Page 146 of Doughn't Let Me Go

And for me, too.

Blowing my whistle, I motion the team over for a huddle. The kids come running, circling around me, looking up at me with expectant eyes.

It’s been a couple months since I started coaching the team, and I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the way they look at me, like I hold all the answers in the world.

I don’t know why I volunteered to coach. I don’t know the first thing about soccer. Never really been into it—or any sport, really—but they needed someone to step up and I had time on my hands now that Mel’s my partner and essentially running everything, so here I am. Plus, I get to spend more time with Kyrie this way. A huge bonus because even though I’m not running my company by myself anymore, I still have my hands tied up in a lot of the decision-making. It’s hard to juggle the workload and my dad duties, especially since I gave up having a nanny, but I make it work.

Dory teases me about how worked up I get over the game, but we both know this coaching position has worked wonders for me. I was a workaholic before, and I think a lot of that had to do with me fearing failure. I had to keep doing and doing and being better and better. I couldn’t settle for anything less than perfect because the last thing I wanted to do was go back to where I came from—nothing. Handing the reins over to Mel freed me in more ways than just my schedule now suddenly being more open. It meant the weight of everything wasn’t solely on my shoulders and allowed me to share that burden with someone else.

Besides, now if the company fails, I can just blame her.

Kidding…mostly.

“All right, we’re up against a tough team today, but I have no doubt that if we bring our A game, we can beat ’em.”

“It’s not about winning, Dad…” Kyrie says quietly, sounding just like Dory, making it clear they’ve been spending entirely too much time together.

“Right, but winning means…”

“Pizza!” the kids shout.

“I dolovepizza,” Kyrie says, thinking on it. “Okay, fine. Let’s win this thing!”

She turns to run off and I call out, “Wait! That was just the beginning of my speech!”

She sighs, shoulders lowered, turning back to me. “But your speeches areawful, and the game is starting.”

“No, it’s…” I glance out to the pitch, surprised to find the other team standing out there waiting on us, the ref with his whistle in his mouth, ready to get going. “Oh, shit.” All the kids giggle at my bad language. “I mean crap. Don’t tell your parents I said that.”

“Can I tellmydad you said that?”

“Iamyour dad, Kyrie.”

“Don’t remind me,” she says with the dramatic flair only an eight-year-old can muster.

“Coach Porter? Can we go play now?” another kid speaks up, raising his hand like this is a classroom or something.

“Yeah.” I wave my hand toward the field. “Go on, git.”

All but five of them run off. The ref blows the whistle, and they all start darting around the field.

“Go, Little Fish, go!” Dory yells from the stands, clapping wildly.

I slide my eyes her way, and when her gaze catch my grays, she grins.

I mentally tick off another moment of knowing she’s it for me.

About two hours and an exhausted bunch of kids later, we’re named victor, and we all head to our cars to meet up at Slice for our post-game ritual of pizza and milkshakes.

“Dad, can I ride with Kristann?”

“It’s like you don’t even love me anymore.”

“I do too love you. But just, like, fifth.”

“Fifth?What the hell happened?”

“Missy Fishy, Aunt Wren, Aunt Drew, Uncle Sully…” She counts them off on her fingers. She scrunches her nose, shaking her head. “I lied—you’re sixth, because Papa Simon always gives me two cherries on my milkshakes at Slice.”

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