7. Malcolm
When I accepted the job at Glendale, I was told I would never be forced to assist with extracurricular activities. I could focus on math. That’s it. But of course, my coworkers weaseled their way into my personal life and convinced me to lend a helping hand. Hence, the head coaching job for the football team. A temporary fill-in of sorts. And I was told I’d have help. I wouldn’t have to lift a finger except to point and yell at the players. A selling point for me.
Benny promised it would be an easy job until they found a permanent replacement. Just a few short months of staying at school late and spending my weekends on the field. Not my first choice of extracurriculars, but it would, “be over before you know it.”
I’m not a lazy person.
Or a selfish person.
I’d rather just spend my time doing what I want. And I’d rather do it alone.
But today, my time is being spent racing around in the pouring rain to pick up the fifty orange cones scattered across my football field. Getting soaked while my help cowers away underneath the roof of the team’s golf cart again is not my first choice of activities. She’s also using my jacket as a shield.
“Can we do this later?” Sarah Kim yells at me through the rain. I can’t even see her face underneath the pile of nonsense she’s thrown on top of herself.
“I’m sorry, are you cold?” I growl through the rain that pelts my face, swiping up the final cone and racing back to the cart. “You didn’t have to come out here, ya know.”
“What else was I supposed to do? You think I want to watch the team work out?” Her half-hidden face is unreadable to me when she asks this. Honestly, I’d rather not know what a seventeen-year-old girl is thinking—about anything.
“Don’t you have books you can read or something?” I start the golf cart and pull off the track toward the team building.
“That wouldn’t make a very good team manager, now would it?” She sticks her hand outside of the cart, the rain soaking her sleeve as we pull into the gravel parking lot. The girl was practically on the floor, hiding from the rain, a moment ago, and now she’s throwing her arm out in it? I will never understand teenagers.
“You’re not the team manager.”
“Assistant. Manager. Same thing in my mind.” She hops off the cart before I come to a complete stop. My heart jolts over the thought of a student injuring themselves on my watch, let alone a clutz like Sarah Kim, who couldn’t even catch a beach ball tossed to her.
She hoists up the stack of orange cones, dropping a few in the process, before sprinting inside the football gym and leaving me alone in the rain. A moment of solitude.
Indoor workouts are never ideal. The team gets stir crazy and about fifty percent of the time, I have to break up a fight. I can hear the yelling and grunting through the closed metal door and take a slow breath before heading inside.
Half of the guys are standing on their heads while a few others hurl wadded up socks at them. We’re supposed to be getting ready for camp, but today’s weather has put a damper on the week’s plans, and now I’m stuck inside with this.
My assistant coach for the spring, Bill the Janitor, is plopped inside the coach’s office, playing on his phone. He’s useless. The boys are acting rambunctious and childish, completely disregarding the workout I wrote for them to do on the board. I let out a sharp whistle, and they line up in formation in response.
“Alright, seeing as we can’t be trusted to follow instructions in my absence,” I project, “we’ll have to add a morning workout tomorrow to make up for lost time.”
The entire team groans in unison, with a few choice words said under their breath.
“Do you wanna make it two?” I bellow so loudly I feel my gut shake, and the room goes silent. “Bill, could you get out here, please?”
Without looking back over to Bill, I can hear him topple out of the swivel chair and race into the gym area with the rest of the team. “Hey, Coach. I was just letting the boys have some free time.” His grin is chummy and proud, and I have to remind myself that I don’t have the privilege of firing him.
“Ms. Kim!” I holler over my shoulder. Sarah rushes to my side. “Please set up the cones for sprints.”
Groans again.
“We do this, and we go home. Got it?”
The team nods in agreement and walks slowly over to the end of the indoor turf patch to line up for their turn. They look pitiful, and their enthusiasm from a few moments ago is gone. It almost bums me out. The gym has been an immense help with strength training and conditioning, especially during the off season, but there are days I want nothing more than to stay on the field for hours and watch the boys pummel each other.
The team begrudgingly starts sprinting back and forth in the normal sprint sequence as Bill shouts at them to run faster. I walk into the coach’s office and pull up the team roster and my work email when my phone buzzes in my pocket.
Kate: Can we talk?
I reread her text multiple times, waiting for a second text to come through. When it doesn’t, my throat starts to dry out and constrict. I can usually read Kate like a book, but after her behavior at our lunch meeting today, anxiety has been whirling in my gut like a bad burrito. I probably pushed her too far at the party.
My thumbs feel shaky as I type out a response.
Is everything alright?
Reasons to have a talk are swimming in my head. The probability that she wants to talk about the other night and the mistletoe is super high. I’m not as smooth as I want to be, so it’s quite possible she saw right through me. It’s possible Kate could tell how much it killed me to hold myself back in that doorway and not kiss her the way I’ve dreamt of kissing her for the last five years.
It’s also possible she has another date set up, and she wants to continue discussing it with me, as if I’m her gal pal and she needs to spill the tea regarding her dating life to me instead of her actual gal pals. If that’s the case, someone needs to come bust my kneecaps right now.
If it’s the latter, we have a problem. I finally have my chance to get out of this friend-zone vortex I’ve been sucked into. The best way I can do that is if Kate is single at camp.
She responds.
Kate:Not really ??
I crack my thumbs and respond.
Wafflin’ at 5?
Kate:Yes! I’ll see you there!
A knock at my door jolts my attention.
“Coach?” Garrett Connors is leaning into the doorframe for support as he heaves for air. He grips his bad knee and winces as he attempts to shake off the pain. The kid finally got cleared to join in conditioning after being benched for eight months after his injury last year, but it’s clear he needs to take it easy.
“Take a breather, Connors. End with some band work,” I tell him before returning my attention to my computer.
“Thanks, Coach,” he says through gasps.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch him walk unsteadily to the opposite side of the gym. Free weights, bands, and benches line the wall. A state-of-the-art weight rack is bolted to the wall perpendicular to where Connors sits.
“Yo, Coach! Why does he get a break?” Ethan Blake yells at me mid-sprint.
“Get your leg snapped, then come talk to me, Blake,” I bellow at him without looking up from my screen. I have twenty-eight exams to grade and a roster to finalize for camp. I check the time, 3:15, and calculate the amount of time I have to complete everything before I need to meet Kate.
Being a math teacher is boring on paper, but it’s the only thing that makes sense to me. You can solve almost anything with math. Hungry? Add food. Tired? Add sleep. Angry? Subtract whatever the hell makes you angry.
Over the top of my computer screen, I see a few guys cutting their sprints short and hopping to the back of the line.
Lazy?Add more sprints.
“Everyone starts from zero!” I shout through my glass window. A collection of groans, yells, and curses are said in response. “Thank your teammates!”
Everyone gasps and stumbles back to the starting line, plowing through the sprints faster than the first time. I join Bill on the side of the turf and watch the boys sprint back and forth. Devon Johnson finishes first and throws himself on the ground at the far end. He’s followed by Zane, my starting receiver, Marshall, our kicker, and Travis Van, my running back. One by one, they plow through the last sprint, cheering on their slower teammates and hounding the ones who should’ve finished faster.
Being the head coach for three years can be the bane of my existence some days, even if I do enjoy torturing some of these hotheads. But this team pulls me down memory lane far too often because, as much as I hate to admit it, they remind me of myself. I was a hothead not too long ago. And the only family I had were the guys in my unit. For years, nothing else mattered to me but the mission and those guys. When you’re young, it’s easy to forget that life can end in a moment.
Until you actually lose someone. Then it all changes.
One of the hardest damn lessons I’ve had to learn is accepting that life has to go on without some people.
The final player heaves himself past the rest of the team and hurls into the trash can. “Shake it off, Tim!” I yell, reviewing the roster from the doorway. “Strong work, but tomorrow let’s try to do what I have planned, alright?”
Mumbled responses agree, and I dismiss them with a wave.
“Yo, Coach! When will the camp roster be out?” Travis Van runs up to me, his crooked nose from the brawl he had with Devon last fall still an eyesore.
“End of the week. Camp is in three. You have plenty of time to prepare if that’s what you’re asking.” I head toward the door, leaving the mess for tomorrow and flipping the lights.
“So I actually get to—”
“Mr. Van,” I cut him off, “you are my top running back. The best in this district, according to some people. And I told you if you made improvements in your grades and stayed consistent with practice, the likelihood of attending this year was probable, correct?” He nods.
“Have you missed any practices?”
“No, sir.”
“Have your grades improved?”
“Yes, sir,” he says with pride.
“And those were the stipulations, correct?” He nods emphatically. “Without the roster being made, I cannot confirm nor deny your attendance.” His eyes begin to fall at this. “But…” I say quickly, and he perks back up, “seeing that I am a man of my word, maybe you can put two and two together, huh?” I meet his eyes, a hopeful gleam to them. “Now please, go home.”
He smiles and races out the front door, hopping into a bright-red sports car blaring some derogatory music as he peels out of the parking lot. Gravel sprays at my feet from the spin of his tires.
I sure hope I don’t regret this decision.
I get to the diner at the worst possible time—peak after-school hours. Everyone is here, stuffing their faces with waffles, the post-class rush of students swarming the counter to order and hogging the good seats by the window. I rub the sore spot between my neck and shoulder as I scope out a place to sit when a soft, delicate hand bursts into the air, beckoning me.
“Had to fight off a pack of wildlings for our spot, but I got it.” Kate beams at me with pride as I make my way into the booth seat across from her, a mug of black coffee on the table waiting for me. It’s these little deeds Kate does that tug at my heart. I wish I could hate it.
“My hero,” I say, chugging the coffee when a waiter I haven’t seen before approaches the table with two plates loaded with food.
“Vegan special. And pancakes.” His voice lingers on his words in confusion. Yes, I’m a freak for wanting pancakes from their waffle establishment. He stares at my plate, and I clear my throat. I have been ordering pancakes from this place for five years, and I refuse to fall into peer pressure to order their waffle special. Pancakes are superior, end of discussion.
“I got your usual,” she says behind fluffy lashes, fighting back a fit of giggles as the waiter finally leaves the table.
“You are too kind.” Her cheeks go pink as I hold her gaze.
She breaks eye contact first and focuses on her food. I resist the urge to keep staring at her like some kind of psychopath. I don’t know what it is about Kate Stanley that has me so damn fixated, but since the first day I laid eyes on her, I’ve been nothing but a fool.
Clearing my throat, I start working on my pancakes, doing my best to pretend I don’t notice her fidgeting fingers as she attempts to cut into her waffle.
My pancakes are practically gone by the time she meets my eyes again. “So…” she begins confidently, but then, as if someone just whispered in her ear to be quiet, she cuts herself off and presses her lips into a thin line. A pulse trembles up her jaw as she fights the urge to talk.
“Yes?” I ask with a mouth full of pancakes.
“I’m sorry about earlier.” She says it so fast I almost miss it. Fidgeting, she plucks at the prongs on her fork, and it sends a faint ringing reverberating in my ears. I roll my neck at the chill it sends down my spine.
“It’s alright.” Wiping my jaw and beard with my napkin, I smile. It really is alright. Was her behavior in our meeting weird? Yes. But that’s Kate in a nutshell: weird. I watch as her shoulders deflate in relief, then she straightens the salt and pepper shakers, hums a soft tune, and waves the fork around like she’s conducting a concert. She is lost in her own magical thoughts for a moment, one of those momentary daydreams she tends to fall into. I think they happen more often than she realizes. Another weird quirk of hers. Blinking back to the conversation, she blushes when she realizes I’m still watching her, and the pink of her cheeks sends a spark right into the center of my chest.
She’s weird in all the best ways.
“Are you sure? I acted like a crazy person! I don’t know why I did that.”
“It wouldn’t have anything to do with the other night, would it?”
Her fork clatters against her plate, sending bits of waffle flying toward the window. Kate’s eyes go wide as she chokes on her bite. She pounds the center of her chest in a poor attempt to suppress the choking. The struggle escalates when she starts gasping for air, and her face turns beet red. I hand her a glass of water, but her eyes avoid mine as she chugs. Once the water is drained, she fans herself and nervously bites her lip, embarrassment now the reason she’s as red as a tomato.
She lets out a soft, defeated breath, giving in. A defeated, you-got-me sigh that finally gives me my answer. It is about the other night.
“We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” I reassure her.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks in a whisper, still not meeting my eyes.
“Only if you want to.” Sipping my coffee, I refuse to smile back at the eye roll she gives me. “No pressure here, just an awkward mistletoe moment. Those tend to happen at parties, ya know.”
Leaning over across the table, she fixes her dark eyes on me, as if she’s looking into my brain for information. “We almost kissed, though.” She whispers it like she’s in a confessional, and she’s admitting her deepest, darkest offense.
“But we didn’t,” I whisper back dramatically. “Did you want me to kiss you?” If she says yes, I might jump across this table.
I have sat on the sidelines, witnessing the most perfect girl be just out of arm”s reach, patiently waiting for the moment she decides to give dating a go again so I could shoot my shot. When her chump of an ex broke her heart, I did the respectable thing and waited. That plan failed when she decided to “swear off men” and announced “all men who tried dating her after a three-year relationship were impatient pigs.” Clearly, I didn’t want to be labeled as a pig in her mind, so I bided my time. I endured the friend zone in some of the most humiliating ways, attending a Taylor Swift concert being the worst. I went from having zero chickens to having thirty-six chickens because of this dang woman. I went from enjoying medium-rare steak three times a week to only eating steak on Thursdays because that apparently makes sense to her. I never even questioned her reasoning.
I’ve worked on myself and gone to therapy to work on my issues, finally coming to the conclusion that maybe being in a relationship isn’t the worst possible thing that could happen to me.
And it all started with Kate Stanley.
Seems pathetic, doesn’t it? That a woman like Kate, so quirky and opinionated, can sway a guy like me. But damn if she isn’t one of the most irritatingly motivating people I have ever met. I’d probably be holed up like a hermit, struggling with my demons until I keeled over in my recliner at the age of eighty-seven, if she hadn’t pestered me so much. Sure, her constant pushing can be a tad overbearing—grating your nerves, even—but you get used to it.
She still hasn’t answered my question. “Well? Did you?”
“What? No!” My words fluster her even more as she waves her fork in the air and gives me a nonchalant pft sound that is less than convincing. “I don’t— Did you?” she stutters then points her fork at me accusingly. A tad jittery about this, Kate.
I give her a wink, and I swear I see her hold her breath. “Maybe.”
A mixture of noises and breaths sputter out of her like a backfiring engine. “I didn’t …” Her words hang in the air, trailing off as she releases a shaky breath.
Didn’t what?
She anxiously gnaws on her bottom lip, lingering on a potential I didn’t want to kiss you. The thought of her rejecting me, right here in the middle of Wafflin’, sends warning signals blaring in my head. Even when she has the power to gut me from the inside out, I can’t look away from her. A pitiful and borderline desperate feeling of hope pulses in my chest.
As if some higher power out there knows I need saving, a ping on my phone grabs my attention. Checking it, I let out a groan. “Dammit.”
“What’s wrong?” Kate asks, the awkward tension in the air floating away as she leans across to eye my phone.
I rub my temple at the nuisance of a companion I have waiting for me at home. I need to get rid of this damn chicken. Disgruntled, I say, “Nugget got out again.”