Page 251 of Coach
By the end of the second quarter, it was 47–12.
The gym had turned into a party. The student section was doing the wave—badly—and even the opposing fans looked like they were ready to cut their losses and hit Applebee’s.
Shane hadn’t moved.
He was still standing, still watching, still managing to make leaning against a cement wall look like an act of war and poetry all at once.
I blew out a breath, bent over my clipboard, and muttered, “Focus, Ricci. You are a professional.”
Except I wasn’t. Not wherehewas concerned.
Halftime gave our kids a rest and my beleaguered brain a reprieve. I wanted to race out of our locker room, run up the stairs, and wrap that man in my arms, but a few obstacles stood in the way ofthat made-for-Hollywood moment, not the least of which were the female members of the PTA who would never let me hear the end of it if I acknowledged him more than I already had—and that had been barely a wave!
Those ladies were amazing and supportive, but they were relentless when they caught whiff of a juicy rumor—and what could be more juicy than their head coach landing a new hot, super broody boyfriend?
Fucking valley girl and her super whatever.
In the third quarter, I gave the bench the reins. Beating another team was one thing, grinding them into the dust was unsportsmanlike. The crowd didn’t like it. They smelled blood in the water—and on the floor and on the walls—and definitely all over the ball. They wanted us to break one hundred, to score more than any team ever had. They didn’t have to face the opposing coach at conferences or district meetings. Their kids wouldn’t be on the losing end of game-night emotions. At least, not that night.
I knew all those things too well, had felt them too often, to allow a victory to become a slaughter.
“Have them practice killing the clock. No more fast breaks. Everything walks.”
Ryan nodded, then turned and barked orders to the team. They didn’t like it, caught up in the fervorof the night, but they would do as instructed. They were good kids.
The game became a blur of substitutions and clock management. Ryan joked that we should let the team vote on their own plays. I laughed harder than I should’ve.
Every so often, I looked back.
Every time, Shane was still there.
When the last buzzer sounded, the scoreboard read 98–34.
We’d crushed them—politely, respectfully, with handshakes and everything, but crushed them just the same. Some among our parents grumbled that we were “two points away” from some magic number. Others complained that we would’ve shattered every record if only Coach allowed it.
I was somehow a conquering hero and unpopular at the same time. It was a very strange feeling.
Kids cheered, parents stood, the band played something that sounded like Queen if Queen had been raised in a garage.
And I finally let myself look straight at him.
Shane was smiling now. The grin was small and quiet, and I doubted anyone who didn’t know him would even recognize it as a smile rather than some twitch caused by a mental disorder, but it was there, and it was real—and it wasfor me.
That smile hit me harder than the win.
I didn’t dare move, not yet. Instead, I let the boys celebrate and the fans file out.
Because all I could think about was what that smile might mean.
And whether he’d still be wearing it when I reached him.
“You should go talk to him,” a youthful voice whispered from behind. I wheeled around so fast I nearly elbowed Gabe in the jaw.
“Jesus, Gabe. You scared me half to death. Why aren’t you out there high-fiving or whatever you guys do these days?”
“You’re old, but you aren’tthatold. You know how we celebrate.” He smirked and folded his arms. “Besides, I’d rather see the fireworks happening right here.”
My brows bunched together—and for an Italian, that means something serious, like the return of caterpillar season.
