Finally, I’m in the last class of the school day. I raise my hands, signaling the student with the ball that I’m ready for the pass.
Bzzzz. Bzzzz.
The text alert shakes against my leg.
I reach for it just as the ball leaves his fingertips.
My phone’s in my palm, open to the home screen. I'm mid-glance when the ball smacks me square in the face, hard enough that I feel itbeforeI hear the sharp thud of rubber against skin.
The entire class goes quiet. The only sounds that can be heard in the gym are the air conditioner and the slow, mocking bounce of the ball across the gym floor.
My phone is on the ground, and my thumb and index finger are pinching the soft flesh just below the bridge of my nose in an attempt to get the blood to stop spewing out.
“Oh shit, oh shit, Mr. D’Angelo. I am so sorry; I didn’t. I didn’t mean to hit you with the ball.” Miles Clarke panics and runs towards me.
I close my eyes, willing the pain to stop radiating through my face.
“Miles, calm down. Dude, it was my fault.” My voice is muffled behind my hand. “This is why phones are not allowed to be out during class. Safety issues. Please go get Nurse Ellington and tell her I have a nosebleed.”
She arrives quickly with supplies, wiping the blood off my face and making sure the bleeding has stopped before she leaves me with an ice pack and strict instructions: ten minutes on the nose.
I grab my phone off the gym floor and see that the screen is shattered.
Of course it is.
I have football practice today. I doubt the phone store’s even open that late. I head toward the locker room, pissed off and tired, and change into my practice gear: basketball shorts, a football shirt, and running shoes.
Slamming the office door behind me, I jog toward the team. “Let’s go, boys! We’re running laps today.”
Four miles total. Full gear, minus helmets. The sun is ruthless, turning the field into a furnace. The turf radiates heat like it has a vendetta.
By the final lap, the guys are groaning, half-collapsing in search of shade or any hint of cool air. The team manager hands out water bottles. In 105-degree weather, hydration is a matter of survival.
“Good practice, team. Go shower, change, and get out of here. Enjoy your weekend. Next week’s the last one before Friday night lights!” They grab their helmets and head toward the locker room.
Coach Riggins joins me at the edge of the field, hands on his hips in his usual ‘disappointed dad’ stance.
“Coach D’Angelo, that was… rough today. Everything okay, son?”
“Yup. Yeah. Everything’s great,” I lie as we walk.
He gives me a long side-eye. “Look, son. I heard about the basketball incident. I also noticed Stella isn’t here. Life gets rough sometimes. You’re leading boys who think you hung the moon. You can’t let your heart fumble the play.”
He pats my back and disappears into his office.
Fuck.
He’s right. 105 is far too hot for full-lap punishment. I let my frustration win today.
Quickly, I change and dash to my car, hoping to hell the phone store stays open late on Fridays.
Stella
The airplane lands several hours after I left Donovan standing at the curb outside my house. I didn’t look back when I drove away. My heart already felt like it was breaking.
Stupid, right? We made up. Got back together. We had a beautiful and exhausting night together.
So why does it feel like going home to Virginia is just the beginning of the end again?
