower, and based on how Daisy was looking at him, he needed to take her outside for a walk.

Standing up with a groan, he ran a hand through his dirty hair before scooping Daisy up, shoving a hat onto his head, and then stepping outside. He squinted against the bright sun, his eyes straining to adjust after hours spent inside in the blacked-out room.

He hadn’t bothered with a leash, trusting that Daisy would stay close as he walked toward the dog park. His legs felt heavy, his body lethargic, and although he tried to find some enjoyment in the day around him, his mind was elsewhere.

The team was a mess. A real goddamn mess, and he had no idea what to do about it.

Well, he knew what to do about it, but the guys were slow on the uptake. On some level, he could understand: he was a new coach bringing in a new style and new systems, and it was bound to take a while for them to get on board.

Butdamn, he’d thought things would be better by now.

So he was pushing them harder, increasing their practice time from two hours to three, and, on his own, spending every waking hour watching game tape from the previous year, film from practices, and researching their opponents. He had three different offensive sets that he wanted to introduce in addition to the pages of set plays he’d drawn up to combat specific scenarios. He’d started keeping a legal pad on his bedside table so that when he woke up in the middle of the night with an idea for a new strategy he could write it down.

He’d largely given up on cooking, instead heating up frozen dinners that boasted low calories and reduced sodium. Apparently, they were healthy. They tasted like garbage, but they were doing the job of keeping his stomach full.

His apartment was also starting to descend into a level of disarray that wasn’t like him. He usually took pride in keeping his space neat and tidy, even doing the little things like dusting the shelves and picture frames. But the countdown to their first game weighed on him in a way that left him feeling uncharacteristically exhausted at the end of every day.

This was his chance to be the kind of head coach he’d always dreamed of being. He wouldn’t —no,couldn’tlet the opportunity go to waste.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. “Hello?” He answered without looking at the screen.

“Dude,” Chuck’s voice was almost painfully loud in his ear. “Where the hell have you been?”

“Busy,” David replied, trying to ignore the sharp pang of regret in his chest. He’d been so focused on the team recently that he hadn’t been keeping up with the guys like he typically did. David was usually the one who organized pick up games, dinners out, or Sundays at one of their places to watch football. As one of the only single guys still in an apartment, he almost never hosted, but he always showed up early and helped with the planning.

It was just what he always did.

Chuck snorted. “When was the last time you left your place?”

---