Page 3 of Coach
Sneakers stopped squeaking.
Boys who’d been chatting halted mid-sentence and stared.
Everyone froze.
Even Benji.
Mid-flex.
Jessica blinked up from her perch like she wasn’t actively trying to seduce half my roster.
I started walking.
Stalking, really.
And let me tell you: There’s something very satisfying about the sound of your own sneakers squeaking on a polished gym floor while every single boy within arm’s reach watches you like they’re about to be called into the principal’s office.
Benji straightened, panic setting in a little too late.
“Uh, hey, Coach,” he said, voice climbing several octaves into the land of poor decisions. “I was just—”
“You were just what?” I cut him off, crossing my arms, clipboard tucked tight to my side. “Giving private lessons in the middle of tryouts? Practicing your layup game on the bleachers? Recruiting Jessica for theboy’svarsity team?”
A snort escaped from somewhere behind us. Someone was going to run suicides until they puked for that later.
Benji had the audacity—the audacity—to grin.
“Just saying hey. You know, school spirit and all.”
“Uh-huh,” I deadpanned. “Your school spirit is gonna get you very familiar with the concept of bench warming if you don’t haul your not-so-charming butt back to the court right now.”
Jessica gave Benji a sympathetic pout, but he wasn’t stupid. He peeled himself off the bleachers and shuffled back onto the court. His face was pink, and his shoulders slumped like a kid who’d just been caught drawing boobs in his math notebook.
I clapped him on the back as he passed me—hard enough to nearly knock the breath out of him. “Good hustle, Casanova. Now, go run the drill before I make you run it backward.”
Benji took off like his shorts were on fire.
I turned back to Jessica, who offered me her most angelic smile.
“Eyes forward, young lady,” I called up to her. “Unless you want to run the cones, too.”
She laughed as if I’d just complimented her. “Talk to me with that accent, and I’ll do anything you like with your, um, cone.”
I blinked a few times, unable to process whatever terrifying words the girl had spoken.
God help whoever married that one.
I blew the whistle again and barked, “Reset! Let’s try acting like a basketball team instead of extras in a teen soap opera, all right?”
The boys snapped into position with terrifyingspeed.
Good.
State titles weren’t won with flirting. And if one more of them even thought about flexing near the bleachers again, I was gonna make them all practice free throws until their arms fell off.
Before Benji could get the next group to the end line, the buzzer sounded, and the digital clock flipped to six. We’d been at it for three hours, and there were still a dozen boys to go. Parents would be sitting in cars lined up outside, probably wondering what was so special about tryouts or practices that I kept them locked out of the gym. In truth, they were just a pain in the ass, questioning everything like they’d won an NCAA Championship instead of me.
I loved coaching—picking the team, not as much. And working with parents was my least favorite part of the gig.
