Page 168 of Coach
“Planks? In Literature class? That’s a new twist,” I said, saluting him with my fork. “You’re educatingthe youth of America, one traumatic class at a time.”
Mike smirked. “Your turn. Hit me with your dumbest moment of the day—and for the love of Gru and his Minions, it can’t involve Jessica.”
“World history, a riveting morning.” I leaned back in my chair, considering. “I had a sophomore argue that Napoleon was actually two small men in a trench coat trying to avoid taxes.”
“Like circus performers?”
“More like those Chinese dudes who crawl under a dragon outfit and dance around.”
Mike lost it, slapping the table hard enough to make the fake Ficus in the corner tremble.
“I’m not even mad,” I said, grinning. “Honestly? It was creative. Historically inaccurate, but creative.”
“Are you done with tryouts?”
I chewed a moment, then swallowed and washed down my bite with Coke before shaking my head. “One more day of torture.”
“You say that like you hate coaching.”
“That may be the meanest thing you have ever said to me.” My brow furrowed. “I live for coaching, but tryouts isn’t coaching. It’s . . . How can I describe this so you will understand? It is like watching a bunch of baby deer, none of whom should even be on their feet yet, as they wobble and fall all over the grass.”
“Wow. You just called your team a bunch of Bambis.”
“The few who will make it are beasts. We could make another run at state this year.” I shrugged and took another bite.
“But?”
“But . . . Every year, no matter how good we are or how much I try to dissuade the foolhardy, kids who have no business trying out for a team at our level show up—and not just a few of them. It’s like they all get together and plan how bad they can be, then barge into the gym at the same time.”
“That bad?”
I nodded. “Most couldn’t make my JV team, much less carry the water bottles for the varsity.”
“Ouch. Failing to make the cut for team manager is pretty low.”
“You saw them Friday. What did you think?”
Mike turned and tossed his wadded-up wrapper toward the trash can, missing by half the length of the wall.
“Never mind,” I said. “That shot told me all I needed to know.”
“But I’m good at trivia,” Mike whined. “And I’m super cute.”
I chuckled. “You are a trivia master, but the jury is still out on the cute part. You reds are trouble.”
He ran a hand through his thick, wavy hair, making a show of straightening a few curls. “We reds are an endangered species. You should show us more respect lest we die out and leave your world with no color at all.”
I was still groaning when my phone buzzed, vibrating like a dying cricket against the cheap laminate surface of the table.
I glanced at the screen. It was a text from an Atlanta number I didn’t recognize.
Unknown Number:Hey. It’s Shane. From the festival. Your sideboard’s ready for pickup whenever. No rush. Just figured I’d let you know.
Mike leaned over, because of course he did; privacy was a myth in the gay world, as fictitious as the Tooth Fairy or Cookie Monster.
“Ooooh,” he crooned, sounding way too pleased. “Flannel Daddy slides into the DMs.”
“This is a text message, not a DM,” I muttered, stabbing at my salad like it had personally offended me. “And he’s just letting me know my TV stand is ready. There’s nothing going on here.”
