Page 90 of Coach
We’d grown close after that night with the club. I was still his coach and demanded the respect one might from any student, but Gabe opened up, shared more, spoke of his life in ways I’d never heard before. There was a bond between us. I believed in him. I had his back—and he knew it.
Gabe’s mom even invited me over to their house for dinner, an attempt at an olive branch in a household still struggling to accept their son’s admission. I hated declining that invitation, but Gabe’s dad made it clear he didn’t support his son’s “deviant ways.” The last thing I wanted was to exacerbate an already tense situation.
As much as he might’ve grown, Gabe still longed for a paternal figure who understood him, who accepted him regardless of his sexuality. In the way only a coach and teacher can, I tried to fill that void while straddling the line of public perception—a very dangerous line to walk.
Gabe glowered a moment before a hint of a smile formed. “Not even Coach Wex?”
“He’s worse than an old woman at church with gossip.” I shook my head. “He’s the last person I would tell.”
Gabe grunted something akin to a laugh and looked through the practicing players at my counterpart. “It’s just . . . I feel like everyone’s watching me all the time, like they know and just aren’t saying anything.”
“Get a drink,” I said. We couldn’t afford that conversation in that moment, not with our first game only a few days away. Gabe looked up, darkness shrouding his eyes. “Let’s talk tomorrow, all right? We can eat lunch in here, if you like.”
“In the gym?”
I shrugged. “Why not? This gym’s our home, isn’t it? We may as well eat here, too.”
“Yes, Coach.” A broad smile chased the clouds away as he nodded once, then jogged around the court to grab a water bottle and jostle with his teammates.
I shook my head and returned my focus on the players running and dribbling and sweating . . . and fouling.
“Marcus!” I shouted. “If you can’t set a good screen, your butt’s on the bench. Run it again.”
Ryan gave me a thumbs-up from across the court as I jotted a note to add screen drills to our next day’s practice. The last thing we needed was for our star players to foul out in the first half of our opening night because they couldn’t get to their spots withoutthrowing a shoulder at every passing opponent.
And so practice went, hour after hour, shout after shout, drill after drill. By the time the final buzzer sounded and the players gathered around in a semi-circle of testosterone and exhausted, stinking bodies, it was nearly seven o’clock.
“Good hustle today. Tell your parents we’ll be late again tomorrow.”
A collective groan rose from the boys in acknowledgement of another long, hard practice to come.
I grinned. “Come on, guys. You know we love spending quality time with you.”
“You just love killing us,” a voice I couldn’t identify quipped.
My grin grew. “I can’t kill you before Friday night’s game. After that, we’ll see.”
A few of the guys laughed. Most groaned again.
“Go on. Get cleaned up and get some rest. Stay hydrated. Remember, what you put in your body the night before determines a day’s result.”
“Yes, Coach,” the chorus intoned before my pack of gangly wolves sluffed off to the locker room.
“We’re ready,” Ryan said only loud enough for me to hear.
“For game one, the easy night. We’re a long way from playoff ready.”
“One game at a time, remember?” Ryan nudgedme with his elbow. “That’s what you told me last season.”
I was about to say something snarky, just to hear the colorful stream of profanities flow from his mouth, when I noticed my phone screen light up. We had a “no phones” policy during practice, so I hadn’t heard it chime—four times.
“Somebody’s popular,” Ryan said. “New man in your life?”
“New something,” was all I could think to say. Giving Ryan any information was beyond dangerous. I grabbed my clipboard, towel, and phone and turned toward the door. “I’ll catch you tomorrow.”
Two strides into the parking lot, I flicked the screen and flashed it my face to unlock.
Flannel Daddy:Hey.
