Chapter ten Damon
Chapter ten
Damon
Coach Paulson blows his whistle for probably the fiftieth time today, bringing practice to a grinding halt and stabbing pain to my eardrums. I admire his enthusiasm, but I may need to invest in some earplugs if I want to keep my hearing intact.
Coach steps off the sideline and gets right in the kid’s face.
“Carter!” he bellows. “Where is your head today? Do you actually like running line drills?”
Half the team groans at just the mention of more running. The other half is too winded from the cone dribbling they just finished to say anything.
“Why are you on my case today, Coach?” Carter argues, glaring daggers at Paulson while wiping sweat from his brow.
“Because you’re half-assing it, kid,” Coach answers, his frustration evident.
Paulson blows his whistle again, two quick chirps to signal dismissal, and I have to stifle my own groan of relief.
Coach is right; Carter’s been phoning it in all practice.
But if twenty laps around the gym, followed by thirty minutes of passing drills, followed by thirty more minutes of shooting drills and then ten minutes of cone dribbling didn’t drive the point home, it might be best to call it for everyone’s safety. They aren’t machines.
I cross the gym, collecting balls along the way, and arrange them on the rack next to the rest of the equipment. Carter’s still on the benches grabbing a water, visibly fuming.
The little shit has made my life hell for the past few weeks—talking back when I call plays, undermining any feedback I give to the team with snarky remarks that always get a laugh from the players.
I get that he’s just a kid, but…he’s surprisingly creative with his hurtful remarks.
It’s like he goes home, studies my stats, finds any weak points, and then needles me with those weak points until I seriously consider switching careers.
If basketball doesn’t work out, he could teach the CIA a thing or two about psychological warfare.
He’s just a kid, I remind myself for the hundredth time. Well, a kid and an asshole. But, asshole or not, something is clearly going on with him today. It’s my job to try to get to the bottom of it before things get any worse.
I grab my own water and sweat towel before making my way to sit next to him. He lets out a burdened sigh.
“What the hell do you want?” he spits in my direction.
“Watch it,” I warn. “Practice might be over, but I doubt Coach Paulson or Principal Reyes would appreciate you speaking to any teacher like that.”
Carter snorts and rolls his eyes.
“Teacher? I don’t see a teacher. I see a sorry excuse for an assistant coach and a failed pro baller.”
I wince.
“Straight for the jugular, as always.” He kicks the bleacher in front of him, but doesn’t storm off like he usually would. “Not that I don’t love being eviscerated by someone barely old enough to vote, but you seem particularly touchy today. Wanna talk about it?”
Carter rears back for another burn, and I raise my hands to hold him off.
“Now, I know you’ve got plenty of sick burns locked and loaded, some of which I’ll definitely be thinking about on the long ride home tonight,” I say with a rueful smile, “but maybe we could skip all the super fun banter and you just tell me what’s wrong.”
He stays quiet for a moment, considering my offer. I hold my breath. I’d give anything for a truce. My skin has grown pretty thick after years of grown men talking shit, trying to get in my head, but going back and forth with him every practice is exhausting, and preseason starts next month.
“My dad lost his job.”
Wow. I would’ve guessed he was being pissy for entirely selfish reasons, not because he was worried about his dad. He certainly doesn’t give a shit about anyone on the team.
“I’m sorry,” I reply. “That must be tough. But I’m sure he’ll find something soon.”
Running the clinics over the past few summers, I’ve had to talk with plenty of kids whose personal struggles were affecting their gameplay.
Being out of work might not be as bad as a family member getting incarcerated, drug addiction, or even neglect, but it can still rock a kid’s foundation.
I was lucky to come from a stable, supportive home, but for so many in this city, that’s not the case.
“That’s just it,” he responds, looking at me directly for the first time since I sat down. “He’s been out of work for months, and I just found out. They’ve been dipping into my college fund to make ends meet.”
Fuck. I don’t say the word aloud, but it must be written on my face, because he snorts again.
“Exactly. So now there’s even more pressure to play my ass off, because the only way I’m going to college is with a scholarship.”
He turns away, and we both go silent, looking at the now empty court. That kind of pressure is bound to fuck with anyone’s game. Thankfully, I know a thing or ten about dealing with pressure. I nudge his shoulder to get his attention.
“Hey. I’m really sorry about what’s going on at home.” He just shrugs. “How about I show you some techniques to help you be at the top of your game?”
He flops back against the bleachers behind him and throws one arm over his eyes.
“Not more drills!” he wails. “Between you and Coach, I won’t be able to walk by the end of the week.”
I chuckle.
“No more drills. I’m talking about mental techniques to help compartmentalize the bull—” I clear my throat and he smirks. “The nonsense, so you can focus on the game. I mean, I know I’m just a washed-up basketball player, but I’ve helped a few teammates get their heads back into the game.”
“You’d do that?” he asks, clearly suspicious.
“Why wouldn’t I? You think I can’t handle a little ribbing?” I raise an eyebrow. “Plus, I’m not doing it for free.”
He glares at me.
“I tell you my family is having money problems, and you turn around and try to charge me for…what? Counseling?”
I hold up my hands again.
“I’m not charging you in money,” I insist. “I want a truce. Ease up on me during practices, and on Coach and your teammates, too. You do that, and we can work on some tips. It’s definitely not counseling, but they’ve helped me.”
He eyes me up and down, then extends his hand.
“Deal.”
I shake it and mentally jump for joy. Thank God! I couldn’t take much more of this kid’s jabs. I reach for my phone.
“First, I want to show you an app I use—”
I falter mid-sentence when I see a text from Kendra on my screen.
Kendra
Kendra: Can we push it back 30min? My meeting with my agent ran long.
I start to respond before I remember I’m in the middle of a conversation. Carter looks amused.
“Hot date?” he asks. I feel my cheeks go red.
“No. Just grabbing dinner with a friend,” I lie.
“Right,” he replies, grinning. “I blush when I go out with my friends, too. My girlfriends,” he teases.
I rush to put my phone away.
“It’s getting late. We can pick this up before practice tom—”
“Ah, c’mon, Coach. I told you my personal sh—” He stops himself from cussing, and I bite down on my smile. “Stuff. Tit for tat, and all that.”
This kid doesn’t quit! He did actually share with me, though. What could it hurt?
“Alright,” I relent with a sigh. “Yes. I have a date. We’ve been talking for a while, but tonight is the first official date.”
“And you really like her,” he reasons, “seeing as how you almost forgot I was here when she texted.”
He’s smiling earnestly now, much more eager to talk about my love life than his mental health. He’s a student, though, so I need to nip this in the bud.
“OK, OK. You’re right. I like her a lot.” I stand and shoo him towards the locker room. “Now go get cleaned up, and we can pick up where we left off tomorrow afternoon.”
“Ahh,” he whines, but still grabs his things to go. “This was just getting good.”
I smile and shoo him again.
“Out, Carter. Unless you’re offering to stay late to analyze game tape with me and Coach?”
He rolls his eyes.
“Fine. See you tomorrow,” he grumbles, but he’s still grinning. Things are finally starting to look up.
When I take a seat in Paulson’s office, he has a knowing look on his face.
“I take it you had a talk with Hayes?” he asks. I nod, and I swear I see his lip quirk up. “‘Bout time. Just because you’re not head coach, doesn’t mean you need to let these kids walk all over you. You’re the right man for this job, and you have my support.”
With that, he turns to put on the game tape.
Like he didn’t just surprise the shit out of me.
I came into this job fully ready to claw tooth and nail to earn my place on this team.
There’s a special dynamic between head and assistant coaches, and sometimes, it gets ugly.
But here I am, working my first job after officially retiring, and I end up with a boss who just…
respects me. No questions asked. It’s unheard of, and I’m unusually quiet for the rest of our meeting.
All this time, I’ve been feeling like I was coming home in defeat. Like there was some truth in Carter’s many insults, no matter how much I pretended they didn’t bother me. But maybe Coach is right. Again.
I practically skip home, lighter than I’ve felt in months. I’m the right man for Centerpoint High. Maybe I could be the right man for Kendra, too.