Chapter 7 Colson
seven
Colson
I can’t believe I’m actually walking toward the rec center. Actually, I can. It’s Evan’s fault—tiny human with his too-big glasses and the story about his mom bribing him with my jersey. Him talking about his mom had my chest cracking open.
Then it was his brother, and his class; how excited he was to be in front of me was like a glimmer of light in the darkness. For a moment, I wasn’t the guy who yelled at his coach on national television. I wasn’t the screwup or the potential has-been. I was somebody’s favorite.
And you don’t say no to a kid who says something like that. Not when your mom once saved up her tip money to surprise you with your first NBA jersey when you were about his age.
Now I’m here, standing outside the gym, hands shoved deep in my pockets, giving myself one last out. I could turn around right now. Walk back to the house. Make it clear this was nothing but a momentary lapse in judgment. Hell, they probably expect me to back out.
As if he has the best timing to ever exist, the door opens and Evan’s face peers through. “Coach Sadie told me to make sure you weren’t stuck out here. Said you might need a little encouragement.”
The way his tiny voice almost stumbles over the word encouragement. I’m definitely not going back to the house. Coach Sadie. Fuck, how does she know me like this?
“No, I’m not stuck. I’m coming in,” I say, and with each word, the little boy’s eyes light up.
Evan opens the door further. “I told her you would. Colson Burke wouldn’t let us down.”
I’m going to melt into this floor. Evan is being too fucking nice to me right now. Part of me wonders if this is truly all him or if he had some specific coaching before he came to find me.
I take a couple steps in and the second I’m all the way inside, the chorus of small voices nearly rattles the windows.
I sigh, mutter a curse under my breath, and muster all the energy I’ll need for this.
“Say hi to Coach Colson.” Sadie’s sing-song voice cuts through the excitement.
And like they’ve said it a hundred times, all the kids call in unison, “Hi, Coach Colson!”
I lift my finger up and mouth ‘one time’ to Sadie. She nods, her dark blonde hair in a ponytail kissing her shoulders.
Sadie blows her whistle and all the kids' eyes go to her, like their heads are on a swivel. She looks at me over the top of the clipboard, eyebrows raised like she can’t believe I showed. When she flashes me a smile, my knees try to wobble.
Fucking traitors.
We’re warming up after a halftime snack when I see a kid who hasn’t made a shot all day.
“Hey, keep your elbow in when you shoot,” I tell him. “Makes your release more stable.”
He tries it. The ball arcs perfectly and swishes. His entire face lights up. It’s like the made shot took a piece of my resolve with it.
I drift from kid to kid, giving quick tips and gentle corrections.
They’re eager to hear from me and are more patient than I was at this age.
This used to be one of my favorite things—working with kids at the camps my team would offer.
I used to be one of those kids. My mom would sign me up for anything and everything basketball related—scraping together all of her leftover tip money from waiting tables to fund it.
My body remembers how to do this—how to teach the basics, how to encourage without overthinking it. My heart remembers, too, even though I wish it didn’t.
When I straighten up after making my rounds, talking to each of the players, Sadie’s watching me. In a way that makes me feel seen, which is dangerous territory.
She walks over and says, “You’re good with them.”
I grunt. “It’s just one practice.”
“Mm-hm.” Her brows press into her forehead.
“I mean it.”
“Oh, I believe you,” she lies cheerfully.
I want to argue, but then someone's hands tug on my shirt.
“Can you come back tomorrow?” a little girl asks, blonde hair in two pigtails, who did a couple cartwheels while waiting for her turn during a drill.
Jesus Christ. The timing.
I swallow. “We’ll… see.”
The little girl smiles, while trying to dribble the ball between her legs a few feet ahead of us.
The next hour flies by. The kids leave sweaty, red-faced, and carrying the kind of happy exhaustion only three hours of running around can cause.
When it’s only us, Sadie waves at me. I start walking toward the back door, kids and parents still out front probably getting situated. “So…” she calls after me, “see you tomorrow?”
I don’t turn around. “I didn’t say I’m coming tomorrow.”
“Right,” she answers, voice bright and almost echoing through the gym. “I’ll mark you down as Definitely Showing Up.”
I stop at the door, fighting the urge to smile. “I’m not coming tomorrow.”
Her hands lift in faux surrender. “Absolutely. I’ll make sure the back door is unlocked in case you want to sneak in.”
I shake my head, push open the back door, and step into the afternoon sun.
I’m not coming back. I’m not. Probably not.
Fuck.
Okay, yeah, I’m screwed.