Page 105 of Coach
Words to live by.
Whoever they were or however they treated me, I would make the best of it. I had to. My college career depended on it.
“Alright, team,” a voice called, making me try to glance over the head of one of the taller girls standing in front of me. “I’m Coach Dover. I know the timing of this isn’t what anyone expected. You thought you were starting the season with Coach Tyler, and now you’ve got me. Change isn’t easy. But here’s what I can promise you: I’m here because I believe in this program… and I believe in you.”
Annoyed that I couldn’t see, I moved around the crowd to spot the man speaking.
He was a big guy.
He had to be over six-five and carrying around a fair amount of extra weight.
He had thinning hair and a round face with almost see-through blue eyes and ruddy cheeks.
“I’ll push you hard because that’s what it takes to—” he continued.
But the words stuttered and fell as his gaze landed on me.
It was like watching a mask fall.
He went from reasonably sure of himself to sweaty, shifty, and stammering. “I, uh, um…”
His gaze slid away. “Right, because that’s what it takes to compete at this level. But we are going to have good times too aswe learn to work as a unit. We are going to build a season we can be proud of. Now, let’s—”
His gaze slid to me once more.
The words once again failed him.
He cleared his throat. He looked away.
“Let’s get started,” he said. “Cleats laced, heads up, and show me what you’ve got.”
That was… weird.
But I shook it off as we took to the field, getting warmed up.
Until, of course, I noticed that the coach’s gaze was almost pinned to me. He tracked my progress up and down the field, his head moving like a sphere in a pinball machine.
I’d been horrified for a while, worried that my high school practices didn’t put me on par with the average college-level athlete.
But there hadn’t been any criticisms.
Just the awkward, unrelenting eye contact.
I tried to convince myself that maybe it was just how Coach Dover operated. Perhaps each practice, he chose a different girl to focus on, to get to know her strengths and weaknesses.
But the second practice was more of the same.
Then the third.
The fourth.
When I went down hard one day, he ran across the field to drop down beside me, his hands prodding my ankle, then tracking up my calf.
A sick sensation moved through my stomach, making me feel awkward and slimy.
“Everything feels real good,” he said as a bead of sweat from his head dropped onto my leg. “I mean, fine. I don’t… there’s not… you’re okay.”
I tried to shake it off.
