Chapter 23 #2
“Of course I have,” I say. “If we can’t renovate the gym or any of our playing fields by next fall, Stony Peak’s teams will definitely suffer. We may lose a coach or two. Players want the best facilities. Coaches want the best players. But we’ll survive. We always do.”
Sayla squirms. “That option doesn’t sound good to me, Dex.”
“Yeah. Me either.”
“It’s not even about winning anymore,” she says. “I don’t want either of us to lose.”
“Same.” My voice is gravel. “But we can’t split the money. That’s part of the conditions of the grant. And the truth is, half the lump sum wouldn’t do justice to either of our projects. We’d just be slapping Band-Aids on gushing wounds that need surgery.”
“Speaking of which.” She digs in her bag for a bandage to wrap around her thumb, and my heart aches at the outward evidence of the anxiety on her insides. I just want to take the stress away from her, but I can’t. When she’s done, she looks over at me again. “So what do we do now?”
I think for a moment. Shrug. There really is no easy answer. “I guess we hold our breath, hope for the best, and agree to accept the outcome no matter what happens. Or …” I let my sentence trail off.
“Or what?”
“Or one of us could defer to the other.”
Sayla’s upper body goes ramrod straight, like she’s wearing a coat hanger under her sweatshirt. “Please tell me that wasn’t your goal all along.”
“What are you talking about?”
“We both came here prepared to do whatever it takes to get this grant.” She pulls her sweater more tightly around her. “Was a part of you hoping I’d fall for you and just … give up?”
My throat constricts so tight the words strangle in there. “You’re asking if I kissed you as some kind of ploy? If I’ve been faking my feelings for you?”
Let alone the terror I felt in those brief moments you were missing …
“I don’t want to think that,” she says on a shaky breath.
“Well, I’m telling you, Sayla. My word means something.”
“Men always say that until they don’t mean the words anymore.”
I grip the wheel, white knuckling through my frustration. “I’m not one of the guys your mom dated,” I grit out. “When I make a promise, I keep it.”
Sayla sucks in a breath and goes perfectly still.
“I’m sorry.” I shift my jaw. “I just meant that some of us do have integrity. So please don’t judge me by a past I had nothing to do—”
My phone starts ringing in the cupholder. The contact for Mountain Valley School District scrolls across my screen. I glance at Sayla, not wanting to get cut off in this moment.
“That could be about the grant,” she says. “Maybe Mr. Wilford told them about his decision.”
“You want me to take the call?”
She gulps. Nods.
To show her I’ve got nothing to hide, I answer on speaker. “Dexter Michaels here.”
“Good morning, Dexter.” I can’t identify the woman’s voice, but it’s pitched high and flinty. “This is Elsa Dewey.”
I peek at Sayla. If the superintendent’s calling me about the grant money, this could be bad news for her. “Hey, Dr. Dewey. What can I do for you?”
“I’m more interested in what I can do for you,” she says. “You may be aware of some rumors circulating about Jeremy Wright over at Harvest High. That he’s leaving the district?”
I squint out over the dashboard. Confused. Jeremy’s their head basketball coach and athletic director. But what’s this got to do about the FRIG? “Yeah, I heard some whispers,” I say. “But I try not to listen to gossip.”
“Well, the rumors are true,” she says. “He just got an official offer from UNC, and he’ll be headed there as part of their coaching team next semester.”
“Wow. So soon? Good for him.”
“Yes, well, we’re awfully proud of him here at the district.” She takes a beat. “We also think you’d be an excellent replacement for him as athletic director at Harvest High.”
I force a half laugh, half scoff. She can’t be serious. “Thanks. But I already have a job at Stony Peak.”
“And we sure do love our Gray Squirrels,” Dr. Dewey says. “But I’m offering you the Bobcats, Dexter.”
“Why would I want to switch schools midyear?”
Or ever, for that matter?
“I hardly have to tell you that Harvest High has a stronger sports department right now. Superior athletes. Better coaches.”
“That’s because they’ve had a lot more money funneled into their program in the past few years,” I push back.
“Yes, and you’ve done a wonderful job with the more limited resources at your disposal.”
“Which is why I should stay where I’m needed,” I say.
“Dexter.” She clucks. “They’ve had you as their advocate for six years now.
And frankly, Harvest High is due for their accreditation next year.
So after Stony Peak earns a four-year revisit this fall, I’d love to see you over at Harvest High in the spring, helming their committee, and doing for that school what you’ve already done for Stony Peak. ”
And there it is. This is for the district’s benefit.
Not mine.
Still, her thinking I’ve got that much influence is a compliment. And I can take the praise without taking the job. “I appreciate the support.” I run a hand over my beard. “But I’m happy at Stony Peak. And, more importantly, I’m loyal to them.”
“Just one of the many reasons why you’re so valuable to the district, Dexter.”
I blow out a breath. Man. She’s not making this easy on me. “It’s just that I have big plans for the department I need to see through.”
“I assume you’re referring to the grant money,” she says. “As you know, Larry Wilford insisted on controlling that decision. He’s got something to prove, I suppose. But that’s all part of the games we play.”
“I’m not a game player, Dr. Dewey.”
“Then move over to Harvest High and you won’t have to worry about the funding,” she insists. “Everything there is brand-new and state-of-the-art. There’d be no more competition for cash. Game over.”
Sayla draws in a long breath, and I can practically hear the gears cranking in her head. She’s got to be thinking that if I left Stony Peak, the performing arts department would get the grant by default. I’m not even sure that’s how it would work. Still. She must be coming out of her skin.
“Who would you get to replace me midyear at Stony Peak?” I ask, not because I’m considering the switch. I’m just more blown away by the fact that Dewey thinks it’s an option. And I need her to see it’s not.
“We thought we could promote your girls’ volleyball coach. Brynn Granger.”
“Brynn’s great,” I say. “But her maternity leave starts in November, and she’s not planning to come back for at least a year.”
“Well, then, we’d have to post the position,” she says. “Surely there are any number of people vying to be the next Dexter Michaels.”
“Again, I’m flattered, but—”
“Don’t answer me now,” she interrupts. “I know you’ve been away at the retreat Larry Wilford planned, and you’ve got the accreditation coming up. I’ll be seeing you then anyway. In the meantime, keep the idea simmering in the background.”
“I don’t—”
“Simmer, Dexter. Simmer.”
“All right, Dr. Dewey. Thank you.”
“No, thank YOU. Because I’m confident in the end, you’ll do the right thing.”
“That’s always my—”
“Wonderful. Talk soon.”
Superintendent Dewey ends the call.
I hazard a glance at Sayla, whose eyes are bright with fresh hope. “Dex. This is incredible!” She’s practically hopping in her seat. Meanwhile, my guts dip and twist like an amusement park rollercoaster.
“Yeah. I guess it would be.” Except for the part where I’d never leave Stony Peak for Harvest High. But I don’t want to break her heart, either.
I go quiet, considering my options, but Sayla doesn’t notice. She’s busy gushing about what a great school Harvest High is. And how we’d be working just ten minutes away from each other, but not actual coworkers anymore. Plus, I’d have all the funding I needed, and no gym renovation to worry about.
Win-win-win.
Her three favorite words.
“We still have to focus on the SACSS for the next few weeks,” she concludes. “But after that, the future could be wide open for both of us.”
“Focus on the SACSS,” I echo. “Right.”
The thought of crushing Sayla’s dreams—now that she thinks they’re an easy reality—is absolutely killing me. So in the end, I know there’s only one choice I can make.
Or only one choice I’m willing to make.
I may not get the results I want, but in the words of Michael Scott, stealing from the great Wayne Gretzky, you miss one hundred percent of the shots you don’t take.
So I’ll have to trust my aim.
And either way, Sayla won’t see it coming.