Page 158 of Coach
“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.
I blew the final whistle sharp and short, the boys scattering like someone had dropped a live grenade at center court.
“Good work today, men,” I called after them. “Tryouts continue tomorrow—same time, same gym. And remember: Hydration is not a myth, gentlemen!”
A few muttered, “Later, Coach,” whileothers just offered exhausted waves before dragging themselves toward the locker rooms, sneakers squeaking sad final notes across the court.
I was jotting down some final notes on the clipboard when movement caught my eye by the main entrance doors. There, leaning against the gym doorframe like he had a right to look that smug in my gym was my fellow teacher and best friend, Mike Albert.
He wore jeans, boots, a fitted T-shirt that said, “Support Your Local Troublemaker,” and a grin that said he was about two seconds away from mocking me to death. The air conditioner vent that pummeled anyone brave enough to walk through those doors blew his fire engine hair in ten directions, taking his nerdy, bespeckled look to a whole different vibe of geekdom.
I jogged over, wiping sweat off my forehead with the hem of my shirt—because who needs dignity after three hours of screaming at teenagers?
“What brings you to my humble gym, Mr. Albert?” I asked, stopping just shy of barreling into him.
He crossed his arms over his chest, smirking like he had personally invented the concept of being irritating. “I had to see it with my own eyes, the legendary Coach Ricci wrangling hormonal chaos intobasketball excellence.”
“Envy looks terrible on you.” I rolled my eyes. “And you’re a redhead. You can’t even blush properly.”
Mike chuckled, but before he could fire back, a voice sweeter than arsenic floated down from the top bleachers. “Mr. Albert!” Jessica called, practically bouncing down the steps, her ponytail swinging like a weaponized flirtation device. As she took the bleachers one row at a time, my brain heard her boobs making that “jiggly, jiggly” sound that ran through my head every time I saw Jell-O.
Mike tensed, like a man spotting a tornado on the horizon.
“Jessica,” he said with the strained politeness of someone greeting a neighbor’s aggressive Pomeranian.
She strutted right up to him, all bright smiles and glossy lips, and for a horrifying second, I thought she might try to climb him like a tree. Instead, she settled for sliding her hand down his arm, slow and shameless, like she was petting a particularly attractive house cat.
“I’ll see you in class tomorrow, Mr. Albert,” she purred, giving his bicep an inappropriate squeeze.
