Chapter 2
Nate
“Get your ass up before I eat all your bacon!” I shout toward the hallway, where my brother is no doubt still in bed, scrolling through his phone.
“I’m up!” A grumpy voice calls back from the far end of the house.
I flip the last strip of bacon onto a paper towel and pour two cups of coffee, one black, one mostly sugar and milk.
The morning sun has started cutting through the trees, pouring light across the backyard. It’s almost seven, way too early to be up, but it’s the first day of school.
And finally, we’ve been needing some excitement around here.
Lord knows everything else is the same. Same house. Same town. Same empty feeling trying to claw its way into my heart.
I’m thirty now.
Thirty and still making breakfast for a seventeen-year-old who forgot how to set an alarm. Still teaching gym, coaching football, still trying to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to be doing with my life.
Don’t get it twisted, I’m happy.
Seriously, I am.
But I’ve been doing the same thing every day for damn near a decade, and I don’t have much to show for it. I figured by now I’d be married, maybe have a couple of kids, even a dog-
Alex shuffles into the kitchen like a vampire being dragged into daylight, snapping me out of my pity party. He’s got on a dark shirt with a band I don’t recognize and a pair of black jeans that look like they lost a fight with a weed whacker.
I raise an eyebrow, taking a big bite of pancake.
First day of school breakfast.
Been doing it since he was a kid, who used to be a lot more impressed by my cooking.
“Hope you got those pants half off,” I say as he slides into the chair and starts piling food on his plate.
I can’t help myself, I gotta tease him, and Alex takes it in stride, rolling his eyes. “Whatever, old man.”
We dig into our plates in silence, a far cry from how things used to be.
I remember Alex used to come bouncing into my room way too early to wake me up. He’d want to pull up a chair and help me with the pancakes.
I let out a sigh I can’t hold back.
He’s getting older.
I just haven’t gotten the memo.
I take a sip of coffee and lean back, watching him scarf down breakfast like he hasn’t eaten in a week. I raised this kid, and despite his torn-up jeans and whatever the people around town like to whisper-
I did a damn good job.
He looks so much like Mom, I can’t help but think as he pushes his messy blonde hair out of his face. She used to complain that she had to carry us for nine months, and we all came out looking like dad.
But Alex? He’s all mom.
And she never even got to see him.
I like to think she’s watching over us. Seeing what her kids have become. Good people, all of us. I just wish she were here to tell me I made her proud.
I shake away the thought, no use dwelling on what I can’t change.
“You nervous about today?” I ask, setting my coffee cup on the table.
Alex shrugs. “Not really. It’s senior year. I’m coasting.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“Relax, Coach. I’m fine.”
I let the quiet settle between us again, because there’s so much I want to say.
About his future. About how fast life moves. About how much I missed at his age, but I don’t. No point in laying that on him.
I don’t regret a thing.
We pull into the school parking lot with the windows down and the radio up, some old country song playing that Alex hates. He’s slouched in the passenger seat, his earbuds in, arms crossed, doing his best impression of a kid way too cool to be seen with his big brother.
“Hey.” I reach over, tapping his arm to get his attention. “You sure you don’t need me to walk you in? Like old times?”
Freshman year, Alex still wanted me to walk him in. I acted all tough, but the truth is, I loved it.
Had a smile on my face all day.
“Shut up, dude.” He grumbles, wrapping his earbuds around his phone and stuffing it in his bag.
“Can’t believe it’s your last first day of school. You sure I can’t get a picture?” I ask again, expecting the same no I’ve gotten the past two years.
Alex scoffs, the way he always does, but to my surprise, he actually agrees.
“Fine. One picture.”
I pull my phone out from where it’s lodged in my pocket and open the camera, leaning over to snap a selfie of the two of us. I know this probably isn’t the most manly thing ever, but I raised the kid, and I want a damn first day of school photo.
“What?” I ask, when Alex keeps staring at me after I’ve put my phone up.
He looks away. “Nothing, just, thanks. For breakfast. And you know.” He gestures toward my phone.
We don’t do the mushy crap, but I get it, so I give him a clap on the shoulder, and he gets it too.
“Hey, are you wearing eyeliner?” I point out, breaking the moment before it moves into emotional territory.
“Oh my god,” he groans, opening the door and getting out of my truck, but I roll down the passenger window to shout, “You steal that from Liz?”
Alex doesn’t turn back around as he lifts a middle finger in the air, but I’m laughing all the way to the faculty parking lot.
The weight room smells like sweat and enough Axe body spray to kill a small animal, meaning everything’s just as it should be.
I push the door open with my shoulder, half-drunk coffee in one hand and a clipboard tucked under my arm.
Somebody, probably Cam, already has their phone hooked up to the Bluetooth speaker, playing a country-rap song so loud I consider leaving the room entirely.
Music nowadays, I think to myself, shaking my head before I realize I’m starting to sound like my dad.
I take a sip of coffee before squaring my shoulders. “Y’all better be warming up, or I swear on my momma’s grave you’ll be jazzercisin’ from now on.”
Jake sits up from the bench press. “Coach, what even is jazzercisin’?”
“Don’t test me or you’ll find out.”
I’ve got no idea.
That gets most of the guys moving, though, stretching, loading plates, the clang of metal, and chatter between them filling the room. And despite the god-awful music and the early hour, I smile. There’s something special about mornings like this. Just the boys, the weights, being a real team.
Taking a break from whatever’s out there in the real world.
I walk around the room, calling out corrections when needed. “Cole, you’d better straighten your back, or you’re gonna look like a question mark by thirty.”
“You jealous I’m lifting more than you?”
“I could deadlift your ego and still have enough energy left to drag your sorry ass across the field.”
At the bench press, I spot Jason, our captain, sitting on the edge of the bench, hands loose between his knees, staring down at the floor.
It’s not the first time I’ve seen that look, and honestly, I’m starting to worry about the kid. That maybe the pressure of being captain is too much for him.
Or maybe it’s his dad. Guy seems like a dick.
I walk over and squat next to him. “You alright, J?”
He startles, looking up. “Yeah. Just a little tired.”
“Uh-huh.” I’m not pushing, but I’m not buying it either. “You sleep at all last night, or were you up playing the Call of Duty?”
“That’s not what it’s—” He shakes his head. “I wasn’t playing anything. Just… couldn’t sleep.”
“Listen, man. You know I care about you boys. If something’s going on at home, if anything’s bothering you, you know you can talk to me about it.”
I try to get him to meet my eyes, but he doesn’t.
“Sure thing, coach.” I frown at his lackluster response, wishing the kid would open up, but I stand up and pat him on the back.
“Alright. Get to work. You’re gonna start getting flabby if you keep sitting there twiddling your thumbs.”
At the far end of the room, Mikey is flexing in the mirror while Cam narrates, “And here we see the gym bro in his natural habitat, unaware his calves are tragically underdeveloped—”
“Shut up,” Mike says, posing harder.
“Cam,” I call out, not even looking up from my clipboard, “if I hear one more flex-off narrated like National Geographic, you’re running ‘til your legs fall off.”
“Sorry, coach, just trying to enrich our learning environment.”
A few guys are curled up with dumbbells in the back like it’s fucking arm day. I point at them with my coffee cup, “Y’all realize curls don’t block linebackers, right?”
“But Coach, I gotta work on the guns. Might even scare ‘em off the field.” I can’t help the smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. They give me a hard time, and I give it right back, but hell if I don’t love these boys.
When the guys finish their morning workout, I call them into the locker room.
“Alright, team. Good work this morning. I know it’s early, and you’d rather be in bed scrolling whatever y’all scroll, but this,” I gesture around the room, “Is where the season starts. Not out there on the field Friday. Here. Now.”
I pace in front of them. “I want hard work. Accountability. If somebody’s lagging, you pull them up. If somebody’s mouthing off, you shut it down. You’re a unit out there. If one of you is slacking, you all are. Got it?”
“Yes, Coach,” they echo in unison.
“Good. Practice after school. And if one of y’all shows up late again without a decent excuse…” Groans ripple through the group, cause they know what I’m about to say before I say it. “You’re running.”
“Now go shower before y’all stink up the whole damn school.”
They file out, laughing, shoving each other.
I lean against the lockers and sip my now-cold coffee, the quiet setting around me, Jason’s tired face lingering in my mind.
I hope I’m not putting too much pressure on the kid, making him captain.
I’ll check in with him again later, but right now, I’ve got a different battle to face.
Freshman PE.
God help me.
The halls are buzzing with first-day energy. Students greet each other like they haven’t seen each other in years, teachers all smiling and calling out names. All the wide-eyed freshmen wandering around with schedules held out in front of them like survival maps.
I love the first day of school.
You can just feel the excitement in the air.
I lean against the wall outside the gym, greeting my students as they pass, and pointing the lost ones in the right direction.
“You loitering?” I turn my head and see Layla Carter striding up, curls bouncing, textbook clutched to her chest, and that signature smirk tugging at her lips.
“I’m supervising. Preventing hallway shenanigans.”
“Uh-huh. You’re a good guy, Wesley.” She leans against the wall next to me. “How’s the team?”
“Allergic to punctuality, but they’ll shape up.” I glance at her. “You look like you survived first period without murdering anyone.”
“Barely. Seniors who think they’re too cool for Shakespeare. I might make them read it out loud in accents to humble them.”
“Evil,” I say, grinning. “I respect it.”
She bumps my arm with her elbow. “You’re in a good mood.”
“It’s the first day. Everyone’s pretending they care. It’s contagious.”
“Or maybe,” she drags out the words with that look I know too well. “You saw the new art teacher.”
I blink. “There’s a new art teacher? Huh. I figured Ms. Price would’ve stayed forever.”
“You didn’t notice her walking in earlier? Tall, gorgeous, pretty hair, dresses like she belongs in a magazine? And,” she adds, holding up a finger, “not white.”
My eyebrows go up. “Really?”
“Yep. Finally, someone else in this building who can understand why I side-eye half the PTA.”
“You saying I don’t count?”
“You’re Mississippi white, Nate.” I open my mouth to protest before she adds, already laughing at her own joke, “You’re unseasoned oatmeal.”
I run a hand through my brown hair.
She ain’t wrong.
“Yeah, yeah. So what’s her name?”
“Didn’t catch it. She looked new. Maybe not even from around here. But I’m calling dibs on being her best friend.”
“Already?”
“She had the vibe,” Layla says with a shrug. “Nervous, but grounded. And I don’t know… she seemed nice. I liked her.” She pauses, then adds in a sing-song voice, “Plus, she’s pretty.”
I nod, going along with it. I’ve learned not to question Layla’s instincts.
“I’ll have to keep an eye out.”
“Not too close an eye.”
I hold up both hands. “Relax. I’m reformed.”
“Please. When was the last time you got any? You’re retired.”
“Hey!” I shout, but she’s already peeling away from the wall and heading toward her classroom.
The final bell rings, so I head into the gym, muttering under my breath, “I’m not retired.”
I’m halfway down the hall, on my way to practice, when I spot her.
The most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
She’s tall, in a green dress that makes her brown skin glow. Her dark hair falls around her shoulders in these perfect waves that don’t even look like they took her hours to style.
Effortless.
And damn beautiful.
Layla’s words echo in my head, tall, gorgeous, dresses like she belongs in a magazine.
She wasn’t kidding.
This must be her.
I glance up at the clock, then back at her. I should be at practice by now, after all my complaining about the guys being late, but screw it.
I’m introducing myself.
She still hasn’t seen me, flipping through a stack of papers, chewing on her bottom lip. She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, still reading, like she doesn’t know my whole world is narrowed down to her.
I don’t know what I’m planning to say.
Welcome to Rosehill, maybe. Something stupid and Southern polite. Hopefully charming.
I’m halfway there when she finally lifts her head, and our eyes meet across the hall.