Chapter 2 #2
She squeezes my elbow. “You never have time, Liv. Make some anyway.”
I don’t answer that because she’s right, and the truth tastes like ash in my mouth.
I go back out to the gym, to the safe chaos I know how to shepherd.
CJ is teaching Malik how to square his shoulders on a shot.
He stands behind the boy, hands light on Malik’s forearms, talking gently and precisely.
When Malik sinks the basket, CJ whoops like he’s on a game-winning penalty kill. The entire court beams.
He catches me watching and tips the brim of his backward cap like we’re in some ridiculous Western.
Nope, I tell myself. Absolutely not.
“Okay, everybody,” I call. “Homework hour starts in fifteen. If you need a snack, grab it now.”
The chorus of groans and gratitude is familiar. Kids peel off toward the counter where Jada and Ezra pass out apple slices and granola bars.
CJ jogs over. “How can I help?”
It’s not flirtation. It’s a genuine question.
“You can copy these worksheets,” I say, handing him a stack. “Double-sided, collated.”
“Collated,” he repeats, as if he’s never been asked to do something so grown-up in his life.
“And you can remind the big kids that phones go in the basket during homework hour,” I add. “They’ll pretend they forget.”
“I never forget rules,” he says, and grins when I raise a brow. “Okay, some rules. But I can be an enforcer.”
“Please don’t call yourself that in front of parents.”
He laughs and takes the papers, heading for the copy room. Two minutes later, I hear a thunk, followed by a muffled choke that is either a cough or an attempt to mask profanity. I head that way and find him staring at the machine like it personally insulted his mother.
“It says ‘paper jam,’” he tells me earnestly. “I think I angered it.”
“Everyone angers it,” I say, and pop the tray. I slide out a crumpled sheet and thump the side of the copier in the exact spot required by the gods of office machinery. The light turns green.
He stares. “Was that… magic?”
“Experience. And two YouTube videos at midnight.”
He tips his head. “You and I have very different midnight hobbies.”
“So it would appear.”
When the copies are spit out warm and in blessed collated stacks, he gathers them like a prize and then pauses. “Thank you.”
I raise an eyebrow. “For rescuing you from toner?”
“For giving me a chance not to screw this up.”
For a moment, I see under the jokes again, the name on the birth certificate, and the kid who learned to be loud so no one could see fear.
“I know I’m here because I earned it. I’d rather earn something else.”
I shrug. “It’s work, not a party. But if you show up and you try, I’ll notice.”
He nods, serious as a penalty shot. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t call me ma’am. I’m twenty-six.”
“Respectfully noted, Boss.”
I almost smile. Almost.
Homework hour is controlled chaos, which is to say chaos with a timer.
CJ drifts between tables, handing out pencils and compliments like he’s been doing it for months.
When he spots a boy getting frustrated over long division, he drops into the seat beside him, flips his cap forward like he means business, and draws boxes until the problem looks like a rink. The kid laughs.
At five fifty-seven, I clap twice. “Three-minute warning! If you’re packing up, tuck in your chairs.”
At six, parents trickle in with weary faces and relieved smiles.
A mom in scrubs thanks me for making sure her daughter got to tutoring.
A grandfather slips me a ten-dollar bill and says, “For snacks,” like it’s a secret, generous crime.
I tuck it in the petty cash tin and tell him it matters because it does.
CJ lingers at the door, fist-bumping kids who leave like they’re teammates after a win. When the last one disappears and the gym settles into its nightly sigh, he turns to me with a sheepish expression I don’t think he learned on camera.
“I forgot to clock out,” he says, holding up the clipboard like a confession.
“First day,” I say, making a note for him. “You were here on time. You stayed until the end. Those are the points that count.”
He shifts his weight. Shrugs. “It was… good.” He sounds surprised by the admission. “Like… the part of practice where you can hear yourself breathe and the world gets simple.”
“Simple,” I echo, thinking of the spreadsheet that awaits me and the landlord’s email marked urgent. “I’m happy someone found simplicity today.”
He studies my face, then the dim corners of the gym. “What can I do before I go? Chairs? Trash?”
“Trash would be great,” I say, because letting him be useful is safer than letting him be kind.
We take the bags out together into the chill that’s starting to thread through Maple Creek in the evenings.
The alley smells like the pizza place two doors down and last week’s rain.
He ties a knot with one hand because he’s the sort of person who ties knots like it’s flirting, and I pretend not to notice.
“You sure you don’t need a ride?” he asks when we’re back at the door.
“I’m sure,” I say. “I have more work.”
He nods. “Right. The hustle.”
I lean on the frame and cross my arms. “You remembered.”
“I’m a goalie,” he says. “We notice things.”
“Not always the right things.”
“Nope,” he agrees, bright and unbothered. “But sometimes we get lucky.”
He backs away down the steps, walking backward because he’s constitutionally incapable of doing anything the straightforward way.
“I’ll see you Monday, Director Walker.”
“Don’t be late.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He turns at the curb, lifts a hand, and then he’s gone, swallowed by the neon of the pizza sign and the gold of the streetlights.
The gym is quiet when I lock the door. The copier light blinks its small green patience. In my office, the utilities spreadsheet still waits like a dare, and the email from the landlord glowers like the subtitle on a horror movie. I take off my flats, rub a foot over the cool tile, and sit.
My phone buzzes. A text from Jada: He’s trouble.
I type back: We don’t do trouble.
Three dots. Then: He made Malik feel like a star. That isn’t nothing.
It isn’t. It’s the kind of thing that saves a kid for a day, and sometimes a day is the only unit you’re allowed to measure progress in.
I close my eyes for one breath. Then I open them and start another grant application. In the line for “Describe your organization’s mission,” I write the same words I always do: We provide safety, structure, and possibility. I add, We tell kids they’re not alone.
Somewhere down the block, a car horn honks twice, bright and jaunty, and I don’t need to look to know who it is.
“Don’t get attached,” I tell the empty room.
The room doesn’t argue, but the echo of kids’ laughter in the hall sounds like a counterpoint.
I keep typing. I’ve learned the trick to triage. You stop the bleeding first. You do not pause to catalog the color of the eyes attached to the man handing you the gauze.
And you definitely don’t let yourself wonder if he’ll show up early on Monday just to make you roll your eyes and then, God help you, smile.