Page 45 of Coach
Me:Have you named it?
God, that was stupid. He’s probably laughing at me, showing someone at school the stupid thing I just said. What kind of complete idiot doeshe think—
M. Ricci:OMG! You made a joke! I just snort-laughed at practice, and a dozen high schoolers are staring at me like I have four heads.
M. Ricci:I need to go. The demons need me. Just say yes and show up at my place Friday night around six. Wear that white T-shirt again . . . please.
My cheeks ached. Why the fuck were my cheeks aching? What was that feeling?
I glanced up at a large mirror mounted to a dresser, the next project in queue, to find my face contorted, my lips curled upward, and my teeth showing. My fucking teeth were showing.
What the hell?
I was smiling . . . at a text message.
What devilry was this? What witchcraft?
Me:Fine. That T-shirt may not be clean, but I have others. No sushi or I’m out.
M. Ricci:No sushi. The T-shirt is non-negotiable . . . unless you just want to go without. I’m good with that as a PlanB.
My phone leaped out of my hand, bobbled in the air, then fell to the ground. I stood there, above it, staring down at the thankfully uncracked screen and wondering what the hell I’d just agreed to.
And I smiled again.
Chapter 15
Mateo
The gym echoed with the sounds of teenage misery. Sneakers squealed against the waxed hardwood. Scrawny bodies hit the floor in a cacophony of grunts and slap-thuds. Somewhere, someone was dry heaving into a trash can—again.
“Coach, you’re a monster!” came a wheezy voice from the court.
I blew my whistle with the cheerful malice of a man who’d heard it all before. “You’re not dying, Ortega. You’re just finding out your body hates you. Now hustle! That little outburst just cost the whole team five more suicides. Come in last and you earn another five.”
There was a collective groan, as though the souls of fifteen adolescent boys had left their bodies in synchronized protest.
“Move!” I barked, putting on my best “pissed off coach” scowl while smiling inside. “Connor, keepyour knees under you or I’ll duct tape them in place!”
A heartbeat later, I shouted, “Dillon, this isn’t a scenic jog through the Alps. Sprint!”
I checked my stopwatch and made a note on my clipboard. I didn’t even flinch when Jameson slipped in his own sweat and went down hard.
The first week after tryouts was always like this. Misery mingled with regret laced with . . . vomit. There were occasionally tears, though I ignored those when they happened. It was a time when boys, flabby or sloppy—or both—from a summer away from the team, realized how much easier it was to stay in shape than to get back into shape after slacking for months. The few kids of mine who played summer ball took to the drills easily. The others, well, we had buckets and mops for their personal issues.
I looked up from my notes, and my brows pinched together. “Get to the sideline, Jameson! If you’re gonna die, do it on the bench, not in my drill. You’re blocking guys who want to work.”
A few minutes later, I blew the whistle again. Loud. Sharp. And vaguely triumphant.
The boys hated me then, but they’d thank me later.
Or they wouldn’t.
I didn’t care.
They’d be faster, stronger, sharper, and maybe—just maybe—not useless in a full-court press by the time December rolled around.
“Coach, you need therapy,” someone muttered from the middle of the pack, crowded enough together that I couldn’t identify the guilty party. Sneaky little bugger.
