Chance
“You’re running them pretty hard, don’t you think, Coach?”
Coach Asher—who’s pretty much told me no one is allowed to call him by his first name—shoots a glare my way and then continues to run these kids ragged. It’s hot as hell out here today.
August in Western Kansas will melt your damn face off.
The guys are running around in pads in a hundred-degree heat and looking pretty damn worn-out, but Coach doesn’t seem too worried about it.
I’m sure he played high-school ball. Hell, what high-school football coach didn’t? And yeah, he’s a little older than me—my guess would be around ten years or maybe a little more.
I didn’t ask or look him up. Maybe I should have, but as someone who’s been denied the kindness of privacy over the past year, I decided to bestow that grace on him for now.
Even if it’s been nearly twenty years since he played, he has to remember what these grueling summer practices were like. Your chest burning. Your muscles aching. Feeling dizzy and sick to your stomach like you’re going to puke or pass out. I’ve seen plenty of players pass out.
“Coach.”
He aims those eyes my way—pale blue and full of anger and disappointment. I can see why these kids listen when he speaks. He screams authority. And normally, that would be intriguing to me, but I don’t need another scandal, nor do I need to be knocked out by some good ole boy.
So I try like hell not to notice how his red t-shirt clings to muscles he shouldn’t be allowed to have as a high-school football coach. Most of the ones I know have dad-bods to the extreme, but not Coach Asher.
He’s not cut or nearly as defined as I am, but it’s obvious he’s taken care of himself with strong arms and a flat stomach.
His hair is dark-blond with no traces of gray, and he only has a couple of wrinkles near his eyes, which leads me to my assessment of him being around thirty-five, maybe a little older.
“What is it, Leighton?”
Another thing—he refuses to call me Coach Leighton. No. It’s only Leighton with him, and I know he knows it irks me. But I don’t think that Noah Asher has ever cared about pissing anyone off.
From what I can tell, he seems to be a god around here. The kids he coaches seem to fall at his feet. The principal sang his praises when he hired me. Hell, even the ladies at the local grocery market wouldn’t stop gushing about that Coach Asher when I told them why I’d moved to Kensley.
But what I can’t figure out is why the man is so damn surly.
He seems to have it all, as far as I can tell, but he’s a grump. There’s really no other way to put it.
“I’m here to assist you.”
Coach walks closer to me, crowding in my space and probably trying to intimidate me, but all it really does is force me to examine his far too good-looking face.
He’s clean-shaven, and keeps his dark-blond hair short.
His lips are bright red and full, the bottom lip especially, giving him a far too pouty look for such a stern man.
“So assist.”
“I’m trying,” I point out. “You won’t listen to me. They’ve had enough for the day.”
He eyes me angrily, clearly not used to anyone calling him out. “Their first game is in two weeks. That’s it. I’m getting them ready. Football doesn’t care about the heat. In fact, we thrive in the heat. We push through.”
I shake my head. “Until they pass out.”
“You’re questioning my ability to judge? I’ve been coaching for nearly twenty damn years, kid.”
“Not. A. Kid,” I say. And huh, if he’s been coaching that long, does that mean he’s forty? No way.
Probably just trying to make a point.
“Oh, you’re a damn kid. Trust me.” He gets in my face even more and points at my chest. “Out here, I’m in charge. I make the damn calls. Do you hear me?”
My teeth grind as I clench my jaw and try like hell to not tell him off. I need this job. I need this job. I need this job.
“I hear you.” I bite my tongue when he turns back toward the field, shouting a new command, but thankfully, it only lasts a few more minutes before he calls it a day with instructions to come back tomorrow.
I didn’t think this was going to be an easy job. Coming from Big Bend to Kensley was nearly enough to kill me, in and of itself. Kensley and Big Bend hate each other. Always have, always will.
Big Bend was my home. I was born and raised there. Played football there and was a damn god while I did. And I hated Kensley with a passion, just on principle. Because I accepted, like everyone else does, that this is just the way it is.
But now . . .
Now, I have no home in Big Bend. I have nothing left.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not a traitor, but I need this job. I need a home, and for whatever reason, Kensley was the place to offer that.
So here I am, and I have to try like hell to make it work.