She cuts me off before I can say more, and somehow, we end up making plans to meet later. Coffee. Maybe food. She has things to talk about. She needs to get it off her chest, and I am more than willing to sit and listen to her.
Prep period’s almost over, and I still need those damn worksheets, but before I go, I tell her, “Just text me when and where to meet you, and I will be there.” I say as I leave.
“And Stell… my number never changed.”
She might’ve changed hers. She might’ve moved on. But I haven’t. Not really.
I grab the stack of papers, printed on bright pink copy paper, because of course they are. This’ll be fun. A bunch of freshman boys with hot pink worksheets. Character-building, right?
I dip into my office and toss them on the desk. No time to sit—they’re already filing into class, dressed out and ready. Half of them whoop and holler when they hear we’re doing desk work. The other half let out a groan, letting me know how inconvenienced they are.
“Man, we didn’t need to wear these stupid uniforms just to sit down and do desk work.”
I close my eyes and shake my head, cue the speech I’ve heard and given a hundred times.
“We’re a team, and teams show up. The uniform isn’t just fabric; it’s a symbol of unity. You might not love putting it on every day, but wearing it says,‘I’m part of something bigger.’We move as one. Even on pink-paper days.” They quiet down eventually, and I dive into today's lesson.
I grab a ball and demo the basics: dribbling, layups, and free throws. Then I step to the sidelines and start assigning positions.
“Alright, you five, on the court. You’re the starters.” They step forward, some with confidence, some like this is the firsttime they’ve seen a basketball. “Basketball’s five-on-five. Each position has a role, and if you don’t know yours, the whole team falls apart.”
I start with the first kid.
“Point guard. You run the offense, call the shots, control the pace. Think of yourself as the quarterback out here.” I shift my attention to the next. “Shooting guard. You’re the scorer we lean on, especially from beyond the arc. When the team needs points, you're the spark.”
Then another.
“Small forward. You’re the utility guy. Versatile, quick, aggressive. You fill the gaps, drive the lane, defend, and shoot. You go wherever you're needed.” I nod to the next in line. “Power forward. You're the muscle. You rebound, you bang bodies down low, you do the dirty work most guys avoid.”
Finally, I look at the last player. “Center. Usually the tallest on the court. You anchor the paint, block shots, set screens, own the glass.”
I take a step back, letting them take it all in.
“This only works if you move as one. Know your role. Trust each other. Communicate. Hustle.” They all nod like they understand.
Do they actually?We’ll see.
What they don’t know yet is that they’ll be running a full game by the end of this unit. Ready or not.
Every period’s starting to feel like Groundhog Day: same speech, same drills, same question hanging in the air. Did any of this stick?
After the last class, I walk around the gym collecting basketballs and stacking them on the cart. I really should make this a daily task for them. Once the final ball clicks into place, I roll the cart to the closet. I shut the door behind me and pause,leaning my head against the wood. Then I feel the vibration against my leg.
I pull out my phone. My breath catches as I see an incoming text from Stella.
Mi Bella: Let’s meet at Honey & Heat at 4:30.
It feels surreal to see her name light up my screen. I never lost hope that she’d miss me. I know this isn’t that, but a man can hope, right?
My thumbs rest on the screen, debating on what to say back. Instead, I lock my phone and put it in my pocket.
Fucking coward. This is what you wanted, and you’re freezing.
I bend my legs and sink into a crouch in front of the door. I retrieve my phone, unlock it, quickly type out a text, and hit send.
Me: Okay
Staring at the text I just sent, dumbfounded, I silently curse. “Okay.”
