Page 39 of Coach
Mike looked over at me. “You got that transfer kid yet? The tall one from North Cobb with the attitude problem?”
I groaned. “Oh, Walker? Yeah. Walks into the gym like he’s already in the NBA. He shot a free throw today with one hand and missed by a solid five feet.”
“Isn’t five feet a hard miss? There’s only, what, ten feet between the line and the goal?” Elliot asked.
“Okay, Mr. Sparky, I’m impressed.” My brows shot up in appreciation. “There’s fifteen feet from the line to the backboard. That makes missing by five pretty hard to do.”
“Huh,” Mike said, bored by the basketball talk.
“I have him in U.S. history,” I said. “He asked me if World War I came before or after the dinosaurs. It took him three full minutes to realize I wasn’t kidding when I said definitely after.”
Mrs. H laughed so hard she nearly dropped the bread basket. “These children are the future of our nation?”
“They’re going to vote one day, run for office, run the whole place,” I deadpanned. “I wake up sweating about it.”
Homer whined under the table. Elliot reached down and scratched behind his ears while still managing to spear what might’ve been a turnip.
“And yet,” Mike said, lifting his mug, “we keep showing up at school. Every morning.”
“To education,” I said, clinking my glass against his. “Where the mitochondria is fake, the Crocs are foam, and every third kid thinks Lincoln founded TikTok.”
“And where my stew cures heartbreak andhemorrhoids,” Mrs. H declared, plopping down at the head of the table with a gleam in her eye. “Now, tell me who’s got a new boyfriend, or I’ll start guessing . . . and it’ll get inappropriate real fast.”
I froze.
Mike grinned.
Elliot leaned forward like a man about to light a match.
And just like that, dinner took a dangerous turn.
“So,” Mike said, stabbing something beige and unidentifiable, “how was your date?”
“Fuck that,” Mrs. H barked. “How was the sex? Is his cock as big as the rest of him? Mike said he makes Jack Reacher look like a puss.”
Elliot smothered his mouth with a cloth napkin.
Mike’s chair groaned as he sat back.
I couldn’t bring myself to look up.
“It wasn’t a date,” I mumbled. “And there was no sex, not even a peck on the cheek.”
“It was dinner . . . with a hot man you dressed up for,” Elliot said, chewing. “That’s the textbook definition of a date.”
“I wore jeans,” I groused. “Besides, I’m Italian. We always dress well. It’s genetic.”
“He’s got ya there,” Mrs. H agreed, nodding toward me.
Mike ignored her. “You put extra product in yourhair. I saw it.”
I pointed my fork at him. “You saw me right after the gym. That was sweat.”
“It was strategically placed perspiration.”
“Purposeful moisture.” Elliot nodded. “That’s date behavior.”
“Wait. Did you say there was no peck on the cheek? Did you even try?” Mike asked, leaning in like this was a live-streamed soap opera.
