13. Malcolm
You”re weak.
It’s all I’ve heard swarming inside my head since early this morning, when I woke up with Kate hovering above me, pulling me out of my nightmare.
The desert. The bullets. My friend.
Pounding my fourth cup of coffee, I will myself to stay awake for the first of many coaching meetings today. Of course my brain would decide to rebel and throw me into a traumatizing dream the week I’m away from home, with my therapist out of town.
They were getting better. Not the nightmares themselves—they’ll probably always be the same—but they were happening less and less. I thought that was good enough, but clearly I’m an idiot.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
Kate: Are you sure you’re ok??
I pinch the bridge of my nose, the migraine from lack of sleep and not enough water making itself known. Of course I’m not okay. The sheer fact that I had another nightmare, the first in weeks, is answer enough. But adding in the fact that Kate saw me have a nightmare? I can’t stomach the pity she must have felt for me.
Rolling and cracking my neck, I respond.
Shouldn’t you be paying attention, Coach Stanley?
I’m thankful our coaching meetings are separate today. I put my phone back in my pocket and try to focus. Coach Dawson reviews the year”s statistics, and a feeling swells up inside of me when I see two of my guys at the top of that list.
Is that excitement I’m feeling? Shut that down, Geer.
I could strangle Benny for begging me to be head coach four years ago. And I could strangle myself even harder for staying head coach this long. This was supposed to be a temporary situation with an easy out anytime I wanted. But nope. I had to let myself get attached to these kids and this team.
My lieutenant would have my neck if he knew how mushy I was becoming because of a few teenagers. I should have my own neck.
“Geer, would you like to lead our scrimmage this afternoon?” Coach Miles, a man who definitely aged out of his role a few seasons ago, asks from the side of the room.
No, I do not want to lead the scrimmage. Everyone waits expectantly as I take a slow sip. I am a strict no-helping-hand person around here, and I will not cave. Do. Not. Cave. Geer.
“Sure.”
I’m pathetic.
“Fantastic! We will see you all this afternoon,” Miles announces, effectively ending our meeting. The few of us standing against the back wall pile through the door before the typical post-meeting chit-chat finds us.
“How ya doin’, Geer?” a coach asks me as we make our way back to the hotel lobby. I can’t remember this guy’s name. “Solid turnout you guys have this go round.”
Nodding in response, I sip my coffee, hoping this indicates clearly that I am a no-chit-chat kind of guy. He doesn’t take the hint.
“How’s Garrett Connors’ knee? You think he’ll be ready by the fall?” Mystery Man keeps in step with me.
Taking another drink, I shrug. I don’t think of myself as a rude person, per se, just a quiet, would-rather-be-alone type of person. Too many interactions within a 24-hour period makes me grumpy. Is it possible that I’m always grumpy? Yes. But I’d rather focus on the situation at hand, which is—I peek at the guy’s name tag—Coach Daniels being a little too chipper first thing in the morning.
“Would you like help at the scrimmage?” he asks earnestly, anticipation all over his face.
Eyeing him, I ask, “Do you have the margin?”
Clearing his throat, he hesitates, “Yeah, I only have one athlete this year.” The defeat on his face is obvious at the difference in his team compared to everyone else’s. To mine.
“One is better than none,” I say.
My first year at this camp, I was just the assistant, feeling overwhelmed and out of place with only two athletes. Daniels looks around the lobby as we make our way to the communal area, taking in the view. He’s young—compared to me, anyway. His eyes sparkle with excitement, and I let myself feel it too. Being here can be daunting and grueling. This year feels more so than the last. I have a pack of parents awaiting my daily updates and some faculty members awaiting personal updates. We sit at the bar in comfortable silence, taking in the patrons of the hotel, some athletes and some typical vacationers, the hot Florida sun shining through big front windows.
Daniels shifts in his seat. The awkward silence must be making him uncomfortable. I have no idea why. I could sit in this awkward silence all day and not bat an eye. He lets out a hefty breath, tapping his fingers on the top of his knee.
“This your first year, huh?” I ask.
“Is it that obvious?” He chuckles, waving down the bartender.
“A bit.”
The bartender takes his order, and we sit in silence again until he returns with two bright-pink mocktails. My face is probably twisted in disgust based on Daniels’ reaction. He laughs and shrugs, embracing the fruity drink with an umbrella in his hand and taking a long sip.
I cheers his drink with my coffee and disregard the pink slush on the counter.
“Malcolm Geer!”
Kate’s all-too-familiar voice booms across the lobby, followed by pounding footsteps. Tension rises in my shoulders as I brace for impact. Daniels’ eyes go wide as he looks from me, to the sound, then back at me. The steps get closer behind me, and it’s no surprise that everyone in the area is watching to see what is about to unfold as this tiny fireball approaches us.
“Kate Stanley,” I say behind my coffee cup, turning slowly on the barstool to face her. The trick here is not to let her know she’s riled you up. It spurs her on, and then you’re trying to contain the Energizer Bunny. Remain calm, and she will stay calm, feeding off your energy—or some other nonsense my therapist told me.
“Why haven’t you responded? Are you—”
Cutting off the spiral of worry she’s about to embark on, I direct her attention to the person seated to my left. “This is Coach Daniels. Daniels, this is Coach Stanley.”
Standing abruptly, he almost knocks the barstool over as he reaches out for Kate’s hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Stanley.” His eyes dance around her face, and his smile is unnaturally wide as they shake hands. I don’t like that.
“Nice to meet you, Daniels. Nice drink you have there,” she jokes. My gaze is pinned on the slow release of their hands and the twitch of Daniels’ fingers as they make their way back to the counter. Definitely don’t like that.
“Pretty manly, huh?” He gives her a smirk, and I’m immediately regretting letting this man sit with me.
“Very. I see you haven’t touched your pink drink, Mr. Geer.” She nods to the sad drink next to me. The fancy whipped topping has started to melt, with the umbrella drowning in it.
“Come on, Geer. Drink this manly drink with me.” Daniels laughs, slurping down the last drop of his.
“Maybe another time,” I lie, having no intention anytime soon on partaking in fruity drinks.
“Daniels, I’ll see you this afternoon.” Shaking his hand, I tip the bartender and give Kate a glare. “Stanley,” I say before heading toward the elevators.
Kate’s little steps scurry after me, I have to bite my lip from chuckling at the sound of her pardoning and excusing herself to people as we pass. It’s a shame I can’t ignore this woman like I can other people. She’s kind of a meddler. And a heckler at times. With the best of intentions.
I know they say most people do it because they care, but it’s really not that hard to worry about yourself and let other people’s lives unfold how they’re meant to. Everyone has to be in everyone’s business. It’s exhausting to witness and infuriating to experience.
But with Kate, I find her meddling endearing. I find everything she does endearing, which shows how far gone I am. There’s just something about Katherine Stanley that penetrated deep inside me the moment I laid eyes on her, and no amount of her incessant meddling can push me away.
An elderly couple in nothing but towels emerges from the elevator, leaving behind a trail of water as they shuffle past. Kate’s mumbles fill the space as I hold the door open for her before pressing our floor.
“I just don’t understand why you won’t talk to me about it—or anyone, for that matter.” She doesn’t take a breath. “Not just your therapist either. I think people who truly know you can help you more than someone with a fancy degree.” Crossing her arms over her chest, she blows a curl out of her face and stares at me.
“Isn’t your best friend someone with a fancy degree?” I air quote with one hand, mostly because I refuse to use both hands, and I’m still holding my empty coffee cup.
“Technicalities.” She waves me off then proceeds to huff dramatically at the millisecond of silence that follows.
I love silence. I thrive in it. But silence with Kate is maddening because I know what’s going on in her head. She’s either overthinking or spiraling. Either way, it’s not fun for the person witnessing her silence. “Kate.” I rest my head against the elevator wall. “I’m not going to talk about this right now.”
“Why? Why not?” Her tone is a cross between a scold and a plea.
“Because we have a busy day, and it’s more than just a five-minute conversation. You know that.”
We make our way down the hall toward our room, dodging the maid cart and a rather large family racing past us to catch the elevator we just exited. Our room has already been turned over, with fresh linens and towels placed neatly on top of the comforter.
The comforter.
I rustle my hair and rush off to the bathroom. My face feels hot thinking about it, what I did, how weak and vulnerable I must have looked to her.
“You’re going to have to talk to me about it eventually,” she calls after me as I shut the bathroom door.
I will, but definitely not today, and probably not this week. This week is about me turning on the charm and being irresistible. Last I checked, having bad dreams is not an irresistible quality.
I freshen up and splash water on my face, reminding myself of my goal.
Get out of the friend zone.
“Let it go. It happened. You can’t change it,” I whisper to myself. “Focus on the mission. Be charming, witty, irresistible.” Get your girl, Malcolm.
“I’ll just force it out of you, you know!” Kate bellows from across the hotel room.
I open the bathroom door slowly, and Kate eyes me suspiciously. Kate’s pestering is also maddening, but dammit, I’m still hooked on her. There is only one way to get her to drop this conversation, and I have to act fast. I inhale slowly, building up to do one of the most annoying things I could ever do, solely because anytime Kate has seen this in a movie or read about it in a book, she gets so flustered she forgets to breathe. It seems a little ridiculous, if you ask me, but this simple move seems to work wonders on her.
So, to test if I can make her flustered too, I do it.
I rest my arms above my head and lean against the doorframe, flashing her a mischievous smile. ”A little force might be fun,” I tease.
Sure enough, she sucks in a breath, cheeks splotching red as her eyes stay pinned on my arms overhead.
Flustered.