Chapter 2
Donovan
As the day inches toward its end, I look around the gym. A class full of freshman boys, none of them wanting to be in P.E.
It’s my first day teaching, and Lord knows I didn’t exactly go to college for it.
Principal Davenport somehow sweet-talked the school board into hiring me as the new P.E.
teacher and assistant coach based on the classes I took at Huntsville University.
I suppose that when the district can’t afford two salaries and you are desperate for someone to be the assistant coach, creativity kicks in.
It's surreal being back here, walking the same halls I once ruled. But becoming colleagues with the teachers who used to give me detention? That’s a whole different beast. I still call them “Mr.” or “Ms.” by habit, even though they’ve all insisted we’re on a first-name basis now.
Weird.
I circle the perimeter of the basketball court, eyes flicking to my watch. Twenty minutes left in the period. We have not checked off one damn item on today’s curriculum.
I pause when I overhear two kids talking about college football. I already know what this conversation will be about.
The taller one scrolls through his phone and turns the screen toward his friend. “Bro, look at this hit,” he says. “Tell me that helmet-to-helmet didn’t send him into next week.”
The shorter one winces. “Damn. Was that the career-ending hit? No wonder he’s teaching P.E. now.”
I freeze. My jaw clenches, stomach twisting as the memory flashes through my mind. The way it felt. The way it still feels.
But I shake it off. I’m not here to feel sorry for myself. I’m here to coach. And I’ll be damned if I let a bunch of fourteen-year-olds think I don’t know what I’m doing just because I’m not suiting up to go on the field anymore.
I gather the basketballs, stacking them neatly on the cart, and roll them into the storage closet. When I come back out, I head to center court.
“Alright, class. Great first day,” I say, clapping my hands once. “Be ready for tomorrow. We’re dressing out and running basketball drills.”
Groans ripple across the gym like I just announced a pop quiz.
One boy, the taller one of course, throws his backpack over his shoulder and smirks. “Mr. D’Angelo, why do we have to play basketball? The only ones here who know anything about sports are on the football team. The rest are, like, in debate.”
Laughter follows, fueling his pride and inflating his ego.
I smile. Cool it, I remind myself. Teach lessons when they arise.
“Thank you for that, Mr. Crawford,” I say, hands in my pockets. “Great reminder of how much work we’ve got ahead of us.”
His smirk falters.
“I get that football might come naturally to you,” I continue, “but this is physical education. You’ll be learning about more than just one sport. Heck, even more than sports, we will learn about health and fitness. We have an amazing course on yoga and ballet.”
Dead silence. Everyone's eyes are shifting, looking at each other as their laughter fades.
“And remember, Mr. Crawford. Not only do I grade you in this classroom, I grade you on that football field as well,” I add, voice level but firm.
Ashford Crawford blinks. His smile is gone. I turn and walk toward the gym exit, calling out just as the bell rings.
“That goes for all of you. Jocks, mathletes, artists. Doesn’t matter. You want to pass? You will put the work in; otherwise, you will be sitting on the sidelines of your activities.”
I quickly lock the gym door as I hear the echo of locker doors slamming shut. I scurry between the noisy teenagers yelling across the busy halls to each other about practice. I’m in a rush to leave the smell of sweat, floor polish, and the lingering smell of today's lunch behind.
I am almost to the exit when the pain and memories close around me, suffocating me. I just need to get outside. Just to breathe. A few more feet to the exit, to fresh air, then a blur crashes to the floor in front of me with a yelp.
I look down and see those paint-covered overalls on the ground with her belongings scattered around. She is grabbing at her bags and getting to her knees, trying to stand up. Reflexes kick in, and my hand is wrapping around her elbow and helping her to her feet.
Our eyes lock, and the emeralds in her eyes stare at me, love, loss, and pain reflected back at me. It’s just like the day she shoved my hoodie into my arms, mascara running, heartbreak written all over her face.
She stiffens under my touch, like it’s burning her.
Jerking her elbow away from me, she uses her bags as a shield.
She spins and quickly walks away, leaving a trail of fresh strawberry, blood orange, and jasmine petals in her wake.
Noises dim around me as the scent awakens my senses.
It’s missing the faint scent of turpentine.
“Stella. Wait, please. Can we talk?” I rush out while I lift my hand, reaching for her like I still have the right to. Before my words can even reach her, she is out the front doors of the school.
“FUCK”, I mutter under my breath, and kick at the ground like there is a ball in front of me with a sigh. I exit the building and walk towards the practice facility.
I was planning on going home and working on some curriculum plans that might get the kids involved, but I am suddenly on autopilot. I walk through the heat and change, then head straight to the weights.
Lifting more weights than I have since my injury, it feels almost punishing. I lose track of the reps, and I am sure my playlist stopped a while ago, but I keep pushing myself.
My mind is running rampant, the sound of her laugh echoing through my head. With shaking hands, I drop the weights down and hop on the treadmill for cool-downs. Memories of the beginning and the end of Stella and me flood through my memories for the entire hour and a half that I work out.
My parents went through a nasty divorce my freshman year of high school.
It broke my mom, and my dad just lived his life.
He secured one of the top positions at a law firm in Agave Hills.
I begged him not to make me go, but we both knew my mother was in no place to take care of me.
After a grueling summer of 5 am workouts and practices to prepare for football tryouts, I started my sophomore year at Cordova Linda.
Making Jr. Varsity meant I had to work twice as hard in football just to be on the field for game days. I was twice as good as any other player, but the coaches made me prove it with my sweat.
Having Stella as a friend was the best part of school. We shared a passion for music and the love of art. She loved painting, and I loved watching her paint.
It was a cloudy January afternoon. The windows and doors in her studio were open. Stella loved days like that.
I quietly walked in, My Immortal drifted from the speakers, the aching piano, an ethereal voice spun from heartbreak.
I stood there leaning against the wall, my arms folded across my chest, entranced by her movements. The way she transformed the song into this hauntingly beautiful still frame. It was then that I knew I couldn’t go another day without her knowing how I felt.
Unease rolled through my body, unsure if she even felt the same for me.
Her hand was elegantly gliding the brush filled with deep purple across the canvas.
A chilly breeze blew through the studio, and she stopped with her brush mid-stroke.
Slowly, she spun her stool around to face me.
She was covered head to toe in paint. I can still picture the deep blue streaks across her face and the canary yellow in her hair. She had never looked more beautiful.
I knew if I didn’t tell her right then, I would chicken out, and it would never happen. I closed the gap between us in just a few strides. She stood up just as I was in front of her, and looked up at me with that smile. The one that always made my knees weak.
I tucked a piece of yellow-covered hair behind her ear, my hand resting on her face. I leaned down and cupped her face with my other hand, and our lips met.
She sucked in a quick breath, but didn’t pull away. She wrapped her arms around me and pulled me closer. Without saying a word, we both confessed that love was building between us.
We spent the next year and a half sharing our darkest secrets and wildest desires, which led to a whirlwind, once-in-a-lifetime kind of love.
It’s been two years since Stella ended it all over the biggest miscommunication. My feelings for her haven’t changed. I’m still madly in love with her. She is the only person who knows me inside and out.
I have to prove that I am not the failed athlete, the broken son, or the man who hurt her. I will prove to her that I am here to love and support every dream of hers.
The first step is getting her to talk to me.