6. Grace
Grace
The scoreboard clock bleeds red, ticking down the final ten seconds of a tie game. The gym is a cavern of screeching sneakers and rhythmic chanting, the air thick with the scent of popcorn and adolescent sweat.
I perch on the end of the bottom bleacher beside the team, my notebook braced against my thigh and my pen hovering as I watch Hartley. He isn’t pacing like the opposing coach, rather he’s a statue in a navy pullover, arms folded over his chest.
One of his players—a scrawny kid with ears too big for his head—fumbles a pass and the boy’s face crumbles in real time. Hartley doesn’t yell, only whistles once, sharp and clean. When the kid looks over, Hartley simply nods, a single, firm tilt of his chin that says get it back.
The kid lunges, and in a blink, he steals the ball. The buzzer wails as the layup rolls around the rim and drops in. The gym explodes with a mixture of cheers and groans.
I’m nearly knocked off my feet by a sea of navy-and-gold jerseys as the team swarms the court. I fight for a better vantage point, my heart doing that annoying, bubbly thud against my ribs again.
Hartley is in the center of the chaos, being jostled, clapped on the back, and surrounded by a team that clearly adores him.
He grabs the scrawny kid by the back of the neck, pulling him into a brief, rough hug.
He says something into the boy’s ear—something quiet that makes the kid stand two inches taller.
The image startles me back into motion as I flip to a fresh page and start taking real notes, my pen flying. I record how Hartley shifts between stern and encouraging, how these boys straighten their spines the second he speaks, and how he doesn’t need to raise his voice to command the room.
He’s good at this. Better than he realizes. Better than he’ll probably ever admit.
The Vitale piece in LA feels a thousand miles away, and while still important, my guiding star, this isn’t the profile of a washed-up adrenaline junkie looking for a second act. This is a man building something.
Hartley looks up then, his gaze cutting through the crowd like a searchlight until it lands on me.
The heat from earlier is still there, but now it’s tempered by the adrenaline of the win.
He doesn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth twitches before the coach of the other team taps him on the shoulder.
I snap my notebook shut, my pulse still humming.
On our way back to Winslow Grove, the odd cocktail of leather, sweat, adolescence, and adrenaline infuses the air. It shouldn’t be comforting, but it is. The boys fill the space with jokes and overlapping shouts, voices ricocheting like loose basketballs.
This time, I sit near the front of the bus, notebook braced on my knee, pretending to jot observations while mostly trying not to laugh. A row ahead, Hartley occupies the seat across from the driver, legs stretched into the aisle, clipboard balanced on one thigh.
His sleeves are pushed to his elbows, forearms flexing. “Keep it down, gentlemen. If you scare Mr. Powell off, I’m the one who has to drive you home.”
The driver chuckles, shaking his head as a chorus of apologies erupts, none accompanied by actual volume control. A smile threatens the corners of my mouth.
He glances back, catching me mid-amusement, and his stormy, gunmetal gray eyes draw me in. “You enjoying the pandemonium, Buchanan?”
“Very much.” I rest my pen against my lips. “It’s nice seeing you in your natural habitat. You almost look happy.”
“Almost?” One dark brow inches up. The corner of his mouth follows. “Don’t start psychoanalyzing me again.”
I lift the pen like a peace offering—or a challenge. Hard to tell. “Just observing.”
He mutters something under his breath before focusing back on his team.
Outside, night has claimed the mountains, leaving them in deep blue shadow beneath a starry sky. The win from tonight’s game buzzes through the bus with stories of close shots, clutch rebounds, and one kid insisting he definitely didn’t foul. He did.
The warmth of it fills the air, messy and alive, and it feels like everything my house in LA isn’t. For a moment—one reckless, vulnerable second—I imagine belonging to something this simple. Celebrating little victories. Believing that showing up and giving a damn is enough.
Just then, the bus jerks, and a shout erupts from the back row, sharp and panicked, as the laughter dies.
Hartley braces with one hand on the cracked leather of the seat, his posture tightening like someone pulled a cord inside him.
The relaxed coach is gone, and in his place is that man of steel and torque, eyes scanning outside for the source of the trouble.
Mr. Powell’s frown deepens as he coasts the bus onto the shoulder. “That didn’t sound good.”
Understatement of the year.
A cough of smoke sputters from the hood, and the whole vehicle shudders to a final, wheezing stop. Silence stretches, thick and uneasy, through the bus.
Hartley releases a long, controlled breath. “Everyone stay put.” His gaze flicks to me, sharp and assessing. “You okay?”
“I’m fine. What do you think it could be?”
“No clue yet.” He’s already moving, grabbing a flashlight strapped above the driver’s seat and heading for the door.
Cold night air rushes in as the seal of the door hisses open. Mr. Powell stays planted behind the wheel, features calm in a resigned this-always-happens-to-me sort of way.
I ease closer, sliding my hand into the back pocket of my jeans. “Please tell me you know something about buses besides how to drive them.”
“Uh… nope.” He leans down, digging for something beside his seat. “But there might be something in here.”
The bus driver lifts a binder like it’s the Holy Grail of bus repair as a chill skates down my spine.
Great. We’re stranded in the wilderness with a coach, a little over a dozen teenage boys, a binder, and a flashlight. What could possibly go wrong?
Mr. Powell flicks on the dim overhead light and squints down at an ancient black binder. Thick, dusty, and smelling faintly of mildew, the thing looks like it predates the moon landing, and there’s zero chance it includes a “download our app” section for roadside assistance.
I pull out my phone, but the bars are gone. Dead air. The signal out here is spotty at best, and right now, it’s non-existent.
The boys murmur behind me, restless energy bouncing off the bus walls, and I peer out the window. The road cuts through farmland that stretches into oblivion. Mountains on the horizon. No houses. No headlights. Just us, a broken-down tin can, and the Montana version of the void.
Ten minutes drag by, and Mr. Powell is still buried in yellowing pages like he’s parsing ancient scripture.
Meanwhile, Hartley is half-swallowed by the hood of the bus, his flashlight beam slicing the dark in quick, frustrated bursts. His muttered swear slips out into the open air, low, irritated, and entirely unbothered by whether the kids hear him.
Curiosity pricks at me like a rash.
I stand and pace the narrow aisle, knowing I should stay put. I should stay in the relative warmth of the cabin. I go outside anyway.
The cold hits instantly, sliding under my blazer and settling into my bones. The only light comes from the bus’s emergency flashers pulsing like a mechanical heartbeat and the narrow beam gripped in his hand.
“Any luck, Coach?”
He doesn’t glance my way, only grunts under the hood. “Working on it.”
Some of the boys mash their foreheads to the windows behind me, breath fogging the glass. He knows they’re watching, and the pride in his spine tightens a notch, swelling like a bruise that’s been hit.
He angles the flashlight downward. “Battery’s dead. Maybe alternator. Could be wiring.”
“So… no.”
His eyes flick toward me, one second, stormy, sharp, and radiating irritation. “You want to help? Know anything about engines?”
“No. But I know the five stages of denial when I see them.”
“Go back inside, Buchanan.”
I fold my arms, planting my boots firmly in the gravel beside him. “The boys are getting antsy.”
“I’ll handle it.” The stubbornness in his tone could power the bus better than the dead battery.
“You at least have a number to call for roadside assistance? Anyone?”
His silence is answer enough.
I rub my arms, the friction doing absolutely nothing to generate heat. “No one? Not even Wren?”
He wipes his grease-stained hands on his jeans, his jaw ticking. “I’m not pulling her away from her evening.” His expression softens by a fraction, a brief crack in the armor. “It’s an important night. She’s in Helena.”
That’s interesting.
“And the principal?”
Before he can answer, Mr. Powell calls out from the warmth of the bus. “All I’ve got is the school’s main line, not sure if it’s still accurate, and the bus company had a number in here—”
We both turn as he steps down to join us, waving a crumpled sheet of paper like it personally offended him.
He keeps his voice low, glancing back at the windows full of teenagers. “It’s for emergencies, but… I doubt it works. This thing is from the eighties. Besides, we’re told to follow the policies of whatever school we’re driving for.”
Of course. Because a bureaucratic, cover-your-ass loophole is exactly what we need in the middle of a biting Montana night.
“Thanks for trying.” Hartley’s jaw is still iron. “Even if the school line is correct, it’ll do no good at this hour. No one will be there.”
“Don’t suppose you have a number we could call?” The driver scratches awkwardly at his jaw.
“I should …” Hartley trails off, glancing into the darkness as if the admission is a physical weight. “But I don’t. Sorry, Mr. Powell. Stay warm on the bus. I’ve got this.”
The driver nods and retreats inside.
I wait until Powell is out of earshot, then shift closer, watching Hartley’s breath fog the air between us. “So, what’s the plan, Coach?”
His hand curls around the edge of the hood, tension rippling up his arm. “I’ll figure it out.”