Page 200 of Coach
Mateo
The gym echoed with the sounds of teenage misery. Sneakers squealed against the waxed hardwood. Scrawny bodies hit the floor in a cacophony of grunts and slap-thuds. Somewhere, someone was dry heaving into a trash can—again.
“Coach, you’re a monster!” came a wheezy voice from the court.
I blew my whistle with the cheerful malice of a man who’d heard it all before. “You’re not dying, Ortega. You’re just finding out your body hates you. Now hustle! That little outburst just cost the whole team five more suicides. Come in last and you earn another five.”
There was a collective groan, as though the souls of fifteen adolescent boys had left their bodies in synchronized protest.
“Move!” I barked, putting on my best “pissed off coach” scowl while smiling inside. “Connor, keepyour knees under you or I’ll duct tape them in place!”
A heartbeat later, I shouted, “Dillon, this isn’t a scenic jog through the Alps. Sprint!”
I checked my stopwatch and made a note on my clipboard. I didn’t even flinch when Jameson slipped in his own sweat and went down hard.
The first week after tryouts was always like this. Misery mingled with regret laced with . . . vomit. There were occasionally tears, though I ignored those when they happened. It was a time when boys, flabby or sloppy—or both—from a summer away from the team, realized how much easier it was to stay in shape than to get back into shape after slacking for months. The few kids of mine who played summer ball took to the drills easily. The others, well, we had buckets and mops for their personal issues.
I looked up from my notes, and my brows pinched together. “Get to the sideline, Jameson! If you’re gonna die, do it on the bench, not in my drill. You’re blocking guys who want to work.”
A few minutes later, I blew the whistle again. Loud. Sharp. And vaguely triumphant.
The boys hated me then, but they’d thank me later.
Or they wouldn’t.
I didn’t care.
They’d be faster, stronger, sharper, and maybe—just maybe—not useless in a full-court press by the time December rolled around.
“Coach, you need therapy,” someone muttered from the middle of the pack, crowded enough together that I couldn’t identify the guilty party. Sneaky little bugger.
“I’m Italian. My whole personality is therapy,” I shot back, flipping to the next page on my clipboard.
I paced the sidelines while the boys dragged themselves up and back across the court like dying ants, sneakers squeaking rhythmically. I didn’t yell again, not yet, just let the silence do my work. It was amazing what a few seconds without encouragement could do to the adolescent male’s brain.
“Marcus, I saidtouchthe line! Your legs are lying to you. Give me three more!”
They started to move faster after that, with a little more urgency, and maybe a little more hatred. That was fine. Hate was just motivation in disguise.
While they ran, my mind wandered.
Well, not wandered. It bolted. The sulky boys with their sullen faces and perpetual scowls sent my thoughts to places it didn’t belong, to a man I probably shouldn’t bother with.
Right to Shane Douglas.
Like my kids, he was broody.
And broad-shouldered.
He was “Silent-type Shane,” who texted like a man preparing for the end times.
From the couple of times we were close enough for our elbows to brush, I knew he smelled like cedar and sawdust. I wondered if he might taste like all of my teenage dreams rolled into one grumpy package.
Ricci, focus. They’re doing suicides, not interpretive dance. Call the next drill.
I blew the whistle. “Get water. You have two minutes, then I want jog laps around the entire court. Don’t let me catch your shoes touching the line, either. Make a full circuit.”
“How many laps, Coach?” one of the barely winded seniors asked.
