Page 1 of Coach
Chapter 1
Mateo
It only took me a hot minute of coaching to realize teenage boys were a terrifying combination of cockiness, hormones, and zero sense of personal space. Our annual varsity tryouts magnified those qualities, slathering them in testosterone, athletic endorphins, and a disgusting layer of sweat.
And I loved every second of it.
I stood at center court, clipboard in hand, whistle around my neck, watching twenty-some high schoolers pretend they knew the difference between a basketball and their ass. The gym echoed with the sound of bouncing balls, squeaking shoes, and low murmurs of boys hyping themselves up like they were about to storm Normandy instead of, you know, run a simple weave drill.
On the top row of the bleachers, Jessica perched like a queen surveying her queendom, twirling a strand of blonde hair around her index finger, readyto pounce on whichever breathing male emerged as the next star point guard. She was many things; subtle wasn’t one of them.
God bless her overconfident little heart.
“All right, let’s tighten it up!” I barked, my heavy Italian accent causing a few of the boys to squint as they hung on every word. Others whispered and jibed, as though their fearless leader hadn’t just spoken.
I shoved the clipboard under one arm and clapped my hands. Instantly, the chatter died out.
Good.
Respect and fear, Machiavelli’s perfect mix.
Okay, the medieval political operative was referring more to love versus fear for a king or prince, but his point applied, especially where herding a pack of willful teenage boys was concerned.
I adjusted my clipboard and raised my voice. “Mason, Tyler, Jayden, Isaiah—you’re up. Grab a ball and line up behind the cones.”
They scrambled like puppies after a Milk-Bone, desperate not to look slow. I waited a moment, then blew the whistle and stepped back, my arms crossed, eyes sharp.
“Dribble through the cones. Meet at center court. Give me a good bounce pass: clean, sharp, and under control. Footwork matters. Keep your heads up.And for the love of God, if you travel, don’t make eye contact with me—you’ll feel your soul leaving your body.”
A few of the older returning guys chuckled as a larger number of new tryouts shifted in their overpriced tennis shoes.
They’d learn.
I watched the drill unfold.
Mason and Tyler were speed demons—fast hands, quick feet, but sloppy fundamentals. Jayden? He was built like a linebacker but dribbled like he’d picked up his first ball yesterday. Isaiah, though—Isaiah moved like butter melting over hot pancakes. He was smooth, controlled, and patient without being slow.
I needed that kind of athlete on the floor.
Jessica clapped—at Isaiah, naturally—and I shot the boys a look that promised extra conditioning drills if she distracted anyone else.
Jessica smirked, then blew a bubble with her gum and popped it so loudly a few of the young guys jumped.
Satan in lip gloss, that one.
“Reset!” I barked when Mason tried to showboat a behind-the-back pass and nearly took out Jayden’s kneecap. “Clean passes! This isn’t the Harlem Globetrotters, and you’re not that cute.”
The bench guys snickered.
I blew the whistle again. This time, they gave me a clean run, with sharp feet and crisp passes.
I made notes on my clipboard.
Mason: needs discipline.
Tyler: good instincts, needs polish.
Jayden: promising if I can fix that dribble.
