Page 89 of Coach
“I do not,” I grumbled, refusing to acknowledge the truth of her words.
She glared, an evil gleam sparking to life in her cold, bitter eyes.
“Is this Mr. Sideboard? The one with the accent and curls?”
“How do you know about his curls?” I asked.
She shrugged. “You can run, but you can’t hide. You should know this by now.”
“God, I hate you.”
“Whatever, Mary. You do you. I’ll be in the house doing your damned books while you’re out here prepping for yourAmerican Idolaudition. When you get a break, come remind me why I love my job. I need a fucking daily affirmation to complement my sparkling personality.”
“Yes, dear,” I said, turning back to my work and chuckling at the idea of anything about Stevie described as “sparkling.”
Before the door clicked shut, my mind had returned to dreamy eyes and olive skin, and the lead singer of Journey was wailing almost as loudly as I was.
Chapter 29
Mateo
The next couple of weeks passed in a blur. With tryouts complete, the team was in its annual sprint toward the opening night of the season, a game against one of our school’s chief rivals—a team we hadn’t lost to in over thirty years. There were no expectations for our first contest beyond utter domination and decimation. That was all.
“Feet!” my assistant coach, Ryan, bellowed from the opposite side of the court, where he ran drills tougher than any Army sergeant. “Move your fu—” He paused. “Move your feet!”
I blew out a breath. Ryan had the mouth of a sailor. I’d asked him to control it, especially in front of the kids, but words slipped out like a lover in the night, sometimes like one leaving through the front door in daylight. Yeah, like that.
In fact, his cursing had become so infamous that our players standing on the sideline, those notrunning the current drill, would clap three times in unison every time he cursed, earning sideways glances and grins from those on court—those who weresupposedto be focused on the task at hand.
Ryan’s almost-F-word earned two claps and a round of teenage chatters and shoulder shoves from the bench. My only reaction was a lowered head and a pinch of the bridge of my nose.
Ryan ignored everyone, bearing down harder on the boys and their faltering drill.
“Gabe, hands up! Stop trying to feel him up. You play defense with your feet, not your hands!”
I pinched harder.
The boys on the sides howled.
Gabe, thankfully, ignored them, his hands shooting up in the universal “Don’t shoot” position as he positioned his body in front of the kid with the ball.
“That’s it!” Ryan shouted. “Don’t let him by!”
For all his bluster, Ryan was a brilliant coach. He had to be, if he wanted to stay anywhere near the game. He was quick, sharp as a tack, and could shoot the ball from anywhere on the court. Still, there wasn’t a college team in America who would put a five-foot-three, slim-as-a-rail man on court with the giants who played the game then. The only jobs left to him were coaching or officiating—and Ryan hated referees with the passion of a jilted ex.
“Switch!” he yelled, giving the team in yellow pinnies a break while those in purple ran to replace them. The squeals of sneakers on wood echoed off the empty bleachers. That was one of my favorite sounds in the world.
“Coach.” A huffing Gabe stumbled up beside me, then folded over as he sucked in breaths.
“That was better, Gabe, but you’re going to foul out fast if you keep groping your opponent.”
The boy’s head whipped up, and his eyes narrowed.
I chuckled, threw up my hands, and lowered my voice. “Easy. Unless you’ve spread the word, no one here knows anything. I was talking basketball, not dating.”
In the waning days of the last school year, Mike and I helped one of his students form an LGBT support group for the kids in the school. On the opening night of the group, Gabe had shocked everyone by showing up. I’d coached the kid since he was in seventh grade and never had a clue he might be gay.
Gabe, already a popular and confident kid around campus, strode through the halls of the school like a weight had lifted from his shoulders. He’d always been a positive light, that guy others looked up to, the one they wanted in their circle of friends; but something clicked inside him after he came out tome, something that had him walking a little taller, smiling a little more. It was something to see, like the dawning of a brilliant new day.
