Page 66 of Game Changer

“It’s a beautiful facility.”

She points along the lake. “There are the campers' cabins. They’re full in the summer, but at the moment, we have weekend and after-school programming.” She gestures around us. “We’re in the administration building now. We’re working on a new art room.”

I straighten. “Could I see it?”

“Of course.”

Robin shows me into the next building, a stunning A-frame with windows everywhere. The end of the building is dedicated to a sprawling, vaulted room with huge tables and easels and paints. Sunshine spills into every corner.

“The light is so cool here. What kind of art do the kids do?”

“All kinds. Their latest thing is making bear masks.” She shows me a collection of papier-mâché laid out along a table to dry. “You into art?”

“I was,” I admit. “I got admitted to art school, but I never graduated.”

“You can always return to it. I was working as a lawyer before I found myself here. I don’t regret my time practicing, but running this program? It’s a dream come true.

“I used to believe that we’re supposed to find our path. It took time to realize life is full of paths, like a tree branching out with thousands of possibilities. Unlike a tree, we can go back and choose another path. Life is full of second chances.”

Her philosophy is energizing.

I ask her some more questions about things to keep in mind when setting up a program from scratch, what she’d do differently, and make notes for Harlan.

As we finish our conversation, I glance out the window at where the kids are gathered around a basketball court.

The pavement is freshly painted, the court surrounded by chain link fence. It looks new except for the net that hangs haphazardly off the hoop.

“Nothing stays picture perfect around here. We replaced it last week, but the kids have been swinging on it,” Robin says. She’s amused, not upset that the perfect image is tarnished.

Clay is at the center of the crowd, standing head and shoulders above the rest.

His shirt is tucked into the back of his shorts, his body muscled and glistening in the warm fall day.

He’s good with them. For all that he makes himself out to be a bad mentor, a bad teammate, I can see him listening to those kids.

“Let’s go watch before you break your neck,” Robin says dryly.

I flush, caught out.

She grins, and we head outside together.

“He said he came here when he was injured?” I ask.

She nods. “But he doesn’t advertise it. A lot of people would like to use this to build their brand, but he prefers to connect with the kids without media attention. Clay gets a lot of attention, good and bad. It’s hard to live under that much pressure.”

Clay pulls aside a kid who’s on the sidelines and asks him a question. The boy answers, and Clay nods, then motions him closer. They practice a minute, and the boy breaks into a grin.

“They adore him,” Robin murmurs.

And he adores them. He’d probably give me hell if I accused him of it though.

Robin steps forward, clapping her hands and making everyone look over. “Okay, we should let Clayton get back to his activities.”

The kids groan, and Clay catches my eye. I swear his expression brightens a little.

I’ve been thinking of him nonstop since the barbeque. His words have been echoing through my mind.

“Wear mine. The next time you wear a jersey, you fucking wear mine.”

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