Chapter Twenty-Six
The door to Marcee’s office was barely closed before tears, half-formed and waiting for the go-ahead, sprung free, tracing salty trails down her cheeks.
She’d made it.
The wooden surface was cool through the material of her jersey as she slid to the floor, legs sprawled out from exhaustion.
She’d never felt as emotionally or physically drained as she did in that moment.
No one warned you about that part of coaching.
They didn’t tell you how responsible you’d feel for every move made on the field, right or wrong, or the disappointment or elation as the girls celebrate or cry on the sidelines.
And they are your girls. The moment their names go on the roster, they’re your surrogate children, looking to you for guidance in their chosen sport and sometimes in their life.
Marcee knew more about that than she ever thought she would.
The hallway leading from their locker room pulsated with music and off-key singing as the girls belted out Imagine Dragons and celebrated a hard-earned win. The vibrations from the music beat against the door.
Pemberton Prep was going to the district championship game.
In five days.
“We’re going to the district championship,” she whispered.
“We’re going and competing against the love of my life, and I may or may not have a job at the end of it.
” Saying it aloud was like breaking through the fourth wall and everything outside of the bubble she’d been living in was real.
It sent her into another spiral and the tears returned with a vengeance.
She’d been living on borrowed time at Pemberton and with Remy.
When he managed to get the article pulled after calling in some hefty favors, they went back to behaving as if she didn’t almost lose everything.
Now, it was likely he’d go back to London, or she would go to New York—which he still didn’t even know about.
Damned if you do and damned if you don’t.
“Coach?” A raised voice called out over the music, accompanied by a firm trio of knocks.
“Shit.” Marcee jumped up, pulling the hem of her shirt to her eyes and wiping away the signs of her emotional instability. Furiously, she fanned her face and thanked God she didn’t wear mascara to the game.
There was another knock on the door.
“Yeah?” She pulled open the door, blinking at the bright light.
It was a good thing she wasn’t a betting girl, because she never would’ve bet Cassidy Cope would be standing outside her office door after a game she couldn’t play in.
“Have a minute?” Cope asked. She looked considerably better than the last time they’d spoken.
After her hospitalization, they talked a handful of times about soccer, when she could come back, and her health.
Marcee tried to be transparent with her about her own experience and recovery, and the daily battle every day since.
“Of course. Come in.” Marcee held the door open as she came inside and took a seat across from her desk. “I’m glad you came tonight. It means a lot to the girls to have you cheering them on.”
“It’s hard,” Cope said, watching as Marcee sat opposite. “Sitting on the bench. It’s the shittiest feeling in the world, when all I want to do is be out there.” She paused and shrugged. “But it would be even shittier if I didn’t show up. They’re my team, even if I’m not on the field.”
Well, color her surprised. She didn’t expect that level of maturity from Cope. Maybe the past few weeks had given her time to think. Or maybe Marcee had been blinded by the attitude and never saw who she really was.
“Don’t be so shocked,” Cope added, rolling her eyes.
It made Marcee laugh. Cassidy Cope may not be the total princess she thought she was, but she still had moxie.
“How are you feeling?” Marcee asked.
“Better in some ways, worse in others. I can tell I’m getting stronger again, since I’m eating, but it’s scary, watching it all come back.”
Marcee remembered the fear as her body filled out again and the sharp lines disappeared. Everything she worked toward was disappearing beneath healthy fat, yet the old anxiety and disgust lingered.
“It is scary. Your brain tells you it’s wrong, even when your body knows it’s right,” she answered, nodding. “It’s okay you feel that way. It’ll take a long time to teach yourself what healthy means. You can’t rush it.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Cope looked so anxious, sitting there picking at her nails, so Marcee switched gears. “Did you go see the girls?”
A flicker of light appeared as she smiled. “Yeah.”
“Good. They’ve dedicated every win to you, ya know.”
Aside from the locker room shenanigans, it was quiet in the office as Cope struggled with her words. Finally, she stood and tossed her hair. “They should. I’m the only reason any of them are good.”
Marcee stayed seated as Cassidy walked to the door and opened it, a wry smile tugging at her lips. That fire would keep her going on her hardest days. She didn’t think she needed to worry about her striker.
“Marcee,” Cope said, her back to her coach. It was strange to hear her name from the player, as if they were friends. “Thank you for trying to help me, in the beginning. And for helping me since.”
Marcee’s heart did a stutter step, and the tears tried to make a comeback. She knew the cost of those words. She’d paid it herself, more than once.
“You’re welcome. I’m always here.”
“I know.”
As soon as she left, Marcee wilted into her chair, spent. She had nothing left to give. Between the emotional baggage attached to their win and then Cope, the last two hours felt like a week.
“Must go home. Must sleep.” Her body refused to listen, and she remained rooted in her chair, talking to herself.
Her desk was covered in stat sheets, offensive plays mocked up on paper, and all the notes she and Nicole had taken over the past three months.
All their hard work, completely unorganized, but proof of how much they’d put into the season and getting their team to the district tournament and hopefully State.
It would all be for nothing if they lost the following week.
She couldn’t come in second again.
Before she realized it, the papers were in her hands and she had shuffled it all into organized piles, mentally prepping for a deep dive into the knowledge they’d acquired and how she could mold it into a win.
Marcee had to do everything she could, otherwise she’d always wonder if she could’ve done more.
She flashed back to nights in college, procrastinating and staying up late to finish a paper or study for a final, hoping to squeak out a passing grade. Late-night study sessions were second nature.
Of course, Marcee wasn’t as young as she once was, which was why she didn’t make it the whole night.
The buzzing of her phone next to her face woke her the following morning. She was sprawled on top of her desk, laying across her paperwork like a dragon hoarding its gold.
Dear God, her back ached like she’d run a half-marathon with a pack strapped across her shoulders.
“Aghhh.” There were too many joints popping at once. She couldn’t pinpoint what hurt more.
Her phone buzzed again, four texts illuminating the screen.
Two were from Alex, asking if she was coming home then following it up with an attempt at guilt-tripping her for staying the night with Remy again.
The other two were from Remy, asking about the game and saying good night.
Great, the last thing she wanted was for him to think she’d ghosted him.
Marcee started to respond but stopped before hitting send.
Did she really want either of them to know she fell asleep in her office obsessing over game data?
It might be best to let them think what they wanted.
Alex would worry, as she was prone to do, and Remy—well, she could tell him she got caught up in post-game celebration and then fell asleep, which was sort of true.
She had enough time to drive home and change clothes before school started, so she locked up and got moving. One more day until the weekend, although she could guarantee it wouldn’t be relaxing. The big game was so close it was breathing down her neck.
Afternoon practice was productive and eased her worries a bit. Cope helped by working with their striker and forwards from the sideline, instructing them like a seasoned pro. If she didn’t watch out, she might start to like coaching.
Marcee prepped the girls for any scenario, not just what she assumed Remy would do.
His game plans had been completely fluid, changing from game to game depending on the opponent, with very little similarities in point of attack.
His style was impressive, from a coaching standpoint, but also from a player.
They were high school girls, and he had them running the field like they’d been doing it for twenty years.
Marcee realized maybe she hadn’t given her own team enough credit or pushed them to be their best.
Marcee never thought she’d be thankful to Remy for anything related to their jobs, but he made her want to be better. Sometimes, she imagined it was what coaching with Eli would be like if she were to take the job. They’d always worked well together.
The hour was later than she anticipated when she got in her car to leave school for the weekend.
She and Alex had a beef and broccoli night planned, though, so things were looking up.
As she wound through the school parking lot, she caught sight of three people coming out of the front doors of the administration building.
Who else was there that late on a Friday?
She hit the brakes, slowing to a crawl, as a sick sense of apprehension bubbled up in her gut. They stopped on the sidewalk, talking, and she got a clear view.
Headmaster Wilkes, Graham Marshall and… Remy?
Ronaldo squeaked in protest as she threw it into park, afraid she might coast into a pole. She rolled down her window, desperate for a clearer view. What the hell was going on?