Page 36 of Coach
“I watched a few guys I played with go pro, saw my name vanish from the board. That part hurt like hell. I thought I’d wasted everything.” I traced the condensation on my glass with one finger.
Shane just sat there, watching. His face may as well have been carved of stone for what little much it gave away.
“I’d majored in education, knew I wanted to work with kids if the pros didn’t come calling. After I graduated, I took the job here in Atlanta and started helping with the JV team. It wasn’t much, just drills, warm-ups, managing schedules . . . that sort of thing. I didn’t think much of it until one day, this freshman—tiny kid, fast as hell, but with no aim whatsoever—made his first three-pointer after I adjusted his grip.” I smiled at the memory. “He lit up like he’d just won the Olympics.”
I looked up at Shane.
“That was it for me. I was hooked. I wanted that moment, over and over, not just to play, but to teach, to help him—and kids like him—chase the dream that slipped past me.”
He didn’t say anything, just watched me like I was saying something important.
And maybe I was.
I leaned back, exhaling. “So now I teach history, coach basketball, yell at teenage boys for leaving their shoes everywhere, and occasionally get flirted with by someone’s mom during parent-teacher conferences.”
A beat.
“And I love it. All of it, even the cougars. They’re kind of fun.”
Shane’s gaze stayed steady. Unreadable.
Just still . . . like he was storing it all up for later.
The waiter returned with fresh beer, and I took a long sip, hoping it’d cool the heat rising in my chest.
“Did you dream of furniture when you were a kid?” I asked, nudging his foot under the table. “Or were you the broodiest six-year-old ever and just didn’t tell anyone your dreams?”
Shane took a sip of his beer as though he was buying time. His fingers wrapped around the glass and twitched, thumping a rhythm I couldn’t decipher.
I let a few seconds pass, not wanting to come ontoo strong.
“So,” I said. “What did little Shane want to be when he grew up?”
He exhaled through his nose. “Not this.”
“Furniture guy wasn’t on your vision board?”
“No vision board.”
“Not even a sketch pad?”
He shook his head, eyes on his glass, avoiding my gaze. “Didn’t think that far ahead.”
I smiled and leaned forward on my elbow. “You don’t say.”
He glanced up. “You ask a lot of questions.”
“I teach teenagers. Interrogating suspects is my love language.”
He huffed something that might’ve been a laugh and scratched the back of his neck.
I waited.
Eventually, slowly, he spoke. “I grew up in the Midwest, in Ohio, in a one-stoplight town surrounded by a lotta corn.”
“That explains the flannel-forward fashion sense,” I said.
He shot me a glare. “We didn’t all wear flannel.”
