Chance
It’s so damn weird to be dressed in black and red. Not sure I’ll ever get used to this, but it is what it is. I walk into the locker room, ready for the team to come through the doors at any minute. But instead, I hear a retching sound echoing through the room.
I’m stunned stupid when I hear a toilet flush and then see Coach walk out of the stall, wiping at his mouth. His expression is stern when we lock eyes. Neither of us moves or says a word for entirely too long.
I finally get my brain to work and ask, “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he says briskly, walking over to the sink to wash his hands. I don’t miss him cupping water into those hands and bringing them to his mouth, swishing and spitting to likely get rid of the taste of vomit.
“Are you sure?” I have to ask. He looks pale but not really sick. If I had to say it was anything, I’d say nerves are making him sick to his stomach, but that can’t be right.
The man is tough as nails.
“Yes. I’m sure.” He glares at me, annoyance and fury filling his eyes like I’m used to. “I’m fine. Get your head in the game, Leighton. I’m not what you need to be worried about.”
I fight rolling my eyes at him and this big brute routine, barely managing to do that just as the first few members of the team burst into the locker room to get ready for the game.
It’s hectic after that, getting these guys ready to go out on the field. Hyping them up and enduring the glares from at least half of them because I’m a—gasp—Bear. But for the most part, it’s uneventful until we get out on the field.
It’s our first home game, and the crowd is wound up and ready. You can hear them cheering and hooting and hollering. Ready for football season. It’s still warm out, even though it’s seven at night and the sun is still in the sky but starting to lower, leaving an orangish purple hue.
The game is going fairly well for the most part, and I’m getting my bearings as the new assistant coach.
That is, until the fourth quarter.
We’re behind by a touchdown, and Coach Asher looks two seconds away from blowing a gasket.
Seriously, if he turns anymore purple, I’d worry he’ll pass out.
One of the linemen in particular is getting a rather harsh verbal beatdown when I can’t take it anymore.
“Coach,” I say loudly as I make my way over to him.
The lineman, Jackson, doesn’t dare look at me, instead keeping his eyes trained on his head coach. But Coach Asher turns his steely glare at me. “What?” he barks.
I’m not backing down from a little harsh tone. “It’s enough, don’t you think?”
He turns back to Jackson. “Do you think it’s enough? Are you ready to go back out there and play this game using all the talent and ability you were given? Are you ready to use your damn head?”
The poor kid looks like he’s shaking. I mean, he’s really huge for high school. Bigger in frame than the coach, but it’s clear he doesn’t want to be on his bad side. “Yes, Coach. I’m sorry. I’m ready.”
“He’s ready,” I reiterate.
“Go,” Coach says to the kid, who doesn’t waste time putting his helmet back on and heading out onto the field. But now Coach’s attention is on me. “Why don’t you stick to your job, Leighton?”
“I’m doing my job. I’m the assistant coach.”
He folds his arms, staring out at the field as the whistle blows and the next play goes off. But we’re stopped again. Almost instantly. And Coach curses under his breath, his face going back to that dark red.
“Jackson!” he shouts out at the kid and immediately has his attention. “Get your head in the game.”
Jackson nods, and I stand with my arms folded over my chest next to Coach. “It’s their first game.”
“And they need to win. They need to build their confidence.” He doesn’t look at me, of course, but finally Jackson protects the quarterback, who throws a beautiful pass down the field. It’s run in for a touchdown, and the entire crowd roars.
It’s so damn loud, I wish I had earplugs. Except I live for this. Or I used to. I’ve always loved football. It’s kind of hard not to, growing up around here, but I was afraid I’d lose my love for the game after what happened.
I didn’t.
No. My dumb ass is smiling just as bright as the rest of the home crowd. And when we pull out the win, my chest is swelling with pride. They may have always been the enemy, but it doesn’t stop me from wanting to see these kids succeed.
And the locker room after the game is alive with ruckus and cheer. With talks of after-game parties that Coach Asher and I pretend not to hear. They’re going to celebrate.
They should. At least as long as they’re safe. Coach Asher is still in a pissy-ass mood, though, making sure to lecture them all about their piss-poor playing at the beginning of the game.
I’m not sure why he’s being so tough on them right now though. Coach Asher has a tough reputation, no doubt about it, but something seems off.
Something I plan to talk to him about. But before I can get a word with him, he’s gone, and I’m even more frustrated. I don’t know why I care so much, but the combination of him very obviously being sick before the game and the way he was acting on the field has me concerned, to say the least.
When I walk out to my car after everyone else has left, I’m once again shocked to my core when I see a dark-haired petite woman with her arms wrapped around Coach’s neck.
I don’t know why, but there’s an uncomfortable hot feeling deep in my chest as I watch him hug her and the truly joyful smile on his face as he kisses her forehead, then walks her to his truck. I swear I even hear him chuckle before he closes the passenger-side door.
I’m not sure why it irks me, but despite his little hookup tonight, I’m going to make him talk to me about the game tomorrow.
I can’t and won’t just let this go.