Chapter 2 #2
“Aye, Coach P,” I said. “You have them summer and fall hours lined up, or what? I need more lane time and more checks. I don’t like dipping in my savings.”
He sighed. “Morning to you too, Roman. The city cut our budget again. I’m still juggling schedules. I can’t promise anything yet.”
“You got guards who let kids coast. We can restructure the clinics, add beginner sessions, charge parents a little, and bring in more revenue. I can write a plan that will keep kids in the water and money coming in.”
My mind was already building it: dates, pricing, staffing, flyers, and partnerships. I didn’t believe in complaining without constructing. Complaints without solutions turned into habits, and habits turned into excuses.
“You trying to run my pool, Ro?” he asked half-seriously.
“I’m trying to keep these kids from drowning in more than one way. We can teach discipline here or let the block teach it later. You already know how that ends,” I answered.
He went quiet. He knew I had a point, and he knew I wasn’t calling to hustle him. I wasn’t trying to be important. I was trying to be useful.
“Write the plan. I’ll look it over. No promises,” he said finally.
“That’s enough for me. I’ll email it tonight.”
“And, Roman, no side jobs that get your name in a file. Leave the block where it is. I mean that,” he added.
“I hear you,” I said, my jaw getting tight.
Folks stayed preaching consequences I already wore, but never asked about the math—hours cut, groceries up, pride getting taxed when you’re trying to provide cleanly.
I wasn’t tempted by chaos; I was tired of survival being policed while struggle got ignored.
Still, my girls needed me free, present, and uncomplicated, so I stay disciplined. That was love in motion.
After the youth clinic that afternoon, I swung by Self Ridge High to grab the twins.
The sun was dropping low, pouring that late-day gold across the lot, and the wind had a cool bite under it.
I still wore the rec center on me—chlorine, sweat, rubber—shirt clinging where I’d been moving and mentoring, making sure the kids got seen by somebody decent before the streets started calling their names.
Reagan slid into the back seat, her backpack thumping against the upholstery, mouth already running like she’d been holding her thoughts hostage until she saw me.
“Okay, so boom. This group project is irritating me because why I gotta carry folks who don’t read directions?
Then Coach Holley talking about he wants me to run track. Track, Roman. Me.”
Reece climbed in behind her, quieter, her notebook pressed to her chest like it was valuable and delicate, headphones resting around her neck. She gave me that little nod she always gave—soft, respectful, steady, then buckled her seat belt without being told. That was my Reece.
“You have work to finish?” I asked, pulling out and falling into the flow of after-school traffic.
Reagan nodded, dramatic as ever. “I have an essay due this week. I’ll finish it tonight. I hear my ELA teacher, Ms. Grant, at the senior high school does not play. I’m not trying to have her hand it back covered in red.”
Reece spoke up, her voice light but sure. “We are annotating Invictus in English. Our teacher gets very excited when we find strong lines. It reminds me of you at the pool when somebody hits the wall right.”
“Words matter,” I said, keeping my eyes on the road. “Breath matters too. You throw either one off, everything else follows.”
I didn’t say the rest out loud. I didn’t say how I learned that lesson in a hospital hallway, where breathing sounded borrowed, and words sounded useless.
I didn’t say how I watched grown-ups crumble and decided I couldn’t afford to.
I didn’t say how my whole life became about control and protecting because chaos already got one win, and I wasn’t handing it another.
The Pour House came into view, and I pulled into the lot like I’d done it a hundred times, even though I hadn’t. The neon sign in the window glowed steadily; that soft purple blue made the place look alive before you even opened the door.
We stepped inside. The bell over the door chimed.
There was a coffee cup with steam painted in looping shapes hanging.
Warm air hit us right in the face, along with coffee, baked bread, nutmeg, and sugar—everything sweet and grounded all at once.
Chairs scraped across the floor. There were voices layered over music and hissing from the espresso machine from behind the counter.
Murals covered the walls—bold colors, thick lines, and community pride painted like a statement. Kids sat at tables, reading and typing.
I scanned the room the same way I scanned everywhere: faces, exits, and energy.
That was automatic now. It wasn’t paranoia either.
It was practice. When you’ve buried enough, you don’t want to walk into rooms carelessly.
You don’t put the people you love in environments you haven’t measured.
You don’t let your guard get lazy just because the lighting is nice, and the pastries look good.
Near the big window, I spotted her—a slim-thick beauty with light-brown skin, freckles dusting her nose and cheeks, curls falling in loose spirals around a few soft braids.
She was posted up with a table full of kids, papers, pens, and a laptop, running it like a quiet workshop. One boy read low, shoulders folded like he was bracing for laughter. She leaned in, nodded, and told him to run it back with his chest. Gentle voice, firm backbone.
“Think about the message in Invictus. You do not have to sound fancy, but you must be clear. What is the author really saying about resilience?”
The boy paused, started over, and adjusted his sentence. His shoulders lifted a little when she told him he had it.
Her attention didn’t wander. Her patience didn’t feel performative. She was not babysitting them. She was building something in them. That stood out to me more than the pretty freckles on her face and the way her mouth curved when she listened intently.
Reece tugged on my sleeve, whispering like we were in church. “That is an English teacher at the high school,” she whispered. “She is talking about Invictus. We read it last week.”
Reagan followed my line of sight and smirked. “She’s pretty, Rome. Do not act like you’re blind.”
Hell yeah, she is.
I kept my voice even, my face neutral. “Order your drinks and find a table.”
They both grinned because my dodge said enough.
I walked to the counter. An older woman stood there, short, sharp eyes behind her glasses, and gray hair wrapped in a scarf. Her stance told me she was not new to long days, short sleep, and making it work anyway. She reminded me of an older version of Salli Richardson.
“What can I get you, baby?” she asked.
“Two hot chocolates for them, medium coffee for me,” I said, jerking my chin toward the girls. “And whatever pastry you recommend. Something they can share.”
She gave the girls a once-over and turned back to me. “You picked up a full-time job you didn’t apply for, huh?”
A short breath slipped out of me. “Something along those lines.”
“I’m Nana Nan. This my shop. I see you watching the room. I respect that. Men who pay attention last longer in this world.”
“Roman,” I said. “Those are my girls, my twin sisters, Reagan and Reece. They’ll be starting their sophomore year soon at Self Ridge Senior High.”
She slid the cinnamon rolls toward me, hands moving quickly and sure. “We get a lot of students in here. They keep me tired and thankful at the same time.”
Behind me, the pretty teacher laughed at something one of her students said. The sound was pure and clean through the noise. It pulled my attention without asking. Nana Nan looked toward her too.
“She’s good people,” she said, lowering her tone. “The sweetest teacher. She truly loves those kids for real. Not everybody can say that.”
I didn’t need to ask for details. I already saw enough.
On the side wall near the restrooms hung a cluttered bulletin board. I walked over while they made our drinks. It was filled with bright papers, lost posters, an open mic night flyer, but a pastel flyer caught my eye.
Self Ridge Senior High School – Head Swim Coach Needed – Fall Season – Full-Time – Benefits.
I read it twice, jaw set with focus, not nerves.
Full-time meant steady, and steady meant provision without the math problems—groceries, cleats, choir shoes, gas—handled.
It meant my girls walking into that building with me and having a direct line to their world.
I already coached; I needed hours, not leftovers.
This wasn’t just a posting. It felt like an answer.
I took my phone out and snapped a picture of the flyer. Then I tore off a tab with the contact email and folded it into my wallet, right in front of the photo of Reagan and Reece holding medals at the city meet when they were ten.
I kept that picture there on purpose. It was a reminder—a receipt. I didn’t raise these girls alone. I raised them on structure, planning, grit, and on faith turned into action.
By the time I turned back, the girls had a table near the window.
It was close enough to hear the beautiful teacher and far enough not to keep us from intruding on her group.
Reagan already had her essay out, pen moving like she meant business.
Reece had her notebook open, pen in hand, posture straight, and eyes focused.
“Forty-five minutes,” I said as I set the drinks and pastry down. “Homework first. Then y’all can talk about whatever you feel like.”
“Yes, sir, Brutha Daddy, sir,” Reece said, smiling.
Reagan muttered something under her breath, but she was already writing.